Vol 9, Chapter 2

"...So, based on measurements, in a thousand years its fabric will begin to tear in the weakest places. Presumably, the cracks will start from the Peak of the Center of the World, and for several dozen years afterward they will not significantly affect people's lives. Except, of course, for climate change, sudden summer frosts, and natural disasters..."

"Doesn't sound that scary," I comment.

"Only a thousand years!" the Elder repeats. "Although in our previous measurements, made only three hundred years ago, its durability was estimated in the tens of thousands of years! Something must be done immediately."

One of the elves rises from his chair.

"We have already convened five emergency meetings and unanimously issued an edict declaring that something urgent must be done," he announces, making me bury my face in my hand in a classic facepalm.

"So, do you have any concrete plan?"

"There is one, but it hasn't passed all stages of discussion yet," the Elder says. The elves in the hall begin whispering at once; apparently, many are hearing about the plan for the first time.

"Then tell us," I prompt, folding my arms across my chest. Judging by her report, our situation will be moderately bad even if Dastan is stopped. A thousand years is, of course, a substantial span: dozens of human generations will die of old age before the apocalypse arrives… yet it's unpleasant to live in a world that will cease to exist in the foreseeable future.

"As with everything, a comprehensive approach is needed. Breeding magical beasts must be industrialized; people will have to abandon most lands and, moreover, stop exterminating their less-rational kin..."

"Kin?"

"I mean goblins, I suppose — they are your distant relatives, since they appeared in this world together with you. Their ceiling of magical potential is low, but on average they are more magically active than humans. Increasing their numbers will favorably affect the barrier."

"Okaaay..." I draw the word out.

"Also, I will send the remaining Matriarch to sow new seeds of the Tree. You will need to protect her from other lords, as I expect they will oppose their lands being turned into the Black Forest, as you call it. Ideally, we should cover the entire world with them, but I understand that's impossible. Bring in the map!"

A pair of elf-guards carry into the council hall something resembling a wooden bas-relief. In its curves the outline of a ring-shaped island can be made out — more like a doughnut. Hmm, this map certainly does not reflect real elevation changes.

An elven woman tries to rise from her chair but fails. She bows regally, and the guard takes a gvizarma in hand, making circular incisions on the relief. Damn, his precision is no worse than a compass! We need helpers like that in the drafting department...

"As you can see, with the Tree we will form two rings that will encircle our world."

"Suppose. And what will that give us?"

"Time. If everything goes without incident, we will gain almost half a millennium. Our tree is the most accessible producer of mana in this world, but even so, its efficiency is doubtful and it greatly lags behind living beings. Besides, it is incapable of meaningful magical actions. Therefore, the final point of our anti-crisis plan will be people."

"I suppose they'll have to be sacrificed?" I fold my arms. After proposals to turn the world into a black-tentacled grove, to breed goblins and monsters, I expect anything.

"No, of course not. On the contrary. We will divide the world into four sectors and grow a tower of mages in each…"

"My family insists that the architectural design should be given to us!" an elf of middle age stands up from his seat. Immediately another rises.

"No, don't even think about it! My family should—"

"QUIET! Continue…" The Elder raises her hand. "Behind each tower we will appoint a mentor."

In the council hall every elf perks up, each one ready to leap from their chair.

"Whom I will appoint later," the Elder adds.

The hall explodes with clamor. Someone speaks of tyranny and the need for elections for each mentor; someone proposes a system of trials and examinations; someone else simply praises themselves and slanders others, recalling mistakes from a thousand years ago.

"Well, now this will last a long time," Lariel shouts into my ear, because I wouldn't have heard her whisper. "Should I bring food?"

I take out a pistol and flick the safety off with a finger.

Bang! In the enclosed hall it hits the ears no less effectively than the elves' chatter. The bullet embeds itself into the wooden ceiling, making it bleed a milky sap. The mechanism ejects a hot casing, and it plops with a hiss into the water.

"Let's get back to the subject. I want to know what you intend to do in these towers," I say, slipping the pistol into its holster but not fastening the strap.

"Nothing harmful to your race. Gifted children from human lands will be brought to the towers, where they will live for the rest of their lives. We will impart to them our knowledge of fundamental magic, including the most secret and forbidden doctrines — even the unfinished Theory of the Trinity: a tripartite manipulation of magic, energy, and matter. Pure conversion of matter into energy, energy into magic, and magic into stable matter. Put simply, we must prepare at least one Senior Archmagister. A being with the maximum possible intuitive unity with magic might finish this theory and, with its help, impose a new Dome. The odds are not great, so inhuman methods will have to be employed: chimerology, enforced selection, magical stimulants... The end product may not be human. It may not even resemble a human, but the important thing is that it can perform the ritual we need to reapply the Dome... This is our only chance!"

"You know, I've heard this approach before. Selection, chimerology. The Commonwealth dabbled in all of that," I say, deliberately neutral, fighting the anger the mention of experiments on people provokes.

"Shards of the Magocratic Empire? They were wise and moving in the right direction. We hoped they would succeed. A pity they lacked our knowledge."

"So why didn't you share your knowledge with them?" I ask, the accusing tone natural on my tongue.

"So they could use us in their experiments and then destroy us? We planned to share knowledge if the situation worsened... In fact, we are doing exactly that right now, if you haven't noticed."

"Yes, well thanks, that's damned helpful — though I see a few small flaws in your plan. First: do you really think you can sculpt an Archmagister out of a child with, say, Senior Mage potential, even with... your inhuman methods?"

"You mentioned that the Commonwealth used similar methods, so they are quite 'humane'. But I'm glad you asked this particular question and that you do not doubt our ability to prepare the ritual that will impose a new Dome in place of the existing one," the Elder's voice grows charged with feeling.

"So your brilliant plan has another flaw?"

"Let's put it this way: the Dome is not merely a barrier that separates us from the Void. It generates heat. Air. Light. It's essentially the pinnacle of magical art; to reproduce it would be incredibly difficult from the standpoint of fundamental magical science."

"Yet magic leaks through it, right? So it's not that great."

"Magic leaks because it has a breach. A tremendous amount of energy escapes our world through it every minute. Century after century..."

"Then why not simply seal it and be done with it?" I offer, trying a rational angle.

"That's impossible. If you attempt to seal it, the Dome will begin to unravel its patches. In the end, the attempt to repair it will only destroy it. The Dome is designed to have that breach."

Master Orin raises his hand, asking to speak. I clap him on the shoulder encouragingly. Perfect timing — I need time to think.

"Forgive me, but for the sake of science I must ask... Who designed the Dome?"

"Someone who had nearly reached godlike mastery of magic. Humans."

"Us?" the old man exclaims.

"No, of course not. You are merely their degenerated descendants. It would be an insult to ascribe their achievements to you, since you had nothing to do with them."

"Yes, that's... fair," Master Orin nods.

"I was sorry to hear your question," the elven woman continues, "because it proves that representatives of the dwarf race did not survive. I suppose you found their archives? So that question should be posed to you — we were at odds with them and did not exchange views on history."

"But aren't they dwarves?" a council member whispers to his neighbor, holding a giant caterpillar in his hand.

"No, they're humans," the neighbor whispers back.

"Ahem," I return to the conversation. "And how did you conclude that we have access to their archives?"

The Elder gestures and sweeps her hand around our delegation.

"Flamethrowers powered by subterranean oil, lead-spitters... It seems obvious to me that you've inherited some of their knowledge. Do not worry — old enmity will not affect our cooperation. We are even willing to work with demons, despite how much pain they caused us, forcing us to flee into this doomed world," she says with a hint. Apparently she counted easily my tie to the Abyss.

A murmur rises in the hall again.

"Are we really going to cooperate with the Abyss?" members of the council ask.

"The Abyss is a mosquito that drinks blood. The Void, however, is a scorching desert in which we are a drop of water in an almost dried-up oasis. Maybe after hundreds of billions of years the desert will see rain again, marking a new cycle... but in that cycle it will consume everything. The mosquito too."

I massage my temples, trying to fit all of it into my head. Probably not worth arguing with them? Better let them think dwarves are behind all this, and not some mischievous god of Games. Who the hell knows how they feel about gods... I should steer them back to something constructive before Master Orin starts drilling the Elder with historical questions!

"Enough theories about the structure of the cosmos. Say we can handle the Dome, but I still want an answer to my question — how will you make an Archmagister out of ordinary mages' children?"

"It will be difficult, since human material today is not of very high quality. It's not your fault: the magical background of our world has weakened over millennia, leading to the degradation of magical science and a decline in mages' power. In the conditions of this world it will be impossible to create even a Senior Magister; the magical background is too low. But this can be countered. The towers will have to be surrounded by numerous barriers and magical cores to form an internal magical background hundreds of times higher than you're used to. Not at once. We will gradually raise the background inside until we reach the desired level, at which even merely surviving in the towers will be a difficult task. However, we will have roughly one and a half thousand years for selection and breeding. We have a chance to reach our goal. I believe in it."

For a while I tap my fingers on the holster in silence. The picture looks utterly grim — and that's assuming we stop Dastan from completing the ritual! By his actions he's already screwed things up for millennia to come, and the scenario the Elder painted does not cheer me. Filling half the world with black tentacles, monsters, and goblins; experimenting on children in attempts to grow an uber-mage. For the first time I could not propose a technical solution. If the thing beyond the Dome were an ordinary vacuum rather than an all-devouring chthonic maw, it would be much simpler. Move settlements underground, hydroponics, ultraviolet lamps, oxygen regeneration... Combining tech and magic, I could probably create a world in which descendants would thrive even while living on a lifeless rock drifting in the void.

But this crap is not just a vacuum. The moment a dirigible's propeller entered its domain it devoured the steel blades in seconds. Nothing protects against it; the stone would vanish as quickly as light and air.

If the barrier falls, we will simply cease to exist...

Still, Dastan knows more than any of us. Perhaps his head hides the secret of how to avoid all this and yet survive?

For now that is our only hope, which means we must not simply drop a bomb on him, as I planned to do once the airship was fully repaired, but capture him and extract every scrap of information... or at least consume his soul.

The task gets harder still, but we have time. Preparing a single ritual circle will take him many months, if not years. And it will require not just the bare circle but the collection of an enormous amount of energy. I already had an idea of who he uses to gather it, and more than that — Til should have stopped it by now. In the meantime... let the elves believe I agree with their mad plan to save the world.

"Alright, I see you have a plan... but what if we don't have thousands of years?"

Silence falls over the hall.

"I'd like to hear what you mean," the Elder says, though denial rings clearly in her voice.

"What if the Dome falls, say, in a year?"

"Its durability reserve..." she begins, pounding the table in anger.

"Never mind that. Suppose there is one person who wants to destroy the Dome."

"Hardly anyone would do such a thing — it is certain death for them as well. We would all die in that hypothetical case, nothing more. I doubt any rational person would undertake such a suicide mission," the Elder argues, bargaining with fate.

"And you won't try to do anything if such a person is found?" I ask innocently.

Fear settles into her ancient eyes; I feel that she has not merely imagined the scenario — it's as if she has read that such an outcome is possible and real. Or perhaps she truly saw the future...

Acceptance.

For creatures this slow, it's surprising she passed through all the stages in less than a minute. Apparently, when pressured, they can snap out of their sleepy lethargy.

"I... We'll have to gather human Magisters from all lands. If the Dome begins to collapse, sacrifices will be needed to stabilise it. I hope thirty-six Magisters will be enough to buy us time."

"I'm afraid there aren't that many Magisters left in our world."

"Twelve? At least six?" she panics.

"I'm afraid we can maybe count on roughly that number of full Archmages. But not Magisters."

"Then we'll take everyone we have! They will have to sacrifice themselves, or the world will cease to exist in a matter of days!" she cries, her eyes rolling back and sending the elves nearby into a panic. Guards level their gvizarma at us; soldiers, in turn, raise their rifles. An uproar rises, and I watch in silence as the Elder's body convulses, as if the Void is already devouring her.

Bring all the powerful mages and slit them on an altar? She doesn't even consider how nearly impossible that would be. Magister Igni will never agree to sacrifice himself. Even Archmages... ha.

Archmages are rulers of vast lands: the power of an Archmage opened doors to the highest organs of power in any land. Whether in our Kingdom, where they bore the title of Duke, or in the Commonwealth, where they could become members of the Lodge — they were always at the top.

Such people do not sacrifice themselves; they are used to sacrificing others. Which means, if Dastan completes the ritual, we won't have any chance to delay our doom.

The Elder stops convulsing and opens her eyes.

"This person... He wears a crown. You must stop him," she says weakly.

"I know. And unlike you, we're doing it right now..."

A sharp mechanical chirp cuts through the council hall. The source is the radio transmitter on the radio operator's back. Three short. Three long. Three short. I press my lips together while the radio operator flips through a booklet searching for the decoding. SOS. The troops sent to deal with the necromancer are in trouble.

"Seems something has gone wrong," I mutter, raising my voice. "I have to go. Form up!"

Master Orin raises his hand.

"May I stay?" he asks.

"If you want to be talked to death, then stay," I reply darkly and head for the exit.

"You must explain to me who this madman is and why he wants to destroy the Dome!" the Elder's cry follows me.

Receiving no answer, the building begins to tremble. The arch we entered through quickly sprouts black wood. Without slowing, I strike it with a crushing blow, sending splinters flying. A pulse of magic and the guard's sword fly from his hand and return to me. I let my men pass and turn to the council and the cowering Orin.

"I'll send envoys within a week... or a year."