Shadows Out of Time

Across the sea of nightmares four entities found their sleep disturbed by words well understood by the recipients if not by the senders. They shifted uneasily, reluctantly leaving behind dreams of realms and beings as alien to them as their own were to the men who now troubled their rest. This was a rare, though by no means new, occurrence, for even unknown kings of unsuspected worlds had duties to fulfill. And this “time” the call that came could not be ignored, as it had the force of mighty Ixaxar behind it.

There was a subtle change in the atmosphere, as if some new element had entered the chemistry of the air. The light had a new shade of color. Crom-Ya had finished his chant, still holding the Black Stone. Now he returned it to the bag and drew the string tight. It would be a nuisance during the imminent battle, knocking against his hip as he moved, but there was no place else to stash it. The Picts did not seem to notice anything amiss, but the Cimmerians had fixed their eyes on the sky, where four spinning vortices had begun to detach themselves from the hitherto smooth vault of the heavens. Four. Could it be?

Crom-Ya and his men, few as they were, stood their ground, resigned to a glorious death in battle should it come to that, but their fading hope began to grow again as they followed a pointing arm to the sky. For suddenly the celestial anomalies became impossible to ignore. Weird displays of jagged lightning, of fiery rays, of wave patterns through the ambient air, and of spectrum-shifting beams, all commenced to break forth like the javelins of the gods. Whoever was casting those spears, they were expert marksmen; every blast found its target. Picts were falling left and right. And not just falling; they were combusting, exploding, something never before seen in a world without gunpowder or land mines. Pictish warriors, resplendent in fresh war paint, halted in terror and confusion. Those behind the stunned front ranks smashed into one another and slid off-balance as they skidded on the puddles of bloody gore.

Crom-Ya’s men broke into applause and cheering, but he thought it premature to join them. The Pictish juggernaut had screeched to a halt. All watched the skies in abject terror, unable to scatter and flee because of their own sheer numbers. But then the mass of cowering savages began to split down the center, making way for a single figure rapidly advancing to the front. It was, of course, the wizard Rang-Thalun, clad in the barbaric finery of exotic feathers, golden hoop ear rings, painted skulls over his eye-lids, and a larger duplicate on his breast. On he charged, shoving his troops rudely aside. Then, with the ground around him cleared, he braced himself and extended his bony arms to the skies, shrieking with a voice no human throat should be capable of. This seemed to calm his men somewhat, especially since the shaman’s words had quickly put an end to the deadly discharges from the heavens.

This was what Crom-Ya had feared: even though Rang-Thalun lacked the Black Stone, he was still the most potent magician of his age. The Cimmerian saw only two outcomes, both dismal, but one considerably worse than the other. At best, Rang-Thalun would simply banish the Four. At worst, he would wrest control of them from Crom-Ya and turn them into supernatural weapons of his own. And that seemed to be precisely what was now happening! Cimmerians were bursting asunder on either side of him, splattering his towering form with steaming entrails. Now it was the Picts’ turn to rejoice. Having stood in place for a few moments, while the magical spirits did their work for them, the painted warriors began to rejoin the fray.

Crom-Ya scowled with battle fury, knowing the next blow he dealt must be his last.

Adrift in Time

The barbarian chieftain swung his axe in a perfect arc at the upturned feathered head of a Pictish warrior. He did not see the blow connect, though in his mind he had already seen his foe’s skull split like a melon. At once he found himself utterly confused. One moment he was amid pitched battle against resurgent Picts; the next he was trying to make sense of an unfamiliar mode of perception, not precisely eyesight as he knew it, and a scene of utter bewilderment. He was surrounded by…things defying description. What sort of creatures were these? They had the form of great, quivering cones. At their tops clustered writhing, boneless limbs or branches. Were they trees of some sort? Or animals from the sea? But then he looked down.

He was one of them.