Confrontation and Resolve (expanded)
The silent detonation of psychic energy ripped through the ancient fortress, a shockwave felt not in the stone, but in the very fabric of consciousness. The great serpent guardian, its physical form thrashing in the now dimly lit throne room, its mental connection to the shattered black pearl severed, let out a chaotic shriek of pure agony that clawed at the inside of Hiero’s skull. Its cold, ancient intelligence fragmented into shards of pain and undirected fury. Before him, Joseato, the Unclean priest, stumbled, the crystal rod – doubtless some specialized psychic weapon – clattering harmlessly onto the dusty floor. The intricate web of control he had exerted, amplified perhaps by the serpent or the throne itself, had snapped, leaving him momentarily stunned, vulnerable.
Hiero wasted no time. The brief window of opportunity might close in an instant. Lunging forward, ignoring the writhing bulk of the wounded serpent whose thrashing tail could shatter bone, he brought the hilt of his sword-knife down hard on Joseato’s temple. The Unclean priest crumpled without a sound, his treacherous journey ended. Hiero spared him barely a glance. His immediate concern was the colossal reptile filling the chamber, its immense coils tightening and relaxing spasmodically, its broad, flat head weaving blindly, the twin amber eyes now clouded with pain and confusion.
Could it still strike? Could its diffused rage coalesce into another attack? Hiero backed away cautiously, sword held ready, his own mind shielded, observing. The psychic storm emanating from the serpent was immense, terrifying in its raw power, but it lacked focus, direction. It was the death agony of a powerful mind, not a targeted assault. He sensed its ancient life force ebbing, bleeding away into the stones like the ichor from some mythical beast. Bypassing the creature seemed the only sane course; finishing it off might be beyond his capabilities, and certainly beyond the time he could afford.
The fortress itself seemed to groan around him. The psychic blast from the shattering of the pearl throne had destabilized more than just the serpent guardian. Hiero felt subtle shifts in the very fabric of the place, saw illusions flicker and dissolve at the edges of his vision like heat haze. Lingering psychic traps, remnants of Fuala's long and malevolent tenancy, sputtered and died like failing lamps. The pervasive sense of the Other Mind's cold, overarching awareness had receded drastically, like a tide suddenly drawn far out, leaving behind only a residue of ancient wrongness, a faint, chilling emptiness in the psychic ether. The Gaean entity, or at least its local manifestation through Fuala and her creature, was wounded, perhaps temporarily blinded.
Now was the time to seek the knowledge he had come for. Fuala, the sorceress, the biological anchor, the witch-queen of this hidden domain – her physical presence was gone, reduced perhaps to the fine gray dust settling on the obsidian floor, but her sanctum, the repository of her secrets, must remain. Hiero cast his mind about, searching not for a living presence, but for the lingering psychic signature of Fuala’s unique, potent will, a trail he hoped would lead him to her inner chambers.
He moved quickly but cautiously through the echoing halls, the oppressive luxury seeming even more decadent now, overlaid with a film of true decay. Rooms filled with bizarre, disturbing artifacts – twisted sculptures that seemed to writhe in the peripheral vision, tapestries depicting congress between humans and things that should not be, instruments whose purpose defied comprehension – hinted at the depths of Fuala's perversion and her communion with forces alien to humanity. He bypassed chambers that pulsed faintly with residual psychic energy, sensing lingering traps designed to ensnare the mind, remnants of Fuala's paranoia or perhaps wards set by the Other Mind itself.
He followed the fading mental scent, a strange mixture of ancient power, reptilian coldness, and something else – a deep, underlying bitterness, a loneliness that resonated oddly with Hiero's own recent experiences. Down corridors that twisted unnaturally, through archways carved with unsettling, non-Euclidean geometry, he pressed on, until he reached a chamber that felt different from the rest.
The heavy door, inlaid with mother-of-pearl in unsettling, organic patterns, was unlocked. Hiero pushed it open slowly. This room was smaller, more intimate, yet somehow vaster in its implications. The air was warmer, scented not with decay, but with exotic, head-spinning perfumes. Soft light emanated from glowing crystal spheres set in niches. The walls were not stone, but seemed woven from living vines, pulsing faintly with a slow, internal rhythm. In the center, on a low dais covered in shimmering, moss-like fabric, lay not a bed, but a depression, perfectly form-fitting, the nest of something not entirely human.
And everywhere, there were records. Not books or scrolls in the familiar sense, but crystalline data matrices stacked on shelves of polished dark wood, complex star charts etched onto sheets of flexible metal, strange, ovoid stones that pulsed with stored information when Hiero tentatively reached out with his mind. This was Fuala’s sanctum, her library, her laboratory. Here, she had communed with her ancient master, plotted her manipulations of D’alwah, and perhaps, Hiero hoped, recorded the secrets she had gleaned.
He began the search, his mind racing against the unknown timetable of the fortress's potential collapse or the return of its wounded guardian. He scanned the crystal matrices, finding his Abbey training in ancient languages and symbols taxed to its limits. Much was incomprehensible, dealing with alien philosophies, psychic disciplines beyond his ken, genealogies of monstrous entities from before the rise of humanity. But interspersed were fragments he could grasp. Star charts correlating with known constellations, but marked with unfamiliar symbols and trajectories. Alchemical formulas mixing mundane ingredients with substances Hiero recognized as radioactive isotopes. And records, detailed journals kept in a precise, archaic form of D’alwahn script, detailing Fuala’s long existence, her pact with the Gaean entity, her manipulation of bloodlines – including Amibale’s – and her centuries-long watch over the buried installation.
Then, he found it. Tucked away in a recess behind the nest-like couch, a series of linked data crystals, humming faintly with contained power. These felt different, their structure more regular, their energy signature recognizably technological, albeit ancient. With trembling hands, Hiero accessed them, using the techniques Sagenay had begun to teach him, forcing his mind into the unfamiliar interface.
Images, data streams, flooded his consciousness. Schematics of a vast, subterranean complex. Geological surveys pinpointing energy sources and structural weaknesses. Cross-references to pre-Death scientific databases. And coordinates. Coordinates for a location deep within the great southwestern desert, a region marked on all maps, both Abbey and Unclean, simply as 'Irradiated Zone - Extreme Hazard'. Beneath the descriptions of seismic activity and residual radiation, a single annotation, added perhaps by Fuala herself, chilled him: 'Nexus Point. Primary Anchor. Dormant but Aware.'
He had it. The location of the Other Mind’s core, or at least, its main physical link to this plane of reality. He saw also, within the data streams, fragmented references to the computer itself – confirming its function as a planetary restoration system, its vast knowledge banks, and its sophisticated, potentially sentient, operating system. There were warnings, too – about its damaged state, its unpredictable protocols, the immense power required to fully reactivate it, and the safeguards designed to prevent its misuse, safeguards tied, ominously, to specific genetic markers or psychic keys lost since The Death.
He copied the essential coordinates and data fragments onto a small Abbey data-slug he carried, a device Demero had insisted he take, its function previously unclear. Now, its necessity was blindingly apparent. He secured the slug in a hidden pocket.
His task here was done. The fortress felt increasingly unstable around him, the psychic echoes growing more chaotic. The wounded serpent’s pain and rage still pulsed from the throne room, a dangerous, unpredictable variable. He needed to leave, now, before the structure collapsed entirely, or before the Unclean, alerted by the psychic detonation, arrived to investigate.
He turned to go, then paused. A thought, cold and practical, surfaced. Joseato. The Unclean priest still lay unconscious where Hiero had left him. A valuable prisoner, perhaps? A source of further intelligence? He considered, then discarded the idea. The risk was too great. Joseato was a symptom, not the disease. His knowledge was secondary to what Hiero now possessed. And dragging an unconscious prisoner through the collapsing fortress and the hostile jungle was unthinkable. With grim finality, Hiero drew his poniard. A quick, clean stroke ensured the Unclean priest would trouble D’alwah no more.
Then, turning his back on the ancient evil and the crumbling repository of its secrets, Hiero began the perilous ascent, carrying not just maps and data, but the terrifying weight of knowledge and the burden of a war far greater than any he had ever imagined. He reached the gate, slipped out into the blessedly normal air of the late afternoon, and signaled to the shadows where the two David scouts waited, patient and unseen. Their eyes widened slightly as they saw the grim set of his face, the blood drying on his poniard. Without a word, they melted into the jungle behind him, heading east, away from the dying fortress and the shunned lands, towards the uncertain future of the fractured kingdom. The first part of his southern venture was over; the truly dangerous phase was about to begin.