MEMORY: 14

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"You bastard." Flavius' voice was a low growl. "You let them kill me twenty-seven times?"

"Firstly, 'letting' is not even closing to the right word," said Parric, holding up one finger. "Secondly, if you try hitting me again, I'll be hurting you this time."

"But, twenty-seven times, Parric! I ken they were nae me, nae me me at any rate. But I'm holding this sword, and I feel all of these memories and thoughts. I ken they were me, living the same life as me, being the same person. That damn well makes it personal for me."

Parric gave him an impatient stare.

"Right then. Yer right. Ya taught me everything I know about parallel cosms and how they can just as easily be exactly alike--but not quite--as they can be exactly different. There's nae a body what knows better than ya. But can ya give a man a little leeway for a change? Half an hour ago I was readying myself to slaughter English and now I've got a couple lifetimes' worth of memories swirling in my head, half of 'em what I cannae make heads nor tails of yet."

Parric nodded. "Your normal state, in other wordings."

"Yer nae as funny as ya think ya are." Flavius paused, running his hand through his hair. "I need to ken who, Parric. Who's the minging sheepshagger what sent them eight-legged beasties-- what'd ya call them?"

"Moironteau."

"Uh-huh. Well, whoever sent them beasties to kill me. I'll give 'em a row to remember, enough to make up for killing me twenty-seven times, and then some."

"I'm not knowing who is behinding this--"

"We go wherever those beasties are from!"

"They've undergone changings. Their home cosms are poisonings to us--"

Flavius threw his arms up in disgust.

"--but I am having this." Parric reached among his pouches and pulled forth... nothing.

Flavius blinked, then leaned closer, peering intently at the space right above Parric's splayed wing fingers. The air shimmered, then it was gone. Flavius squinted, but the shimmer didn't return. Annoyed, he glanced at Parric and the shimmer appeared at the edge of his peripheral vision. He tried looking at it again, but it squiggled again to nothing. Deliberately, Flavius looked away, and the elusive glimpse returned. His perspective shifted, and the shimmer became a shape.

Parric held a miniature moironteau. An invisible miniature moironteau. No, invisible wasn't right. Its edges were clearly defined, as long as he didn't look directly at it. It was more an absence, a void where a miniature moironteau would be if there were one present. The very thought made his head hurt.

"Ya caught yerself one of the sheepshagger's beasties. A wee one at that," Flavius said. "I dinnae know they came in assorted sizes."

"This is only parting of one. The moironteau are existing in five dimensions. That's how they are climbing through the sky after us."

"I'd noticed that. Handy trick."

"This is the fifth parting. I'm trapping one in a dimensional pocket back at the battlefield. That is making it easy to Crafting this part away from it."

"So when ya say ya used yer sorcery--"

"I am not a sorcering."

"Fine, then. Crafted away this wee fifth dimensional part from that beastie--"

"It's not pleasanting for the moironteau," Parric said. "It's not deading, but is probably wishing it is."

Flavius nodded. "Good. So what do we do with it now?"

"We're taking it to Knowicent, eventualling. She's already identifying its home cosm, so with this she should be telling us which cosm cluster these engineerings are coming from."

"And then we pop in and slaughter the lot of 'em. Good plan. Simple and direct." Flavius looked up at the violet sky. "I dinnae suppose this is a part of Tradefare what I never seen before, is it?"

"We can't be going back to Tradefare, at least not righting away," Parric said. "Whoever is killing you--and trying to kill me--knows too muching about us. If they're still wanting us deading, they'll be ambushing us there."

"So we're hiding out." Flavius looked around the mountains, spreading his arms wide. "Where are we, then?"

"I'm thinking the western branch of the Ixch'up Mountains. But I'm not certaining. Geography is not my strongest suiting."

Flavius shook his head in ignorance.

Parric sighed. "We're in the second cosm of the Eternal Dominion of the Tricentennial Emperor."

Flavius' mouth fell open. "Ya crazy bastard. Your Tricentennial Emperor's the one what killed me two weeks back and started this madness!"

"We're needing a most unlikely place to be hiding. This is seeming more unlikely than most." Parric shrugged. "And there's a chancing--doubtingful, but still a chancing--that the Emperor is behind your killings. Other than the one, I'm meaning. If so, we're best dealing with him sooner rather than latering."

"And then we pop in and slaughter the lot of 'em. Good plan. Simple and direct." Flavius grinned. "'Cept, of course, for the Empress. We've got unfinished business, she and I."

Continued

MEMORY: 12

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Thunder boiled up through Flavius' arm, threatening to tear muscle from bone and split his skin. It roared through his shoulder and into his head.

His head! His head! His head! Lightning flashed behind his eyes, blinding bursts of fire that swelled within his skull as the terrible pressure built up. Were all the killer waves racing ahead of a storm to ram themselves into a teacup, it’d still be a faint whisper of the torrent pouring into him.

His fingers melted into the hilt of the sword--the evil, cursed sword thrust upon him by that devil serpent. Flavius tried to cast it away. His arm wouldn't obey. His fingers burned white as they held it fiercely with the grip of the dead.

Flavius struggled, but the flood tossed aside every effort to close his mind. Images flashed over him, scenes and lives, scents and sounds and thoughts-- Each fleeting glimpse had a familiarity about it, like a long-forgotten memory recalled years after the fact. Pain blinded him again, and Flavius’ resolve crumbled. Unable to resist, the torrent carried his mind away with it...

A memory unfolded around him, cold and glossy.

Flavius crouched behind the singularity generator, hardly daring to breathe. Carefully he eased his claymore’s tip out past the corner, intent on the reflection in its mirror-polished surface.

Parric floated in the center of the broad research chamber. Coils of light wrapped and thrashed around him, holding him helpless in a knotted ball. Three gleaming steel-and-brass dromomachs--twelve-leggers at that--surrounded Parric, guarding the Whistard Holdchau's prize. Their skeletal heads rotated atop their bodies, eye beams scanning the chamber, ready to obliterate any threat with an instantaneous stream of positrons.

Flavius pulled his sword back before the beam passed over it. He glanced over to Blysta, crouched behind the--what did she call it?--“Reality sink.” Good old one-armed Blysta. She'd lost her other to a nine-legger almost two weeks back, but Holdchau’d dampened her negator bands then. She swore by the negator bands, and Holdchau was still busy with the mess in Sanderfar.

The dromomachs wouldn't know what hit them.

The memory shifted, changing to something that’d happened earlier. Or later. The sequence wasn’t clear.

Flavius lay on the muddy bank of a river, stinging rain pelting him in the eye. He didn’t have the strength left to blink. His gut hung open, his entrails tangled in the brush above him, tangling him like a puppet. He'd ceased to hurt. He didn't feel anything, anymore.

But a green serpent took his hand, placing a claymore hilt into his bloody grip. The sword sent thunder up his arm, a cyclone into his mind. Flavius gasped, helpless to scream or fight against it. As the storm subsided, he gazed at the sword in relief. “Ah, Memory, yer a bonny lass.”

Then he lifted his head, looking at Parric with recognition.

“What’re ya waitin’ for?” Flavius managed. “Are ya gonna fix me, or what?”

Parric made his magic, and Flavius' spilled innards found their way back in.

Another change...

The ships turned and banked as one, like a fleet of iridescent whales flying high above the clouds. In the distance, beyond the terminus of day and night, a dazzling ring sparkled like a river of jewels encircling the planet. Stars shone fiercely in the black sky beyond.

Flavius watched from the observation deck in amazement, even though Parric gave only a cursory look, apparently unimpressed. Yoona and Joofee, the squat, blue-skinned symbiotic union, watched with undisguised pride as the bows of various craft splayed open in turn and spinners of light plunged downward into the rosy clouds. Gradually, a funnel of siphoned gas climbed up the spinner-lined way to be harvested by the ship.

“And yer sure every one of them out there’s got people on it, just like this one?” Flavius asked softly, disbelieving even his question.

“No, this is only a scout cruiser, with a crew of barely three dozen unions,” Joofee said. “The largest colony ark holds more than thirty-thousand unions.”

Flavius avoided looking directly at Joofee as it spoke. The merger where their folded second and third arms fused together still unnerved him no matter how much he’d grown to like them personally.

“You’ll understand when we depart tomorrow. The observations are complete,” Yoona said reassuringly. It pointed to the sky opposite the rings to an orangish star glowing brightly. “That’s where we go. With luck, we’ll find two consumable planets waiting--”

The memory slipped away, replaced by another.

"I dinnae feel anything," Flavius said, testing the feel of the claymore in his hand. "’Tis a wee bit lighter than I was expecting. Are ya sure he used real steel in it?"

"You're not supposing to feeling anything," Parric said, that familiar tone of exasperation and embarrassment tingeing his voice as always.

"As I explained before, it is not metal. Pure metallics interfere with the ceramic memory retrieval interface," the mondrite said, its odd reverberating voice both simultaneously soothing and unnerving. Flavius still wasn't certain where the voice came from--its yellow-orange head was featureless other than a series of deep grooves carved down the length of its clay-like body. It gestured to the sword. "The molecular composite mimics a crude metal blade, but is sharper, lighter and stronger."

"I dinnae want it breaking on me at an inopportune time, mind you," Flavius said, eyeing it dubiously.

"Physical force will not harm the supplemental memory unit," the mondrite said. "It must be affected at the molecular level if it is to be disassembled."

"Can ya talk in a language other than gibberish?"

"His meaning is the sword will outlasting you," Parric said, then turned to the mondrite. "The working is acceptable. Many thankings to you."

"Hold on just a moment," Flavius said, considering the hilt. "It's a bonny sword, then, there's no denying that even if I cannae see the sense it in remembering things for me. But it's a bit plain, dinnae ya ken? Here’s an idea I had me. See, since you're the sorcerer--"

"The mondrite is not a sorcering."

Flavius ignored him. "--the sorcerer with all the magic whatsis and all... well, what d’ya ken of whortleberries?"

Another memory intruded.

Flavius stared at his hands in horror. Blood course through his veins, over and around bones as meaty red muscles contracted and relaxed.

"Don't you blaming me," Parric said. "I giving many warnings to you not to drinking."

"Ya dinnae goddamn tell me it'd make my skin transparent!"

Another change...

Flavius swung his claymore and the charging Lidozrout, shattering one spear and gutting a swine-headed Lidozrout through its armor.

Eight more took the fallen one’s place. Their spiral horns rattled on the corridor walls. The corridor was too narrow for the Lidozrout to spread out and attack Flavius from all sides, but it also kept him from swinging Memory to full effect. A spear jabbed past his sword, ripping into his belly.

Flavius staggered back against the wall. "Goddamn. Same place Tommy Lobster got me at Culloden," he muttered, trying to hold his stomach together with his free hand. His legs slid out from under him and he dropped to the floor.

Suddenly, Ctibor appeared in front of him, tattered overcoat flapping, swinging his krukh--an insane weapon sporting two curved blades that nearly formed a circle. He was shouting something at Flavius, blood streaming down his face from the gash above his brow, but Flavius couldn't understand the words.

“I thought ya was already dead,” Flavius finally managed with effort.

Flavius glanced down at his blood-slick sword, at the comforting whortleberries decorating the cross piece. He'd known all along he and Ctibor alone couldn't stop the Lidozrout, but that didn't make dying any easier...

The memory ended, a confused mingling of pain, fear and distance. Then the quiet oblivion was shattered with dazzling beauty.

The Empress smiled at him, her silver hair gleaming in the moonlight streaming through the open windows. Flavius, rather than stare, closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Her scent was sharp, spicy and intoxicating, like a cinnamon liqueur. The little whiffs he’d caught at court had not prepared him for her full effect.

“Is your species so uncivilized that you dare not look upon your betters?” the Empress said with a voice that sounded like glass bells.

Flavius opened his eyes.

“That’s better.” With a delicate hand, she deftly untied the Triple Knot of Faith and the golden cord fell away from her waist. Freed of the cord, the first layer of her ephemeral gown rose from her shoulders, evaporating in the night air. The second layer followed suit. Then the third. When the seventh layer joined its brethren as vapor, she stood before Flavius naked and proud. She stood six inches taller than him, lithe and agile. Her joints weren't quite where he'd expect them to be, but the effect was more intriguing than grotesque given her lank frame. The Empress' skin glistened reddish-copper with natural luster, and her six pert breasts offered ample enticement.

"It's considered a gross breach of etiquette," she said with the hint of a smile, "to refuse an invitation from the Empress."

Grinning broadly, Flavius fumbled with the buckle of his double-looped sword belt before getting it open and dropping--

The final memory ended abruptly. Flavius sat up with a start, rubbing his aching head. He glanced up at the violet sky, the over to Parric.

“I remember ya,” Flavius said, considering the claymore and stroking it reverently. “I remember this bonny great sword I call Memory. And I remember dying. Three times now, that makes it.”

Parric opened his beak but Flavius cut him off with a wave of his hand.

"Dinnae say it. Dinnae ya dare say it. My poor head's in no mood for another one of yer lectures," Flavius said. He sat silently, staring out over the mountains while massaging the craps out of his swordhand with thumb and forefinger. "Just tell me, Parric-- did I at least finish with the Empress before they killed me?"

Continued

MEMORY: 11

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The strangling darkness vanished in an instant. His claustrophobic prison burst apart and Flavius found himself soaring a thousand feet above the ground.

He screamed against the rushing wind, flinging forward his cramped arms to shield his head. His sword spun away. The ground weaved wildly, see-sawing back and forth with the shockingly close clouds. Out of the corner of his eye he saw what looked for all the world like a brilliant green winged serpent dart off faster than a bow shot. Which would've been proof of madness right enough on its own, but the enormous, tooth-footed spider-thing hanging in mid-air was proof of insanity of nightmarish proportions.

"English devils is what ya are, the lot of ya," Flavius shouted. "Cumberland cannae face Bonnie Prince Charlie without shitting his breeks, so he conjures devils from Hell to fight his battles for him!"

Flavius no longer sailed through the sky. The clouds receded at a disturbing rate as the ground, wreathed in smoke and confusion, leapt toward him at an equally disturbing rate.

"If ya bastards think ya can win by cowardly tricks, ya better think again. I'm Flavius MacDuff, descendant of Bellona's bridegroom himself, the great Thane of Fife! I dinnae need sword or musket to beat the likes of you--I dinnae even need ground beneath my feet, d'ya hear me demons?"

The ground spun dangerously close. In the distance, a flash of green caught his eye. The serpent returned, a streak of emerald rushing headlong toward Flavius.

"Aye, that's it, beastie!" he bellowed. "Face me like a man, and I'll beat ya to death with my bare fists! I'll knot yer coils and fight ya to Hell and back. Cumberland'll ken then what it means to rile a highlander whose heart beats with the blood of Clan MacDuff!"

The raindrops surrounding him, Flavius suddenly noticed, seemed to hover motionless in relation to him. It was an odd thing to note, he thought, particularly with the muddy field seconds away from hitting him very, very hard.

"Och," he muttered. "This gonna sting a mite."

The ground lunged for him only to be beaten by a flash of green. Flavius' headlong fall turned abruptly into a ripping sideways jolt, knocking the breath from him as the strangling darkness enveloped him once again.

His stomach twisted. Sweat burst from his pores only to boil away in the suddenly-scorching air. No, not air. The howling wind took on a harsher, more ominous tone, and try as he might, Flavius could not manage to inhale. What little breath he had left trickled out through his nose and mouth, snatched away by the unnatural heat.

Unnatural. Something had gone horribly--unnaturally--wrong.

A creeping horror overcame Flavius. Maybe... just maybe... What if he had struck the ground? If he was dead, then this evil heat meant that he'd smashed right through the earth and straight into Hell itself.

It had to be a mistake. Sure, he wasn't the most pious man ever to live, but his faults were few. He'd always meant to tithe some of his gambling winnings to the church, but the sad truth was that winnings came so rarely they were invariably put toward covering earlier losses. And uncovering bonnie lassies, too, but nobody could deny that was money well spent. There was drink, too. But a man’s got to drink.

He'd killed many English, true, but deep down he'd always assumed that would win him special honor in the afterlife, not damnation.

Flavius struggled against his confines to no avail. His battered body couldn't muster the strength. He'd nearly exhausted himself fighting the constricting darkness the first time it'd enveloped him only to be beaten severely. His bruises still throbbed.

If he could only draw a damned breath...

Flavius' stomach knotted again. A lurch went through his body, and he felt strangely heavier. Then he dropped hard against rough ground, sharp pebbles and stone gouging into his hands and knees.

There was air. Flavius lay motionless, sucking in great lungfulls of the stuff. Gone was the sulfur stink of canon smoke and the damp, boggy odor of the field. This crisp, dry air was strangely clear of those smells, with only the faintest hints of a curious background scent-- Burned apples, possibly.

He climbed to his knees. Blinking against the harsh daylight, he looked around.

Flavius perched atop a bare granite dome some twenty yards across. Twisted, stunted trees bordered the dome's edge, growing thicker farther down the mountainside. Beyond, a craggy blue-green mountain range stretched as far as he could see beneath a violet sky.

"Hmph," Flavius muttered, climbing to his feet. "This ain't Culloden."

He turned to find the coiled green serpent staring at him, wings outstretched.

"Take me through Hell, will ya?" Flavius shouted, and punched it square between its two rows of eyes.

The serpent squawked and shook its head.

“Oh, ya like that, eh? Have another.” Flavius punched it again.

The serpent walloped Flavius with a wing, sending him sprawling.

Flavius scrambled back up. The serpent slithered toward him, kakking and gesturing wildly. Flavius’ hand found his dirk, miraculously still in his belt. He may have lost his sword, but at least he wasn't unarmed.

"Yer a nasty bastard, right enough. Have a taste of this," he said, lunging forward.

Effortlessly the serpent slapped his hand with a wingtip, sending the dirk skittering across the dome.

"Right, beastie. I'll do ya for that!"

Shaking its head, the serpent reached up to its back and pulled forth a gleaming claymore.

"Ya dinnae scare me with tha-- are those whortleberries?"

The serpent thrust the sword at Flavius, pommel first. Instinctively he grabbed the hilt. Then his knees buckled and he dropped to the ground, clawing at his head, screaming.

Continued

MEMORY: 10

Apologies for the shameful delay on this installment. No excuses, just life and a deplorable lack of discipline on my part. I'll try to do better in the coming weeks.

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Chaos erupted among the moironteau. The predatory discipline organizing the creatures broke down in the face of thirty quarry. Moironteau lunged and slashed, footheads choming wildly at the darting green Parrics flying to and fro. Those hanging above dropped into the fray, the lure of the chase too tempting to resist. The carefully-constructed trap collapsed into itself.

"Stupiding otherwhereians," muttered Parric from his coiled position in the middle of it all. "All muscle, no finessing."

A simulacrum found itself amid a cluster of three moironteau. It hesitated a moment, seeking a way out, and that was all opening the moironteau needed to crush it under foothead. When the baffled creature lifted its leg, however, all that remained was a single muddy featherscale.

Another simulacrums flashed past overhead, a loping moironteau in feverish pursuit. Two massive footheads slamed into the mud on either side of Parric in passing, the creature taking no notice of the real quarry.

The simulacrum flew head-long toward one of its twins, also pursued by a moironteau. An instant before colliding, the fake Parrics veered off at right angles to each other. The moironteau had no chance to stop, blundering into each other with a bone-jarring impact. And some bones were indeed jarred--the creatures lay where they fell, hooning piteously as they tried to lift themselves with shattered footheads.

Parric watched with satisfaction. The simulacrums may be insubstantial, but they flew better than he could ever dream.

He reached into one of his buldging pouches, pulling out a fat metallic cylinder. He launched himself into the air, holding the cylinder with the fingers on his second wings.

The way above now open, Parric made for the heavy cloudbank. He flew vertical, his wings a whining blur. Icy rain stung his face, rolling away off his featherscales as he climbed. Parric labored against gravity, the dead weight of Flavius MacDuff and loss of his second wing pair growing more and more difficult to ignore. If he could just reach the clouds before any moironteau noticed his escape--

An outraged bellow thundered from below. He'd been spotted.

A moironteau'd abandoned its prusuit of a simulacrum and thrown itself into the air, biting into the dimensional fabric of reality to pull itself higher.

The moironteau gained quickly. Parric no longer had the strength to fly vertically. Instead he'd slipped into a shallow spiral, gaining altitude incrimentally.

A second moironteau joined the chase.

The cloud cover loomed close. But not close enough. He'd never make it.

Parric glanced down. The pursuing moironteau were directly below him. Beyond them, the drama continued to play out on the ground. Significantly fewer simulacrums flashed through the air, but they'd done a good job of keeping the majority moironteau occupied. Of keeping them together. Of keeping them herded.

With a free finger, Parric pulled the pin from the cylinder and dropped it. The cylinder fell a few yards, glancing off the back of the closest moironteau before tumbling on. The second moironteau struck quickly, a foothead lashing out to gulp it down whole.

The moironteau took another step then stopped abruptly. The foothead that'd swallowed the cylinder writhed in agony. Whisps of yellow-green smoke escaped between its gnashing teeth. With a coarse moan, it vomited up the cylinder amid a cloud of the sickly smoke. Its footheads convulsed, and the moironteau lost its hold. It plummeted from the sky. The cylinder tumbled after, spewing great gouts of yellow-green smoke in its wake.

The smoke bomb landed in the middle of the massed moironteau. The cloud expanded at a startling rate, rolling over the moironteau even as more smoke drifted down from above. The simulacrums reverted to featherscales wherever the smoke touched them. The moironteau staggered from the smoke, flailing in agony, coughing up streams of purple blood through their dorsal vents.

"A little souveniring from your home cosm," Parric called down. "I'm thinking you might be homesicking, maybe."

The remaining moironteau in pursuit lunged up. Parric barely dodged in time. He could no longer climb. He was struggling to even maintain altitude. The moironteau would have him in moments.

In desperation, Parric cast about for the nearest Nexial gap. He found it instantly--the first one he'd attempted to Craft a Wedging for. The Wedging itself was still hanging over the gap, invisible and intangible, waiting for Parric to will it into action. Parric also found the second gap he'd tried for, and close by was the dimensional pocket he'd tried to hide in, still holding the unfortunate moironteau thrashing witin.

Parric's antennae sprang erect at the opportunity. Flavius, of course, would hate the plan that'd appeared, fully-formed, into Parric's mind. But hating Parric's plans was Flavius in a nutshell.

"Seeing you shortly," Parric said, then flung Flavius out into open air.

Parric's second wings flew into action. He cut back on the pursuing moironteau and shot past it before the creature could react. The moironteau froze with confusion, unable to decide which to pursue.

Down Parric dove, straight at the convulsing dimensional pocket, Crafting as he went. A sudden, horrific thought struck him--what if the trapped moironteau freed itself before Parric reached it?

Parric plunged through the insubstantial space of the dimensional pocket. Air seemed to turn to syrup around him, the thick folds of reality collapsing around him as he gathered it to him. For an instant it seemed he would freeze in place, then he was out the other side, banking up and about, speed undiminished.

Ahead, the tiny figure of Flavius tumbled helplessly as he fell earthward.

Parric wasn't sure if the curses he heard were actually coming from the distant figure or merely memories of past tirades. Not that it mattered all that much. Either gravity in this cosm was stronger than Parric'd estimated, or he'd been way off in his altitude assumption. Either way, Flavius was much closer to the ground than was entirely healthy.

Parric threw back his antennae and forced more speed from his overtaxed wings.

Flavius grew larger. Corpses of English soldiers flashed below as streaks of crimson. Raindrops hung in midair as Parric hurled past them. Flavius turned his face toward Parric, his wide eyes filled with equal measures of terror and hatred.

Mere feet from a messy impact, Parric plucked Flavius out of the air. Triggering the waiting Wedging, Parric and Flavius shot through the open gap, leaving not a trace of their passing behind.

Continued

MEMORY: 9

Previous

Parric wheeled away as the moironteau spilled out of the gap. There were too many to outrun to the next gap--not with two wings struggling to keep the voilently fighting Flavius wrapped up and safe. He'd have to wait them out inside a dimensional pocket.

Quickly he Crafted a pocket ahead, a small one, unobtrusive and all but impossible to detect. The narrow opening flickered, a faint warping of light. An instant later, Parric was inside, curling tight and wrapping the pocket in on itself to close it off from the pursuers.

Parric breathed heavily, listening for sounds of pursuit even though he knew such things were impossible. He'd wrapped the dimensional pocket too tightly--not even stray photons were finding their way in to the hiding place. Parric grumbled to himself. He'd been more thoughtful with his earlier pocket, keeping it loose enough to afford easy observation of the external world. But he hadn't been pursued by a swarm of moironteau then, either, had he?

Flavius kicked then, a nasty jab right in Parric's recently-healed ribs. Parric squeezed roughly, as much to express his displeasure as to hamper Flavius' efforts to retrieve the dirk he always wore in his belt. A muffled stream of invective answered Parric's efforts.

The dimensional pocket abruptly lurched. Parric snapped alert, his antennae splayed wide. The pocket shuddered, sluffed sickeningly to one side, them snapped open.

Three moironteau stood at opposite angles, half their combined footheads gripping the edges of the dimensional pocket with row upon row of dagger-like teeth, pulling the haven apart. The fourth waited for the flushed quarry.

Parric sprang forward in an instant, throwing a hastily-Crafted prismatic distortion ahead of him. It wasn't well-Crafted, but it was enought to force the fourth moironteau to strike wildly as Parric shot past. The three released the edges of the dimensional pocket to pursue, and almost as an afterthought Parric reached back and nudged it forward. The pocket snapped closed over the fourth, it's massive footheads vanishing into a shimmering ripple of nothing.

It would take at least for the few moments for the moironteau to fight its way free of the pocket. But there were still three other monsters in pursuit. Parric located the next-closest gap and made for it.

Before he'd covered half the distance, a new moironteau emerged from the gap. And another. Parric veered away only to find more moironteau popping up all across the battlefield.

"Is every gap being guarded?" Parric sputtered in exasperation.

Nearly thirty monstrous moironteau churned across the battlefield, all converging on Parric. The strangling smoke thinned as the measured, disciplined gunfire faltered and dwindled to a the occasional random shot. The charging highlanders had long since broken and scattered in the face of these new, hellish scourges of war. The orderly English lines had collapsed into a chaotic mass panic. The powerful artillery batteries sat silent, abandoned. Cavalry horses spooked and fled, carrying their hapless riders along. The moironteau crushed and stomped their way through the overmatched soldiers, the toothy footheads flinging blood and body parts this way and that.

A handful of the moironteau clambered into the sky, angling to cut Parric off from above. Others moved to intercept his flight path, to block his escape even as others closed on him from behind and the sides.

Flavius began thrashing again, forcing Parric to dip dangerously close the ground before recovering a moment later. An English footman reacted too slowly, suffering a snapped neck as Parric's breast grazed him. Furious, Parric took advantage of the next several downsweeps of his wings to thump Flavius sharply.

"Do you rather I letting them killing you again? Do you?" Parric shouted. "They're wanting to killing both of us just as muchly right now."

Flavius bucked and cursed.

"Shutting you up is an impossibling," Parric said. "I'm not knowing which is worse fighting, you or them. Uh oh!"

He hadn't expected the moironteau to move so quickly, but it'd managed to block Parric's way. Parric banked away from it only to find another dangerously close. The noose had closed around him in an instant--Parric was surrounded. He wheeled in ever-tightening circles, searching in vain for a clear path through the slashing, flailing footheads. The moironteau climbing above him loomed ominously, ready to drop upon him at any moment. There were simply too many of them.

He'd sprung the trap, and it'd proven to be a good one. One lacking in finesse, perhaps, but effective nonetheless.

Parric retreated to the center of the circle, beginning a Crafting. He settled to the ground, ruffling his featherscales to give himself a swollen, bloated appearance.

The moironteau stopped abruptly, startled by the unexpected move. After a moment, when Parric made no further movement--save for the odd kick or twist from the still-captive Flavius--one of the moironteau took a tentative step foward. Then others followed, slowly, cautiously.

"You are owing me so big," Parric whispered to Flavius. Then he ripped out a beakful of featherscales and flung them into the sky.

Thirty Parrics abruptly scattered in the air, flying straight at the oncoming moironteau.

Continued

Absent MEMORY

My father-in-law has died. There won't be an installment of MEMORY this week. Next week's pretty iffy as well. I'm just not in a place right now that allows for much writing.

MEMORY: 8

Previous

English cannon fire ripped the air. The choking smoke roiled across the marshy field. The icy, stinging rain came down in fits and starts. A hundred highlanders--maybe more--lay dead on the sodden ground, their ranks naked and exposed to the withering fire of the English guns. The erratic fire from the handful of Scottish cannon offered little cover for their own, and little threat to the English. And still they stood their ground, neither charging nor retreating.

Parric watched, dumbfounded. He'd heard tales of the battle over and over again, but until this moment, he hadn't realized that this "Bonnie Prince Charlie" Flavius went on about had intentionally lost. But that was the only explanation for the carnage he was witnessing, unless... The possibility that these highlanders were afflicted with a type of mass insanity had never occurred to him before, either, but it did explain a great many things about Flavius.

Parric hovered high above the battlefield, hidden inside a dimensional pocket. Watching. Waiting. Already he'd located seventeen Nexial gaps within a five mile radius. Granted, six of those were deep within the crust of the planet below him, but when it came right down to it, a gap was a gap.

Parric scanned the massed highlanders again, trying to spot Flavius. Parric had arrived earlier this time, hopefully early enough to avoid the moironteau entirely. The downside was that he didn't actually know where Flavius would be at this point. Past experience had demonstrated that a mortally wounded, near-death Flavius invariably proved more docile and far less likely to engage in any chopping off of wings, not to mention other, more negative, behaviors.

Parric perked up. Some signal had gone out--the massed highlanders seemed to tense, them let out a thunderous roar as one. The din was deafening. In fits and starts, they began their charge.

Parric knew what happened next. Knew where Flavius was going, where he'd be. Cautiously, Parric extended his antennae.

No sign of the moironteau.

That didn't mean it wasn't out there, lying in wait like some interdimensional trap door spider, ready to spring its trap.

There was no time like the present. Besides, if he got Flavius now, he wouldn't have to bother Crafting his wounds back together.

Parric uncoiled, slipping out of his shelter. Immediately gravity noticed him, asserting its hold. Deliberately, almost casually, Parric spread his double pair of wings. They vanished in a blur of motion. A moment before he struck the ground, Parric leveled off and shot toward the charging highlanders.

He reached them in an instant, plunging through banks of smoke and darting this way and that to avoid collision with any number of wildly screaming men. Ahead, Parric spotted Flavius.

Flavius MacDuff was unmistakable in his mud-splattered kilt, his red-brown hair and beard bedraggled and forlorn. In one hand he waved his old, notched sword and in the other he held his shield. He charged with the rest of the Scots, fighting to keep his footing as those on his left crowded into his rank to avoid a bog of standing water.

Parric was on him in an instant. Flavius turned a split second before Parric reached him, his eyes going wide before he was plucked from the ground like the day's berry harvest.

Parric snatched Flavius with his hindmost wings, wrapping him up and holding him immobile. Flavius spewed forth a flood of unintelligible curses, muffled by the constraining wings. Flavius' sword, fortunately, was also immobilized by Parric's grip.

"Stop fighting me, you idiot," Parric muttered as Flavius' thrashing made his flightpath weave drunkenly. "You're not liking falling, I guarantee!"

Parric banked right, making for the nearest Nexial gap. He began to Craft a Wedging, then abandoned the effort. The gap was already blocked. Quickly he pulled up, breaking away from the gap just as the moironteau appeared from out of nowhere. The moironteau's teeth slashed the air where Parric had been a moment earlier.

The moironteau lunged after Parric, crushing the charging highlanders underfoot. The monstrous apparition proved too much for the haggard Scots--the left flank faltered, then scattered. The moironteau took no notice of the humans. Instead, it flung itself after Parric, four of its footheads straining forward, mouths gaping.

Unlike their first encounter, Parric was ready. A subtle flick of his antennae Crafted prismatic distortions over the moironteau's multitude of eyes.

The results were as instantaneous as they were spectacular. Suddenly faced with visual dissonance as each eye processed light forty, ninety or one hundred and eighty degrees off its normal focal plane, the legs caromed wildly trying to reconcile what it saw with reality. It tripped, tumbled and crashed violently into the bog.

Parric allowed himself a private smile. Knowicent's background on the moironteau had proven accurate, after all. With that many simple eyes, it didn't take much Crafting at all to upset the creature's complex visual processing.

"Taking that back to your master," Parric shouted.

Parric made for the next closest gap, in the heart of the English line. The foot soldiers stared dumbfounded as Parric shot past overhead, the officers anchored in place, open mouthed. Quickly Parric began Crafting a Wedging for the looming gap, when unexpectedly the gap opened on its own.

A moironteau launched itself through the opening. Then another. And another.

Continued

MEMORY: 7

Previous

Parric seemed to withdraw into his trance.

"Parric..."

"What are you suggesting?" Parric said. "I'm asking you for informations. You're not having any for me."

"Look, if you want to know who's behind this thing, it might be more productive to come at it from a different direction," Knowicent said, sitting before Parric with legs crossed. "You've accumulated a few enemies, as I recall."

"Not that I am knowing of."

"What about the Eldminster of Hahn?"

"The Eldminster is at cross-purposings."

"And the T'choulic Taman?"

"Again, cross-purposings."

"I see. Okay then, which individuals you've been at cross purposes with in the past are capable of engineering this moironteau variant?"

"None are capabling."

"Aren't you even going to think about it?"

"No needings to. None are capabling. Not T'choulic Taman, not the Eldminster of Hahn, not even Condros Fane. None."

"You went up against Condros Fane? Why hadn't I heard about that?"

Parric gave her a withering stare.

"Look, without more data from your end my options are limited. If you're certain an old enemy--excuse me, cross-purposing--isn't behind it, then that doesn't leave much. A new enemy is pretty much all that's left. Someone you don't yet know you're in conflict with." Knowicent sighed. "I can give you everything I have on the moironteau. The data'll only be of limited relevance, though. This creature's been completely re-engineered--if it's an oxygen breather now, there's not way to tell what other alterations have been made."

"And the footheads?"

"No telling. I've got dozens of potential analogs--everything from finger-long sleacath to oceanic fraust large enough to swallow a moironteau whole. As far as convergent evolution goes, that one's fairly common across a wide range of cosms."

"I'm thinking as much," Parric said. "You may be going now."

"If I had a specimen, a tissue sample--"

"Yes, well, I am not having samples for you. You may be going now."

"Don't go alone," Knowicent said. "Take Rumbroid and Coreace. Or what about the Junsturs? You're on good terms with them, right?"

"Knowicent--"

"Shit, Parric, I'd like to think we've moved beyond a purely client-customer relationship. But if you don't care about my concern for your well-being, think of Flavius. He wouldn't want you to get yourself killed, would he? I'll admit I don't know much about these things, but everything I do know points to these moironteau being designed to kill you. Unless you want them to succeed, the next time you venture out into the Nexus I suggest you do so armed to the beak and with lots of backup." She smiled. "Who knows? A great wizard like you, lots of hero-types would likely volunteer just for the glory. That's not even considering other magicians who'd want to learn by seeing you in act--"

"That is not being possible. Craftings are not magicings," Parric said. "Besides, what you're suggesting is againsting the tenets of my order."

"Right, right. Your all-powerful 'tenets of the order,'" Knowicent said. "Tenets which I've never learned from you in, what? Ten? Fifteen years? Care to enlighten me?"

"That is againsting--"

"--the tenants of your order. Right. Can't say I didn't see that coming." Knowicent ran her hand through the flickering mass of cables on her head. Her eyes narrowed an accusing glare at Parric. "And you've never broken them before?"

"Thanking you for the informations you're giving," Parric said, more sharply than before. "Payment for such is transferring to your accountings. You may be going now."

She started to protest, but Parric twitched an antennae. Knowicent's avatar dispersed in a spray of light.

Parric shifted, trying to regain his meditative state. His tail twitched. He breathed deeply then slowly exhaled.

Sighing, Parric sat up. He was too agitated now, too conflicted. Knowicent had that effect on him, always posing more questions than she was paid to answer.

His wing sent a sharp jab of pain in protest. Parric flinched, softening his movements. The wing would have to wait a little longer, until he'd regained his composure.

"And you've never broken them before?"

Knowicent, she who made a career of knowing everything, was oblivious as to how deep her words had cut. The tenets were meant to pose a continuing challenge. Many Crafters faltered. It was expected. But Parric had never heard of any Crafter of Onimik as lacking as he. He thought back to his multitude of failures against the moironteau and shuddered in shame.

He would do better the next time. He had no excuses.

Calmly, Parric extended his antennae and started Colloreep's Third Current. He hadn't performed the exercise in a very long time. He'd neglected all of his exercises for far too long. He'd start with an easy one, and work his way up from there.

Parric sealed the door, blocking it from all intrusion. Then he expanded the interior of his room seven leagues in every direction. Satisfied he now had enough space to practice the Third Current freely, he solidified the air, then inverted it before collapsing the entire mass into a singularity of pure energy.

Yes, he would definitely do better the next time.

Continued

MEMORY: 6

Previous

The hand stroked Parric's head, passing through his antennae as if they had no substance.

"It is not necessary to be touching."

"Sorry. Sort of a reflex action there," Knowicent said, pulling back her avatar's hand. Her eyes glowed intensely blue. Faint circuitry traced the contours of her sleek, angular face. Two oblong lobes jutted out from the nape of her neckbase of her skull, with thousands of glowing hair-thin optic cables looping from them to her skull. "But what do you expect? I've never seen you in this condition before."

"Don't concerning yourself with my condition," Parric said, maintaining his trancelike state. "My healings will be swift."

Knowicent pursed her lips and arched her brow. "Let me rephrase that. I've never seen a Crafter of Onimik in this condition before. Come to think of it, I've never even heard of--"

"I'm understanding you the first time," Parric said.

"So then, are you going to tell me what did this to you or are you just wasting my time?"

"No. I'm needing your telling me what did this."

"You don't already know? Well, this is something." Knowicent's eyes lit up as she settled cross-legged in front of Parric. "Animal, vegetable or diety?"

"I'm suspecting it is a constructing," Parric said, describing the otherwhereian to her. "It is not feeling right to me. Entropy is clinging to it, as it were old and exhausting of all energy. But as you're seeing, it's not exhausting of anything. It's openings and closings of gaps don't match with limits of its thinkings."

Knowicent thought for a moment, her optic cables flickering many colors. "The moironteau matches the general form of your creature from a cosm in the 2.86443 negative variant range. But it doesn't have these 'footheads' you describe. It actually expells its stomach through the ventral side of its abdomen to envelop its prey. Lots of acid. Very nasty. And it's a chlorine breather. Was this one you fought breathing clorine?"

"Not that I am noticing."

Knowicent thought for a moment. "It's connected with this Flavius business, isn't it?"

"It is doing the killings."

"Then I'd agree with you that it's a construct--a very specific one at that." She ticked off her fingers. "Limited intelligence that's just enough to carry out the mission and associated variables. Physically powerful--overkill really, considering the target. The design... shit. The design's just insane. There's no long-term viability built into it. Whoever put this thing together wanted to make it as intimidating as possible and cost wasn't a consideration."

"It is very full of intimidatings."

"The design is a message. A blunt-force message, but that's not key. Practically anybody can build a musclebound bulk, almost. You build muscle, then send it through the Nexus using a carrier of some sort. It's quicker that way. Easier. Cleaner. But not this one. They build gap control into this one, and extended its physical presence into at least five dimensions so it could do that climbing trick. That blocking of your gap thing--"

"Wedging."

"Wedging. Yeah. That's unique to you. To Crafters. I mean, I've got dozens of tacts on file someone could use to block the most common methods of gap access," Knowicent cocked her head to the side, "but none of those would work against you. Parric, you were anticipated. Killing Flavius may be this otherwhereian's primary task, but knocking you off has to be a close second."

"Then why am I still alive?"

"You Crafters are a mysterious sort." Knowicent shrugged. "My files on you are sparse, to say the least. Maybe this otherwhereian was somebody's best guess that wasn't quite good enough. You're just stronger than they anticipated."

For the first time, Parric moved, dipping his head as if burdened by guilt. "No," he said, barely audible. "I'm being weaker."

"Did you say something?"

Parric shook his head. "I'm needing more than that. Who is creating it? Who is sending it?"

"Parric, I can't tell you what I don't know. I do know that whoever it is has extensive knowledge of Flavius and yourself. They've got tremendous resources at their disposal. If they did patten this assasin after a moironteau--and I'm fairly convinced they did--you have to anticipate that they've got a data base nearly as extensive as mine to draw from. The moironteau's cosm is obscure, even for the chlorine zones."

"But you are not knowing who this might be."

"Specific names? No, I have no idea. But I know you've made more than a few enemies in the time I've known you. Make a list of the worst, and start there."

"Great," Parric said, sarcasm heavy in his voice. "Just what I'm needing."

"So. When are you going after Flavius again?"

Parric didn't answer. Silence fell between them. Knowicent sat patiently, concern creeping across her face.

"There'll be more, you know," she said at last. "That one you fought, whether it's dead or not, it's not a one-off. Wherever it came from, you have to expect there's more to come."

Continued

Interviewing Flavius MacDuff

How about a show of hands of everyone here following my serialized story, MEMORY. Let's see... one, two, three-- Hmm. Not as many as I'd hoped. Huh. Well, for any of you who are interested in such things, I've just published an interview with the initial protagonist in the story, Flavius MacDuff, over on my own blog. It didn't quite turn out as I'd expected.

MEMORY: 5

Previous

Parric flicked his antennae about, seeking sanctuary from the coarse, abrading gale of the Nexus. And the heat. The relentless heat.

His ribs throbbed. The pain in his wing had subsided into a dull ache, punctuated by sharp, stabbing agony every time his flight necessitated a change in direction. With the rush of battle now past, his body was giving out.

Thankfully, Parric soon felt the familiar texture of the Cosm he sought. With practiced ease he crafted a Wedging--a very small one this time, as this particular Cosm demanded no more--and slipped through the gap.

Parric emerged amidst a blaze of light and a cacophony of a hundred different voices. People pushed past him, some human, some almost-human and others far stranger. Some dressed themselves in brilliant, flamboyant colors, some in dull, simple clothes. A few strode through the crowd naked, adorned only with paint, tattoos or jewelry. All of them gave Parric a wide berth.

Parric recognized the place instantly: the westmarkt plaza of Tradefare's Digue district. He started to sigh, then thought better of it when his ribs protested. It was farther than he'd intended, but it could've been worse given the circumstances.

He reached into a pouch and pulled out two shimmering, translucent Potentials. He weighed them thoughtfully in his claws, then pressed them together, bleeding a fraction of the smaller one off into the larger. Then he inserted the smaller of the coins into the slot of a slender, fluted metallic post before him. Gap toll paid, he slithered off the circular tile mosaic that indicated an anchored Nexial Gap and joined the crush of bodies. Lights suspended a hundred yards above the plaza blazed in a grid pattern, blotting out the stars above and obliterating any hint that night had fallen. Night never really fell on Tradefare--the economy kept it at bay.

To Parric's left, a great black dirigible came through one of the reenforced industrial gaps, the moans of the stressed ship echoing across the plaza. A procurement detachment from one of the war-torn Dark Cosms, Parric guessed, always in search of new types of exotic weaponry.

To his right, the crowd gave a gap anchor an even wider berth than usual as three very hairy, over-large figures attacked the toll post with venomous rage. Parric ignored them. Tradefare's laws were... flexible by most standards, but one rule was ironclad. If you’re not paying the tollings, you’re not getting in. The constabulary would arrive soon enough to deal with them.

He made his way through the sprawling lattice-roofed pavilions and past the high-fenced stock yards with bizarre creatures from a thousand different Cosms. No matter how exotic the creatures' origins, the vile reek of dung was one constant they all shared.

Eventually, gap anchors grew scarce. The crowds thinned and the open trade pavilions gave way to girdered business centers and eventually humble general merchants. Parric turned up a side street, then down a flight of well-worn steps to the lower door of a slope-faced stone building. The ruddy door opened automatically to admit Parric.

Cool, blue light illuminated the interior. A sponge-textured, ivory substance paneled the walls. Several garish fractal images adorned the walls, steadily changing their patterns in a slow-motion metamorphosis. Several low-stance chairs lined the sides of a slender table that stretched the length of the room.

In one chair reclined a grotesquely fat woman with a curly, copper shag of hair, dressed in robes of green and orange that clashed harshly with the blue light. Before her floated a translucent screen, stock quotes and other financial data scrolling rapidly past. Instead of a mouth, she had three elongated nostrils buried amid fleshy flaps of skin that hung from the wide bridge of her nose to down below her chin. With a three-fingered hand she held an ornate forked pipework to her nose. Upon seeing Parric, her green eyes widened and she exhaled a fine, silvery mist.

"Parric! Do you know what hour it is? No, wait. Do you know what day it is? I was expecting you back a week ago tomorrow," she said, rolling her body to the side to face him. "And where's Flavius?"

"Still being dead, Ien," Parric muttered, slithering past her.

"Still dead? I thought you had that taken care of?" Ien said.

"I am taking carings of that," Parric said, glowering at her. She raised an eyebrow, and Parric shrugged his good wings. "There are... complicatings."

"Complicatings. Huh. The Nexus is full of 'complicatings.'" Ien shook her head, then replaced the piping to her nostrils. "Well, when you do get Flavius sorted out, remind him that he still owes me the better part of five Potentials."

"I am sure Flavius will be having rememberings of this on his own."

"It won't hurt any if you remind him, will it?" She turned back to her stock data.

"Ien, I’m in needing of Knowcient," Parric said.

"I'll flag her first thing in the morning."

"I’m in needing of Knowicent now."

Ien waved her hand at Parric without turning from her screen, a gesture equal parts acknowledgment and dismissal.

Parric went down the hall to his room. It was just wide enough to spread his wings fully without touching the sides, and had a single window opposite the door. Books, scrolls and random parchment sheets filled the shelves, along with hundreds of curious artifacts, fossils and various other strange items both organic and non in row upon row of small cubbies crammed beneath the shelves. Gossamer shrouds of varying shades of green draped from the ceiling, conveying, after a fashion, the sense of an ethereal forest.

Parric shrugged off his belts and pouches, laying the claymore apart from his other equipment. He picked one waterskin from a rack and drank down its yellowish contents. He repeated this with two others, chasing the liquid with several sprigs of herbs selected from the cubbies. He then coiled himself in the middle of the room, atop a pallet of modest cushions. Gingerly he spread his injured wing, wincing at the electric jolt of pain this invited. His other wings folded comfortably against his sides. His antennae relaxed. His breathing slowed. Parric slipped into a meditative trance to help speed his body's healing.

He lay motionless for several minutes, occasional voices or vehicles passing outside the only sound.

A soft whistle abruptly broke the silence. The air immediately in front of Parric shimmered. A swirl of sparkling motes coalesced into a tall, spindly figure. It looked around the room, then reached down for Parric’s head.

Parric did not stir.

Continued

MEMORY: 4

Previous

The otherwhereian lifted two legheads to strike, not bothering to turn itself around. Just my luckings, Parric thought as he thrashed to right himself, omnidirectional threatenings. I wondering where its brains is keeping?

The mouths opened wide. The rings of teeth gnashing together.

The English cannon fired. Grapeshot. Point-blank range.

The otherwhereian felt that.

It charged the new threat. Ragged flaps of flesh dangled from three of the legheads, and thick yellow blood oozed from shrapnel wounds on its body. It was upon the gun crews in an instant, before the second rank of cannon could be brought to bear.

Parric righted himself, swatting away three over-enthusiastic English footmen charging him with fixed bayonets. He took a quick inventory of himself. Several small but bloody cuts and two, maybe three, broken ribs. Parric couldn't remember the last time he'd suffered broken bones. His left forewing was worse off. It hurt too much for him to tell if it was dislocated or something more serious.

Parric glanced back at the otherwhereian. The English artillery had been a welcome distraction, but they were suffering dearly now. The otherwhereian's attention would turn back to Parric at any moment.

Cringing from the pain, Parric pulled in the injured left forewing and held it fast with his right. Then he took off.

Parric flew slower using only one pair of wings, but he could manage. He knew right where to go this time, as well. The claymore lay right where he remembered, splattered with muck and blood but undamaged. Parric picked it up and gave it a cursory shake--just enough to get the worst of the filth off of it--then slid it into the sheath fastened across his back.

A large cannon tumbled through the air overhead, crushing a rank of footmen as it crashed to the ground. The otherwhereian was back again.

Parric launched himself into the air, not giving the legheads a chance to strike. The otherwhereian lumbered after him with staggering steps, no longer so spry as earlier.

Parric once again flicked his antennae about, searching for a Nexial gap. He'd recovered the sword. Time to going.

He sensed one to the right. He veered toward it, crafting a Wedging to open it enough to slip through--

The otherwhereian slammed it closed.

Parric pulled up, stunned.

Obviously, the otherwhereian could open Nexial gaps. He'd seen it arrive through one, after all.

But block them?

Parric flicked his antennae, searching for another Nexial gap. And there one was, high overhead, above even the smoke of battle. Up Parric flew, his wings a furious blur as he strained to reach the gap. Shots whistled past him as confused musketmen tried to draw a bead on Parric through flighting breaks in the smoke. Parric ignored them. The gap was nearly within reach. His antennae stretched toward it as he crafted a Wedging--

And the otherwhereian slammed it shut.

"Kraaak!" Parric screamed, his antennae going into spasms. He glared down at the otherwhereian, murder in his heart.

It was following him.

The otherwhereian wasn't flying. It couldn't--it had no wings. But it followed all the same. The eight footheads extended in turn and bit into the Cosm itself, using the extra-spatial dimensions as scaffolding to clamber after Parric.

"I'm having enough of this," Parric said. "If you're wanting surprisings, I'm giving you surprisings."

Parric thrust his Wedging into the Nexial gap. He pushed forward as hard as his wings could carry him. The otherwhereian's block held. Parric crafted another Wedging. And another. And another.

The space around Parric began twisting, distorting. Far below, the smoke and fire, the mud and the corpses took on a reddish hue, as did the brooding gray rain clouds above. The rain fell at Parric as blue streaks, weaving around him at the last moment before turning crimson for the rest of their journey earthward. The chaotic din of battle receded into the distance.

The otherwhereian fought its way closer, nearly indigo as it heaved itself along the tortured, spasming reality.

Parric crafted another Wedging, then abruptly flattened his antennae and folded his wings tight against his body. "Breakthroughing."

The otherwhereian's block shattered.

The Nexial gap ripped asunder.

The rending was felt more than heard, a resonant wrongness that lodged deep in the bones and refused to leave. Void replaced the overcast, brooding sky. A thousand fissured radiated outward as the earth and sky crumbled away, sucked through the void into the maelstrom beyond.

Parric felt the convulsions of the wounded Cosm, shielded himself from them as best he could. He fought back the rising guilt. He'd had no choice. It wasn't as if he'd punched through solid reality. A gap had already existed there, albeit a small one. The Cosm would heal. Eventually.

Through the expanding fissures Parric plunged, into the Nexus of All Realities. His breath spilled from his lungs into the throbbing inferno. A howling wind more debris than air buffeted him, and Parric spread his wings again to stabilize himself. In the center of the maelstrom spun the pulsing, hellish heart of the Nexus, the physical manifestation of infinite universes clashing against each other at this one, singular point beyond any reality. The disparate sensations of infinity and oppressive claustrophobia were immediate and overwhelming.

The otherwhereian tumbled past him, clawing frantically at dissolving shreds of reality. Even though it could move from Cosm to Cosm at will, it apparently didn't do so well when such moves were involuntary.

Just to be on the safe side, Parric reached out and crafted a Turning around a rogue boulder the size of a small town tumbling through the Nexus. It was ancient--the remnant of some long-ago Cosm rupture--and covered with decompositional frothing. The Turning only needed to nudge it a little to change its course. The boulder slammed into the tiny, flailing otherwhereian and then both were gone, lost in the blur of the Nexus. With luck, the decomposition might even take root in the beast and dispose of it once and for all.

Satisfied the otherwhereian posed no more immediate threat, Parric flicked his wings to put more distance between himself and the rupture. Already dozens of screaming soldiers were falling through the gap as it widened to consume both armies. Smoke and rain, half a dozen horses, the odd tree and lots of dirt and sod tumbled through as well.

Parric didn't want to be around when bedrock started spewing through the hole. And if the rupture grew deep enough to reach magma...

No matter. Parric was never returning to that Cosm again.

Continued

MEMORY: 3

Previous

Parric flapped backwards, dodging the bloody rain of body parts. His coils twitched with interest as he took in the eight-legheaded creature with deliberate consideration.

"So," he said at last, "I'm finally catching you up. But just otherwhere are you coming from?"

The thing tramped over Flavius' remains, pawing and gnawing at the ground as if it were trying to snuff the life out of every last cell. It emitted a deep thrumming from its thorax, and radial patterns flushed cyan from its back, radiating along the length of its legheads. It was very much unlike any sort of otherwhereian creature Parric had encountered before.

It took no notice of Parric. A quick check of the perimeter assured Parric that the Obscuring he'd crafted still shielded them from the humans' battle raging just a few flaps away. The Obscuring may well be blocking the otherwhereian's awareness of him as well, Parric reasoned. Still, it attacked Flavius through that same Obscuring.

"You're more of a puzzling to me that I’m expecting. Yes, you’re definitely requiring more studying," Parric said, selecting some cormynt and reesehops from his pouches. "No more leading me on chasings through Cosms for you. No more killings for you, either."

Parric crafted a Holding around the otherwhereian.

It abruptly stopped pawing at Flavius' remains. Four legheads snapped up, alert, each sweeping its ring of eyes in a different direction.

"Oh, you’re feeling that?" Parric said, somewhat surprised. His antennae twitched, focused on the creature. He layered on another Holding, just to be on the safe side.

The four legheads whipped around to face Parric. One by one the mouths opened, the teeth within flexing rhythmically.

Parric instinctively flinched, his featherscales ruffling. "Aren't you full of surprisings. Too many for my tasting, though." Parric added a third Holding.

The otherwhereian took a step toward Parric. The outermost Holding tore. It stopped, considering the invisible bonds holding it. Then it lunged at Parric, shrugging off tattered Holdings in its wake.

Parric shrieked, darting to the side. A massive leghead slammed into the ground where he'd been a moment earlier, the mouth gouging out a huge chunk of turf. Parric’s wings flew into action, the twin sets a sudden whining blur jerking him back from another crushing blow.

Parric shot away, flying low to the ground. He weaved through the choking smoke of battle, in and out among confused Highlanders. The creature galloped after him, disturbingly quick for something so large and ungainly. It trampled any human unlucky enough to get in its way, the gnashing mouths flinging out broken bodies with every step.

Parric zoomed over the Scottish artillery, a handful of cannons with disorganized crew. An instant later the creature smashed through them, sending the guns tumbling.

“Things are not going as I’m planning,” Parric muttered. He'd meant to take Flavius' killer unawares, yet now he was the pursued. This otherwhereian was an order of magnitude more powerful than he’d expected. “Time for escapings.”

Parric's antennae flexed out, searching for Nexial gaps--seams in the Cosm's fabric of reality. Then Parric remembered. The sword.
"Scalesplittings," Parric muttered. "Damn, damn and damning you, Flavius MacDuff, to the deepest wingrottings pit in this vile Cosm of yours."

Parric broke left and back, veering beneath the creature's striking legs. The brute was moving too fast to follow--the sodden ground gave way beneath it, and the creature caromed wildly.

"The sword, the sword," Parric berated himself. "How am I forgetting that wretched sword?"

The battle lines had moved, the chaos of the fight churning the field with blood. Parric darted along, parallel to the English lines. He scanned the ground for any glimpse of the sword. Random shots tore through the air around him, forcing Parric to break from the search to dodge. The English had finally noticed him. More complications.

A silver blade flashed beneath him. Parric pulled up sharply and doubled back, his wings battering away several English too close to his prize. Quickly he scooped the sword up. His antennae fell limp in disgust. It was the wrong sword.

The otherwhereian burst through the smoke, hurling itself at Parric.

“You are full of persistings, too,” Parric said. With a sharp motion, Parric launched himself into the air while flinging the found sword at the beast. The blade tip buried itself nearly a foot deep into one of the tough legheads as the otherwhereian pounced on the spot Parric had been moments earlier. One of the legheads pulled the sword free with its teeth. The injured leg howled a reverberant "Hooon!" then took off in pursuit of Parric once more.

The English weren't making Parric's search any easier, forcing him to continuously dodge musket fire as more and more of the army turned its attention from the routed Highlanders. To make matters worse, they weren't hindering the otherwhereian much at all. Their guns were too weak to pierce its rugged hide, their bodies too small to slow it as it churned its way through their ranks.

Then, below, Parric saw his prize. Amidst great chewed-out gouges of turf lay the muddy claymore with the whortleberry hilt. The otherwhereian was close behind, too close for Parric to chance a landing. Ahead, he spied the English artillery, the cannon crews struggling to turn the guns to face the invaders from otherwhere.

Parric clicked his beak in anticipation. “I’m thinking of surprisings for the teeth-footing beastie,” he said, flying straight at the artillery. Parric slowed slightly, just enough for the otherwhereian to gain on him. When the otherwhereian drew within a wingspan, Parric again broke left. He veered back and down, threading the needle between the massive legheads.

This time the otherwhereian was ready. A hind leghead swung forward horizontally, maw open wide.

Parric screeched in alarm, trying to cut right. The snapping mouth clipped Parric's leading wing, crumpling it. Out of control, Parric collided with another leghead. His momentum carried him past it, and he tumbled through a rank of English soldiers before plowing into the muddy sod.

Continued

MEMORY: 2

Previous

Flavius hacked down. His sword caught his attacker across the chest, dropping him to the ground in a gurgle of blood.

Flavius dropped his shield and clutched his belly, pressing hard. His gut throbbed, but he felt no pain--only the hot wet blood running down his arm and legs. The Tommy Lobster who'd stuck him--a boy, really, yellow-haired and no older than William--thrashed on the ground, moaning and pawing at his wound. Icy rain rippled the puddle of Flavius' and the boy's mingling blood on the ground.

Doubled over, Flavius stumbled away from the English line. Shot whipped past him. Bellowing highlanders emerged from the clouds of smoke. Flavius barely heard them. Some charged past him, attacking the English with axes and swords held high. Still more fell to the English muskets. Flavius jabbed his sword into the ground for balance, barely keeping upright. "Yer a damn sorry bastard, Flavius," he muttered to himself. "Lettin' yerself get stuck by a wee lad like that. Why nae let him kick ya in yer bawz while he's at it?"

The edge of his vision pulsed, like a million glowing ants swarming around his eyes. He struggled to breathe. Whenever he took half a breath, ragged entrails slipped from his belly and over his arm. The rain burned like fire where it struck his skin. The stench of powder smoke choked his nose.

Flavius tripped over an outstretched leg, falling to his knees. Colonel McGillivray lay there, sprawled and broken.

"Well. That's that, then." Flavius leaned heavily against his sword. "If I'd known ya planned on getting yerself killed, MaGillivray, I wouldnae taken ya serious about that rallying business."

A strange sound came to him then, the sound of a glass rope shattering underwater. His vision flickered. The next instant, a monster from which nightmares come stood before him.

Flavius blinked hard, but the apparition remained. Twice as long as a man, its body was thick and serpentine, covered in feathery scales that glinted like emeralds with an underside the color of ripe barley. It settled onto the soft ground as its wings flapped to a stop. It had two pair--like a dragonfly--but these were covered in featherscales and had three small fingers at the middle joint of each wing. A row of three faceted eyes lined each side of its bulbous head, and two bristled antennae twitched in an agitated manner. It's mouth was like a puffin's beak turned on its side.

The monster slithered toward Flavius, chittering and kakking, gesticulating wildly with its wing arms. Flavius wrenched his sword from the ground and jabbed it out toward the serpent, holding it at bay.

"Get yerself back to whatever Hell ya sprang from," Flavius said. "Ya'll nae be taking my soul to yer master on this day, ya devil."

It flapped and shrieked in response, rearing up to tower over Flavius. As he followed the beast up with his sword, he lost hold of his wound. Flavius' belly pulled open. Entrails sloughed out.

"Ach!" he cried, falling back over McGillivray's body.

The serpent-thing hovered above him. Flavius waved his sword feebly at it.

"Let me die in peace... ya bastard. D'ya nae... know who I am?" Flavius' breath came in forced wheezes. Words were difficult to form. "I'm descended of the... Thane of Fife himself. Bellona's... Bridgroom."

The serpent coughed once, then made a low hissing sound. It's antennae stopped twitching and lowered to point right at Flavius.

Flavius gasped. His guts began creeping back into him. Those intestines that had been sliced and torn fused back together. Then the great long gash through his stomach closed itself without even the trace of a scar.

"Wha...? What are ya?" Flavius noticed now, for the first time, a row of slender, form-fitting pouches belted beneath the serpent's wings. It slithered backwards, shaking its head. Then it reached up to its back and drew forth a long, gleaming claymore.

"Well. That is a bonny great sword, aye," Flavius said for lack of anything better. "My grandfather had himself one like it." He peered closer. "Damn. That's nae-- are those whortleberries? It cannae be a MacDuff sword... can it?"

A cluster of sliver berries adorned the end of each angled cross-hilt, with embossed leaves decorating the arms themselves. The serpent deftly flipped the sword over, catching the flat of the blade with its fingers. It then offered the hilt to Flavius.

Bewildered, Flavius wiped his brow with a forearm, smearing himself with blood. Around him the battle raged, distant and forgotten. Cautiously, his own sword held ready, he reached his left hand out to grasp the claymore.

A strange sound split the air, the sound of bronze thread being unstitched by a gale. His vision flickered. A shadow loomed across him. The serpent looked up sharply, its antennae in a frenzy. The gleaming claymore dropped into the muck.

Flavius turned, dreading what new nightmare he might see.

The second creature stood taller than a horse on eight splayed legs with too many joints. Each leg ended in a swollen, clublike foot. The body was warty, flat and crablike, the color of hazelnut, with no visible head.

It took two aggressive steps toward Flavius, then lifted the leg nearest him. The foot unfurled and widened like some horrible flower bud, opening into a gaping maw filled with concentric rows of teeth. Piercing black eyes ringed the edge mouth.

Flavius raised his sword to meet the new threat. "Get yerself back to whatever Hell ya sprang from," Flavius said. "I didnae let this other beastie take my soul, and I'll be damned if I let you!"

The creature struck, blindingly fast. It slammed down atop Flavius, swallowing him whole. It reared back, the head-foot undulating with disturbing ferocity. Then the maw peeled open, vomiting bloody gobbets of what had once been Flavius MacDuff across the battlefield.

Continued

MEMORY: 1

Introduction

Shot singed the air past Flavius MacDuff's ear before he even heard the staccato popping of the English guns. It struck somewhere behind him, cutting short the cry of a charging highlander. On Flavius ran over the boggy ground, screaming, tears streaming down his face. Stinging, icy rain sliced through the choking, acrid clouds of smoke rolling over him. It was as if the very bowels of Hell had opened, the gagging smoke so thick he could scarcely see the Macintosh and MacGillivray lads around him, much less Tommy Lobster. He'd lost his nephew almost as soon as the charge began.

"Now you stick yerself close to me, William. Yer mother made me swear I'd nae let nothing happen to ya," Flavius'd said gravely to the callow youth.

William nodded sharply, struggling to keep his teeth from chattering. Rain straggled down his hair into his face as he tried to use his undersized shield as protection from the weather as well as the shot raining down on them as the two sides exchanged cannonades.

Flavius' expression softened, then he winked conspiratorially. "But that's nae something to worry about. Yer descended of Bellona's bridgroom, after all, the great Thane of Fife who slaughtered the Norse and Cawdor, and toppled the tyrant MacBeth! Damned if Tommy Lobster wouldnae turn tail and run--every one of 'em--if they knew what blood coursed through our veins!"

"It's Bellona's bridegrooms we are then, today?" William said, eyes alight.

"Aye, lad. That we are."

A minute later, the charge was ordered and William vanished amidst the surge.

Flavius tripped over a body, barely regaining his footing to avoid stabbing a comrade with his sword. Another barrage erupted from the English cannon, sounding like thunder in his ears. Around him more highlanders dropped as grapeshot ripped through their ranks, some screaming, some silent. Flavius leapt as two fell before him.

Too crowded! Too crowded! The stumbling crush of bodies made it damn near impossible to stay upright, much less swing a sword.

"Hold ranks! Hold ranks ya damned Farquarharson bawbags!" Flavius shouted, shoving the men back with his shield arm. "How's a man to gut some English if we keep tripping over ya lot?"

Through the smoke he caught glimpses of the red-coated English now, close. Very close. Already were highlanders amongst them, disrupting the firing line. Out of the cloud loomed Colonel McGillivray in his blood-stained kilt and blue jacket, his long yellow hair slinging rainwater this way and that.

"Flavius! English guns behind that south wall--our right flank's exposed!" McGillivray shouted. "Rally what men ya can and break that English line now, or we'll nae make it out of this bog alive. Go man, go!"

"How'm I to rally the men when we nae even fought the bastards yet?" Flavius barked after him, but McGillivray was already off. He took a deep breath then bellowed, "For Charlie! For Charlie! The crown for Bonnie Prince Charlie!"

Flavius charged forward, through the smoke and rain, over the scattered corpses into the lines of Tommy Lobster. He blocked a bayonet with his shield, smashing Tommy in the face with the basket of his hilt. He spun and parried a musket, the gun going off inches from his face.

The flash and smoke blinded him. Flavius staggered back, slashing wildly. His sword stuck something, drawing a scream.

"That'll lean ya." He swung his sword fiercely in wide, defensive arcs, blinking as his vision cleared.

He found himself alone amongst the English.

"Well, this is as fine a bag o' shite as ever I've seen." Whatever highlanders had reached the English lines lay bleeding upon the wet earth, now. This wasn't at all like Falkirk. Flavius couldn't even hear the erratic fire of Prince Charlie's cannon anymore--just the clockwork thunder from the English artillery.

A blow hammered his shield. Flavius staggered, throwing up his sword in time to parry a second attack. The attacker's white wig caught Flavius' eye, and at the back of his mind he recognized the man as an officer. A colonel, at that.

"Jacobite filth," the colonel muttered, lunging with his sword. "This will be over quickly."

"That's nae what yer mum said last night." Flavius ducked back to dodge the strike, blocking another footman's bayonet with his shield. With the colonel fully extended, Flavius swung his sword down, severing the sword and hand at the wrist.

The colonel screamed. Blood spurted from the stump. Flavius swung for his head. The colonel threw up his opposite arm to ward off the blow. The blade gouged through the red coat, deep into the forearm and clipping the colonel's brow. The colonel dropped to the ground.

"Apologies, Dobber," Flavius said, lifting his sword. "It were over with quick--aah!"

The bayonet caught Flavius in the side, slicing up and out to open his belly to the world.

Continued

The squeamish may want to avert their eyes

Consider this a literary experiment. The idea to attempt a weekly serial came to me a little more than a week ago, born out of the realization that I've never written anything in which I didn't have an ending firmly established in the dark recesses of my mind prior to putting fingers to keyboard. So the idea of starting a story with no idea as to where it would end up appealed to me as a way to challenge myself and shake up my writing routine.

To make matters interesting (and to hold my feet to the proverbial fire, since I'm notoriously undisciplined, production-wise) I'm doing it in public, for all the world to see. Here are the ground rules: 1) I've got a week to produce each installment, roughly a thousand words in length. That's setting the bar pretty low, I know, but I've seen online comics crash and burn because they bit off more than they could chew, and didn't want to repeat that mistake. Also, this is a side experiment. I've still got my regular writing projects to attend to; 2) No revisions once posted, other than typos, misspellings, etc. In other words, I can't go back and rewrite scene three to put a gun in the desk drawer if I suddenly realize I need one for scene 28. I'm flying live without a net here, folks, and damn well better get it right the first time; 3) No pre-set length. I don't know where this is going, which is the whole point. It may turn out to be a short story (which I seriously doubt--nothing I write is short) or it could be a novel. Most likely somewhere in between. Or it may crash and burn a horrible, misguided death somewhere between here and there. That's why it's an experiment.

So kick back, pop open a cold one and enjoy the floor show.

MEMORY