gone_byebye | For the crew arriving from Milliways:

For the crew arriving from Milliways:

The door from Milliways opens onto what would ordinarily be a picture-perfect day in early October over Central Park West. The air ought to be crisp and clear this high up. Certainly the view of Central Park, its leaves beginning to turn all kinds of colors, would support that...

... only anyone who actually pokes a head or hand or limb out the door will feel that it's not. It's warm- unseasonably so- and the air is tight somehow, shivering against the skin. There's an unpleasant, greasy feel to it, a sense of something about to precipitate out of nowhere at all. And far, far overhead, the sky roils and writhes in livid bruise-purple colors, torn open in a ferocious act of metaphysical savagery.

Looking up for too long is probably not a good idea.

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Silently- he didn't trust himself to speak- Ray nodded.

Then came Eddie's voice over the headset, and a sudden, irrational surge went through Ray- a surge of gratitude. If he had to give orders then he didn't have to think-

"Eddie," he said through clenched teeth, one hand going up to tuck the headset a little more securely into his ear, "something's going to come through that hole in the sky very soon, something big, and if I know my mythology at all it's going to have a couple of bodyguards. Possibly airborne ones, possibly not. Take out anything that can fly first and then go after targets of opportunity on the rooftop- if it isn't human and it isn't Asar-Suti or a shapechanged Garion, it's a target. Am I understood?"

Garion flies up. Things are a little hectic, the winds wiping past his feathers a few times before he regains his footing (or winging) and then he's there, flying towards Ray.

Tell me what to do! Sorry...more wind then I'd thought.

Should have been a falcon and damned the stealth.

"It's okay," shouts Ray, relieved. "You're not dead, that's the-"

The livid, rippling sky ripples further. Pulses of purple and black swirl together, drawing themselves inward in rapidly glimmering concentric rings-

Something that would be a lightning strike if lightning were ever composed of pure, unwholesome greenblackpurple iridescence rather than a jagged blue-white flash shoots simultaneously up from the center of the roof and down from the hole in the sky, and a figure easily twice the size of Namtar steps out of it. A pair of winged creatures that might, once, have been the sort of lions one finds in the southern reaches of Tolnedra dive down from the clouds to flank it.

"Mistress!" shouts Namtar. Ray pales.

"'Mistress'?" Peter repeats, momentarily looking away from Namtar and diverting his stream. "Ray, who-"

The figure lets out a stream of terrible sounding syllables as it raises one arm. Ray pales; Egon translates.

"'If you do not send that god to me-'"

"Garion! We need to get rid of both Ereshkigal and Namtar!"

"'-According to the rites of Erkalla and the great Earth-' "

The lion-things spread massive, blackened wings and grin in ways that no cats should be able to.

"Peter! You and Egon concentrate on Big E there! Garion! You and Sooty lay into Namtar and Shandor!"

"'-I shall raise up the dead, and they will eat the living-'"

"Yeah, okay, Spengs, I don't think we need any more translation-" Peter swings his thrower around to face Ereshkigal. "Yo! Goth girl!"

"I shall make the dead outnumber the liv- AAAARGH!"

As Namtar staggers free of the streams and the goddess lets out her own scream, the lions launch themselves into the air.

He lands on the roof a moment later and pulls the sword, throwing his Will to the Orb to ignite the sword in blue fire. Then he runs towards Namtar.

The vilely shimmering figure shakes its head rapidly to clear it, turning to face the oncoming figure. "Ah," it says, and though it speaks in no language Garion's world has ever heard it nonetheless makes its meaning felt. "A hero, is it? We have seen your like before, in the Underworld."

It flexes long, dripping fingers that end in needlelike claws before leaping towards Garion on all fours. The arms are longer than the legs, giving Namtar the heaving, rolling gait of the rock-wolves who dwelled with Grul.

Garion's dealt with rock-wolves before, but the most important thing is that this creature called him a "hero."

He HATES that.

...only his wife can call him that.

Roaring like the Alorn he is, he comes in swinging, the massive sword moving with unbelieveable speed. He strikes low, using the training given to him by Hettar, of the Algars, tactics low to the ground suited best for battling while upon a horse.

Namtar is a god of Sumer, the oldest of civilizations according to the thinking of many. And the gods of Sumer were much given to war and struggle, even at times with mortal heroes who would contend with them.

'Were' being the operative word here. Their last original worshippers passed from the red dust of Earth four thousand years ago. Even Shandor's small congregation could only feed them praise and pleadings, not daily interaction as once they might have had. Namtar's pantheon has squabbled and fought among themselves for four thousand years, and while that does put an edge on one's skills, it carries with it a problem as well... namely, that after the first thousand years, one ceases to truly remember what it is to battle with a novel foe, or an unusual strategy.

The horses of Namtar's time were far too small to be ridden in battle. Quite simply, Garion's strokes did not exist when last the deity had contact with this world. He veers away at precisely the wrong moment; the blade slashes a long, sickening-smelling path along his flank, brownish ichor sizzling into smoke on contact with the blue flame of the Orb.

"Filth!" rages Namtar, planting his hands on the ground and twisting himself about to strike at Garion with a lithely bending kick.

He jumps.

He wasn't as nimble as Silk, not by a long jog, but he was a bit more nimble than a man his sized tended to be since he'd been taught a hodgepodge of techniques and always kept very humble concerning any achievements. Thus, he'd pushed himself to at least keep up with some of the greatest warriors of the West.

The jump, however, is short and used to propel a spinning stroke towards Namtar's middle. It was a brash move, one more suited to an axe than a sword, but this sword was big enough to pull it off. Barak, the large Cherek who had been named the Dreadful Bear, the man who more than any other had protected Garion during their travels, had also added to Garion's teaching and it showed now as he used his size and strength.

The kick was meant to provoke Garion into jumping, true- but Namtar had reckoned on it pushing the hero backwards, to give him more room for a full-force lunge. He twists violently again (no creature should be able to twist itself so, not with its middle contracting like that) and brings up one arm, shouting vile syllables in something like a warding chant. It does him little good. Such things seldom do when they're interrupted by flame running swiftly around one's middle.

Namtar howls and flings himself at Garion's knees, aiming to come in under the swordsman's guard.

Garion doesn't even try to block the move with his blade. Instead, he throws his Will to the Orb once more and shouts with as much force as he can manage;

"BURST!"

That is not something Gilgamesh and his ilk ever brought with them on their quests. Come to think of it, not even Inanna, the goddess of Heaven, had ever thought to do something like that.

There is a sickening, squelching rumblerumblerumble noise for a moment. And then as Namtar's claws swipe forward-

well-

A significant portion of the monstrosity's midsection sprays every which way, black gobbets of reeking sickness splattering over most of the rooftop. What remains of him shrieks with blind idiot fury and rolls heedlessly sideways, clawing at any surface that might give purchase and a chance to regroup.

He gets no chance to regroup.

With as much speed as he can muster, he slices the head of the creature off before stopping to get a breath.

This was almost as hard as helping Durnik in the forge.

The fiend's head rolls along the rooftop, the hideous wet maw still gibbering as the body falls to the stones, clawed hands and feet twitching spasmodically like a beheaded snake's jaws.

Garion watches it for a moment before shaking it off and heading towards the next threat, shouting to make sure--

"RAY! You still there!? You need me?!"

"I'm here!" Ray cries, gesturing frantically to Andrew to get down and out of the way. "But we have a problem!"

Ereshkigal- her figure barely visible for all the sickly-pale light surrounding it- is raising her arms over her head and chanting nerve-jangling alien syllables. Peter and Egon are firing on her for all they're worth. Overhead, a pair of large winged beasts (nowhere near the dragon's size, but large enough for all that) are closing to engage Eddie in combat.

It would appear that the problem is the bearded, shirtless, kilted fellow with the fell light in his eyes and the bronze sickle, who's lifted one hand and pointed it Ray's way. There's a very clear feeling of power being pulled in and concentrated, to the point where it's about to burst forth.

Garion wobbles as the energy flying around starts to dizzy him, but the Orb beings to sing it's familiar song and he follows it until he's a little more stable. His eyes light on the bearded kilted fellow. There is a three second pause as he blushes about the kilt before heading towards him with his sword flaming and ready.

Belgarath often criticized Polgara for her over-reliance (in his opinion) on gestures as opposed to words. Too dramatic, or attention-seeking- something like that.

Nevertheless, it is amazing how much power can be released with a simple contemptuous flick of the wrist. A jagged streak of violet energy lances across the rooftop in Ray's (and therefore Garion's) direction.

It is also amazing how well anger and protective emotion can be used to power an act. As Garion sees the energy crackle across the building he swings his sword into it, blocking it from touching Ray. Using a particularly vile curse, he, for all intents and purposes, tells the violet energy to bugger off.

One of these days Ray is going to get some more of that padawan training from Qui-Gon Jinn, but today is not that day. With an inarticulate exclamation of surprise he drops to the ground and rolls, shoulder first, coming up some distance away on one knee with a slender blade of green energy in his grasp. "Thanks, Garion-"

"Save it," snarls the bearded man, who raises sickle and club over his head. "Ssalmani-ia ana qulqullati tapqida duppira!"

The roof begins to shake beneath their feet.

Perhaps it might be more accurate to say that the building begins to shake.

Garion blinks and the memories of the destruction of Rak Cthol come crashing into his mind...and with those memories, the memories of their escape. That's when he looks down, reaches for a shadow, and throws himself into it, sliding across the darkness and into the bearded man's shadow before reaching up and into him, grabbing for his vocal chords.

No vocal cords, no words.

No words, no magic.

He just hopes it works.

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