Story:Tempus Frangit/Chapter 3

{|width="60%" align="center" Chapter 3: Strange Bedfellows



8 had asked Iocus for some time to prepare first. Now the two mages sat a little away from each other, lost in their respective magics.

Having heard Iocus’s words, and with space to think, he could begin to understand how it worked in this place – Sundry, Iocus had named it. His magic was still here, still reachable. What he had thought of as a solid wall was more like a fine mesh, a filter with infinitesimal pores, through which he could – agonisingly slowly – drag his magic through.

Very slowly, it seeped through the wall into his reach. The store that he could touch would fuel only a few spells before running dry. Then he would have to spend time drawing magic into it again, like a pool slowly filling and refilling. It made him feel excruciatingly vulnerable. It was enough to do small tasks or slow utility – but in a battle? He’d burn through his stores in less than a minute. Supplementing it with his own energy would kill him shortly after.

It was easier to use what was around him, but there was so little. The air was dry and dead; the clouds without lightning; no spark of energy for fire. Even the earth seemed curiously inert. It was less that it was present, and more that the wall between him and the earth seemed thinner.

8 grimaced. He’d have to make do. At least he hadn’t found a limit to his stored “pool”, so he would just have to keep part of his mind focused on filling it with magic at all times.

He got up to check on Iocus. The time mage seemed lost in thought, but turned around adroitly as he walked up. “All right. What do you want from me?” 8 asked.

Iocus smiled. “The first one we will deal fate to is a man named Vik Hyusei. How much would you like to know?”

“Just point and I’ll shoot,” 8 replied with a shrug.

“Not interested in why?”

“Why tends to be an empty justification. Tell me what.”

“Oh, very well.” Iocus made a show of considering his words. “The target in question is a skilled warrior, with excellent long-range capabilities. Get in close; hit him hard and fast. I’ll provide a distraction and you take advantage. Function, I am sad to say, will be preferred over flair.”

“Where?”

“Heading this way right now. I suggest you survey from a distance.” There was a kind of repressed merriment in Iocus’s voice that grated on 8’s nerves. “I trust you will make your move when you see a strategic opening.”

The took their positions. 8 observed as their target approached: a well-built man in a faded blue shirt and khaki trousers that had seen better days. A rifle was slung casually over his shoulders.

He watched as Iocus approached the man. At this distance, he couldn’t hear their conversation or make out expressions. Hyusei’s posture communicated wariness – coiled, ready to run or fight, one hand on his gun. Iocus was making his usual languid, sweeping gestures.

Drama queen, 8 thought derisively.

At least he made a good distraction. 8 stepped through his portal and emerged silently behind Hyusei. Some instinct made the warrior turn; he reacted instantly, raising his arm to block – but 8 held crackling electricity in his palm. It coursed through the warrior’s arm and into his body. Nerveless fingers dropped the rifle. Even as he fell, Hyusei swept his other arm up, gathering a burst of flame within it.

It was at this point that an immense clockwork axe smashed into the side of Hyusei’s head, felling the gunner. Bright red blood began seeping across the ash.

“Easy come, easy go,” Iocus said lightly. He briefly pressed his hand against the fallen target’s neck. “Hm, I think he’s still alive. That won’t do. Fate demands a death, if you would be so kind…?”

Wielder of flame he might be, but the gunner burned just as well as ordinary people.

Iocus flicked invisible dust off his gloves. “I’m almost optimistic for our relationship now. Or would that be beginner’s luck? Come now; don’t look so glum. It bodes well for our partnership.”

8 remained silent. What was most promising was that there would evidently be plenty of opportunities to watch Iocus perform his magic – and thus plenty of time to analyse its pattern. If he needed to overpower the time mage, he would soon know how to.

Iocus sighed deeply, somehow communicating immense disappointment mingled with contempt. “Our next target is some distance away. Let us speak of it as we walk there.”

To 8, it appeared that Iocus picked a direction completely at random, yet he walked purposefully towards the blank horizon. “Is it going to be any harder?” he asked. “Or can we use the same tactics?”

“I’d hate to be repetitive…but we appear to have hit a winning stratagem. I very much doubt our next target will put up any more of a fight than our last. O, I should mention – the next target is an eighteen year old girl. If that bothers you…?”

“Not particularly.”

“No? So cold. I think it’s always a tragedy when fate plucks one so young. In the prime of her life, when vitality flows sweetest, yet before she has had the chance to truly love or live…” Despite his words, Iocus sounded both amused and satisfied.

“You sound as troubled as I am by the idea.”

“Sacrifices have to be made. It makes for a good show. Curtains for Lillian Enroth, a few to mourn her – a wailing from the pews! And we go on.”

“Having learnt some moral lesson, I assume.” ''If only because that would be the most annoying idea. Iocus probably thinks there is some meaning to it all.''

“Not at all. What do you think – that this is a story? No.” His voice took on a lilting quality. “This is fate that decrees who dies. Nothing more to it.”

Iocus pointed to a white smudge on the horizon. As usual, it began accelerating towards them rapidly as soon as they had spotted it, far faster than their walking speed would have suggested. It was a blocky, concrete building with regular, dark windows – so bland that even in the ashlands of this world, it barely raised interest. Only the entrance was interesting: steel doors, reinforced and foreboding.

“Our target comes from there,” Iocus said. “One product amongst many others from a factory. Certainly not special enough to learn a lesson from. Fate reserves that only for a few.”

8 wondered idly what fate would think if he murdered Iocus right now. Would there be a clever reply to that?

“She should exit that building within the next five minutes.”

How did Iocus always know the time? 8 mused. ''Perhaps that clockwork head actually works mundanely as a watch.'[

“I do hate repetition. How about a swap in roles: you be the distraction, and I the accomplice this time?”

“Whatever works. It’ll be useful to know the reverse strategy works.”

“So practical.”

8 ignored the jibe and walked towards the entrance, filling his hand with the power he had pooled. Heat swirled within it, spinning into a tight wheel of fire. He positioned himself to the left of the entrance, whilst Iocus stood several metres away on the right.

A short while later, their targeted exited. 8 briefly registered blonde hair, a chirpy smile and an irritating shade of pink before he let the blaze out of the control of his hand, throwing it point-blank in the girl’s direction. Her cry was eaten by the spluttering of his fire. Beyond the flickering wall of flames, he managed to make out Iocus clutching his mask in both hands. The time mage flickered out of existence. An instant later, a crack in reality sprouted into a growth of clockwork gears, and Iocus stepped out behind their target. He held a slender blade of golden metal in his hand. It slid silently into the girl’s chest, and she fell in a cloud of gears.

“Perfect.” The sword vanished from Iocus’s hand. 8 mentally added it to his inventory of Iocus’s weaponry, along with the short teleport he had used. Probably he could not teleport as far as 8 himself, given the lag when Iocus had been pursuing him. The thought gave him more satisfaction than it should have.

“Where to next?”

“So impatient for the show to go on! At least bask in the moment a little.”

“I don’t exactly enjoy doing this.”

“Either way, you’ll have to wait.” Iocus touched his mask almost tenderly. “Alas, I have to ask myself where to go next.”

Iocus stepped into the flow of time, and was immediately bombarded by a storm of fragmented possibilities. This close to 8, the black mage’s timeline was a tempest: fractured images of the past mixed with flickering impressions of the future.

He ignored them, elevating himself to a clockwork platform above the chaos. Standing perfectly still despite the rotation of the gears beneath him, Iocus began to trace the bright threads of his own timeline.

Others were doomed to one thread. They committed themselves to a single possibility, the shimmering beauty of potential collapsing into dull reality, doomed to pursuing the consequences of whatever mistake they had made – if they even had a choice to make. Not Iocus. His timeline was a vast spider’s web extending in every direction. A hundred Iocus’s made different decisions just to see how they would turn out.

Of course, that web was rather more limited now that 8 was around. Iocus’s body in reality twitched irritably at the thought. Never mind that. He picked a thread that seemed likely and began spooling it in, coiling his timeline back into his mask. On the other hand, another Iocus stood in the same trance, spinning his memories into Acedia.

So Acedia held the fabric of himself, woven from an infinitum of timelines. It saw every part of him that had been and could ever be, and all his selves were but threads to its cloth. The only thing they could never see was his own face. It saw with his eyes and he saw with its. Apart, they were not whole.

He had chosen well. The other Iocus showed him an image of a tormenter he had known in many timelines. He almost had to laugh. Who said there was no such thing as justice?

“I have a name,” Iocus said as he came out of his trance. “Vox Bolverk.”

“You look like a cat that’s gotten into the creamery,” 8 replied.

“I appreciate the foibles of fate. This way.”

They began walking in the direction his timeline tugged.

“Yourself,” 8 said suddenly. “You said you asked ‘yourself’.”

“That’s correct.”

8 was silent for a moment, evidently reluctant to ask questions despite his curiosity. Finally, he said, “A meditative trance? Scrying? Beseeching your goddess for direction? Or do you have to think that hard to make a decision?”

“No. I ask myself.” Iocus sighed in response to 8’s dismissive grunt. “Simplified: I speak with a future self to determine the events of his – my – timeline. I can therefore evaluate what will be the optimal decisions required to reach a certain timeline.”

8 seemed to consider this. “There goes what little faith I had in our expedition.”

“What?”

“I assumed your goddess was the one directing us. If it’s just you making things up as you go…”

“I understand that it’s difficult to grasp from your limited perspective, but were you even listening? My future self acts as a guide.”

“Your future self provides information to you that allows you to pick a possible future.”

“Yes, you begin to grasp it.”

“But once you pick that future, won’t your actions create whichever one it is? So there aren’t any possibilities.”

“There are many potential futures-”

“Which are all removed by whatever decision you make. Whatever you see, you make happen. Therefore, you get to see it. Simple causality, no?”

“That’s from your limited perspective,” Iocus said haughtily.

“Let’s say I accept your premise instead. Many possible futures.” 8 seemed almost animated. It was slightly disturbing, Iocus thought.

“Go on,” he replied grudgingly.

“If you can make any of them happen, how do you know a particular timeline is fated? Couldn’t you just be choosing what you want to happen? Or perhaps you’ll only see what you want.”

“That is not how it works.”

“I think I can see a few more holes in your logic. If it's based on your memories, how about all the events you don't directly witness? The timeline could be worse for those, and you wouldn't know.”

“Let’s get a move on. If we keep talking, we’ll be late for our next mission.”

“Really? I didn’t think you could be late. After all, couldn’t you foresee it and adjust to include that delay in your optimal future?”

Dear Verthandi, Iocus prayed, will you forgive me if I murder him now?

She did not reply, but blessedly, 8 remained silent for the rest of their journey.

Even though he had been expecting it, Iocus had to blink several times as their destination came into view. The vibrancy of the forest was almost painful against the dead, grey world he had become accustomed to. The canopy was an interlocking roof of shocking violets and magentas, so lush that they seemed to weigh down the ancient branches. The densely packed trees were gnarled with age – twisting trunks of deep purple, flowing into roots that spread across the forest floor and warred with each other. The entire forest seemed to glow with vitality. Life was in full bloom. Such naturalness was alien.

They stopped just short of the treeline. “We have a little while to prepare,” Iocus said in a low voice. “I don’t recommend going in there at the moment.”

Despite the vivacity of the forest, there were no sounds of birds or animals. Silence emanated from it. Both mages flinched as they heard a high-pitched scream, abruptly cut off.

“Bolverk is a formidable fighter,” Iocus continued. “I’ve found the point in his timeline where he will most likely be vulnerable, but it may still be a difficult battle. Especially since we can’t kill him.”

“Can’t?” 8’s voice took on a note of wariness.

“He’s not supposed to die at this point in time. All the futures show very clearly that he should be left alive. For now.”

“I’m sure you’ve noticed that incapacitating people without harming them isn’t my specialty.”

“Who said anything about not harming him? We just have to avoid killing him.”

“This is going to be easier said than done, isn’t-”

They were interrupted by Bolverk himself stumbling out of the forest. All three froze for a moment, staring at each other.

No, Iocus thought. ''That’s wrong. I didn’t see it-''

He shook himself out of his paralysis as the other mage acted, sending a lash of fire towards Bolverk’s direction. The soldier lunged to one side, and the attack passed by him entirely, dissipating harmlessly in the air.

But slower than he should have, Iocus realised. Now that he had regained his aplomb, he saw that Bolverk looked terrible. There was blood staining the blond of his hair, and dried tracks of it streaked his scarred face. One arm hung loosely; the broken shaft of an immense arrow protruded from his shoulder. Even his armour showed signs of small scorch marks.

Despite his wounds, Bolverk maintained the presence of mind to dodge 8’s next cast. Crackling electricity filled his good hand, and 8 made to dodge, but it wasn’t the black mage the soldier was aiming for. He feinted forward, then spun on his heel to launch the missile towards Iocus.

Iocus swore mentally, throwing himself flat to avoid the attack. Why is this timeline full of maniacs throwing magic at my face?! Lightning cracked above his head, and a bolt struck the ground where he had been a moment ago. If Bolverk hadn’t been wounded, he would probably already be dead.

The distraction had been enough for Bolverk to get into range. The man was all business; he clearly recognised Iocus, but made no effort to make banter or even say his name. His eyes – flickering red, flinty with cold intensity – said enough.

With Bolverk’s injuries, he was just slow enough that Iocus could parry his attacks with shields of clockwork gears. He couldn’t hold his weapons himself; Bolverk’s electricity would course straight through them, and so he was forced to rely on drawing them forth from time portals. The soldier kept the battlefield moving too swiftly for that to be effective, weaving around 8’s missiles and pushing Iocus backwards with swift kicks and punches that trailed blue lightning behind them. A single strike would paralyse him, Iocus knew, and then there would be nothing to stop the onslaught.

His only hope was to hold on. Bolverk’s strategy was evidently to focus and overwhelm him first before turning on the other mage. He just had to stall until 8 did something.

If he hadn’t been so busy trying to stay alive, Iocus would have laughed at the thought. His life depended on trusting the black mage whom he’d just spent days annoying.

Abruptly, Bolverk lurched to a stop. Earth encased one of his lower legs, coiling to his knee. It was a feeble cage for the soldier. With a grunt, he kicked his way free of it – but 8 was now worthy of his notice again. He spared the black mage a quick glance and threw a tether of electricity in his direction. He did not look back to see if it connected, but dashed forward towards Iocus in an arc of lightning.

Too fast, too brutal to be dodged. Iocus readied a clockwork shield, bracing as well as he could before the oncoming assault. He could only face forward.

He saw 8 reach out almost lazily and catch the end of the lash Bolverk had launched at him. The lash coiled around his gloved hand, blue mixing with yellow sparks. 8’s fingers tightened around it, and he pulled.

It wasn’t enough to halt the charge, but Bolverk’s momentum was drained – the impact sent painful arcs of electricity through Iocus’s shield and body, but he held. Bolverk had to turn as 8 pulled the tether, gathering it into a thickening coil of blue and yellow in his hands. It hissed and sputtered in defiance.

He’s going to onrush you, idiot, Iocus tried to say. The soldier dashed forward again at the same time the black mage threw his gathered lightning. With shaking hands, Iocus grasped his mask, summoning one more blade out of one more portal, slicing open the useless arm of Bolverk’s armour as he charged past. 8’s lightning crashed into Bolverk. For a moment, it seemed to flow harmlessly over his body – then lightning found the gaping hole in his armour. Bolverk’s spine arched – he convulsed, once, twice – and then he fell to the ground without a sound.

“That,” Iocus said, once he had managed to catch his breath, “was very gratifying.” He nudged Bolverk with his foot, none too gently. The soldier made no response.

8 crossed his arms. Bastard seemed entirely unperturbed. “Not the first time you’ve met, I take it.”

“He had the affront to try to ‘discipline’ me when I first arrived – as if I were one of his brainless recruits. I am simply returning the favour.” Iocus smiled. “With interest. Strictly speaking, I only needed to incapacitate him, but…”

“I thought we were here for some ‘higher fate’, not your personal satisfaction.”

“I can pursue both goals simultaneously,” Iocus said loftily.

8 shrugged. “I don’t particularly care about your reasons, but random killing might get us in trouble. Efficiency should be praised.”

“Ah, but I’m planning on that!” Iocus crowed. “Trouble will be here in – oh, one more mission? We’d better get a move on.”

“…you’re as prissy for scheduling as Netherith was,” 8 muttered.

“Care to let me examine your past to find out who this ‘Netherith’ is?”

“No.”

Iocus gave a graceful shrug. “Worth a try. Next target, then?”

“So soon?”

“Why not?”

“You did nearly die.”

“Is that concern for me?” Iocus laughed at 8’s disgruntled expression. ''Expression? Maybe I’m getting better at reading him…somehow.'' “No rest for the wicked. Anyway, I’m safe for the next one. Apparently I don’t interfere. It’s all on you.”

“Figures. Is this one likely to put up as much of a fight as the last?”

“I’m not sure whether you actually need to fight him.” Iocus shrugged again. “Fate has decided to be unclear, so perhaps you could kill him just to be safe. It doesn’t seem to be particularly crucial that he lives or dies – your meeting just has to be important in some way.”

“Tell me something useful.”

“I certainly shall.” Iocus smiled. The wheels of fate were turning, and it was he who was driving them. “He is quite formidable. Calderone Hale, the conduit. A speaker for a god he keeps as a slave…or is it the other way around? We have a long walk to the mountain where he lives, and you can decide for yourself on the way.”

Iocus waited at the base of the mountain, shivering slightly. He had to keep checking the pass for the black mage’s return. It certainly would not do for 8 to see him drawing his cloak around his shoulders, wishing he could huddle deeper into their depths.

Naturally, this meant that the other mage approached him from the opposite direction. Iocus bit back a cry of surprise as 8 tapped him on the shoulder. “How did you- is that an ice cream?”

8 looked unperturbed by either the situation or the icy weather. He had undone some of the bandages around the bottom half of his face to eat the ice cream. “Obviously.”

“What did you- How-” Iocus spluttered.

“Hale gave it to me.”

“Hale.”

“We had a nice chat.”

Iocus tried to imagine a less talkative pair in Sundry, and failed. “Dare I ask?” he managed.

8 shrugged. “Ice magic makes it easier to make ice cream.”

“How is that an explanation?”

“He pointed out a portal back to the ashlands as well.”

If he hadn’t been wearing Acedia, Iocus would have facepalmed. “I take it Hale is still alive and well, then.”

“Yep.” Infuriatingly, 8 continued to eat his ice cream calmly.

“I sent you to kill him,” Iocus said flatly, “and instead you had a nice chat and ate some ice cream.”

“You weren’t sure if I had to kill him, so what does it matter? I met up with him like you asked.”

“I asked you to do something important. Ice cream is not important.”

“Like hell it isn’t.”

“I-”

They were interrupted by the sound of metal slicing through air. A cry above them gave just enough warning for the two to jump apart. Into their midst descended a woman with silvery-white hair, her descent guided by four strange metallic wings, impossibly thin for their function – more like blades than wings.

The woman turned to face Iocus first, fixing him with a cold, red glare. She was unnaturally thin and pale, almost fragile – an impression emphasised by the close-fitting black dress that she wore – but her grip on her weapon, an immense scythe, was firm, and there was no fear in her eyes.

“Jester.” The tip of the scythe veered uncomfortably close to his face. “What have you been doing?”

“Greetings, my lady of death.” Iocus tried for nonchalance, ducking beneath her scythe to perform a gallant bow. “I am honoured to see you know of me. This is my companion, the black mage known as ‘8’. 8, this is the trouble. Selena Tanight, a goddess of death.” His voice made a mockery of her title.

“I require an answer from you.” That scythe was being rather irritating. Iocus hid his nervousness with practiced ease. Of course, he couldn’t actually die with Verthandi watching over him, but it was rather difficult to rid himself of that mortal habit of expectation…and he did hate lost progress.

“Business on behalf of Time. No matter of yours, Death,” he said flippantly.

“It’s my business when you begin killing people before their time.”

“I think you’ll find that Time determines that, not Death.”

“This is not a matter of jest!” The poor thing looked genuinely aggravated, Iocus thought with amusement. She retracted the scythe from his throat, planting it in the ashen ground. “Will you listen to me? All those people you have killed or harmed still have roles to play. You are erasing their potential futures, and by doing so-”

“What makes you think I don’t know precisely what I’m doing?” Iocus jeered.

“You are a mortal!”

“A little beyond that now, I think.” Iocus pretended to examine her casually. “Some death goddess you are, if you can’t identify that.”

“Are you so sure of that? You may work for a goddess, but don’t think that makes you a god.”

“O, I know that.” I know that as well as I know my face. “If you are so certain, why don’t you strike me down now? Or you can accept that I and my mission are beyond your reach, and leave us in peace. Surely you have enough work on your hands at the moment?” For a moment, he was certain she would swing at him. He held his position of complete indifference, even as he reached back to his past self, resigned to restarting. Her hands tightened around the scythe, and those eyes burned a deeper red. Finally, she said, “Even if you are beyond my reach, your tool can die. And what will you say then, Jester?”

“The tool,” 8 said in murderous tones, “is right here listening.”

For the first time in the conversation, Tanight looked at 8. He had covered his face again, becoming naught but glowing eyes of hate peering out from the hooded darkness beneath his hat. Her eyes widened in an expression of pity that Iocus knew would immediately infuriate 8.

“I will deal with you later,” she said sharply to him. “I wish to talk to your accomplice.”

“Be my guest.” He made a show of turning around to give them privacy.

“Evon,” she began gently.

“8,” he corrected her flatly. “It’s ‘8’.”

“8, then.” Her tone was soft, pitying. Iocus began to wonder how long it would be until 8 blew his top. This was not starting well.

“Your companion is correct. I am a goddess of death, but that does not mean I am cruel. What I give is often a gift, if it comes at the right time.”

“Right time for me, is it?” 8’s voice was equally soft. He wondered how in Time’s name Tanight did not see the danger in it. “Unlike the others you mentioned?”

“Surely you see your future?” Her voice was disbelieving. He wished he could turn around to watch their expressions.

“What I see is my own business. Why – what do you see?” ''Surely she will see the trap. Surely she’s not that stupid''.

A moment of hesitation. “Of course, much of it is in the eye of the beholder. My perspective is that each of us has our time. You may hold on, but each day costs you more. It is natural for mortals to want to cling onto life, but eventually, you must become content with the fading of your day. Surely you see that the only reward life gives you is pain?” Her voice became even gentler, soothing, welcoming. “I could grant you healing for that.”

“Let me think about it.” 8 spat on the ground. “No. Fuck you. Iocus, let’s go.”

“Mortal, you must realise-”

He watched 8 lift up a hand wreathed in flames of darkness. “I said ‘no’,” he repeated in too-even tones. “We’re leaving now. Don’t follow. Don’t mess with my – our – business. Go kill some people who are begging for it instead. Come on.”

The last words were directed at him. Iocus risked giving the bewildered goddess a jaunty wave, then trotted off after the black mage. He almost had to run to keep up with 8’s stalk.

‘Our’, he reflected thoughtfully. I could almost get used to our partnership.