Galen was at a loss. He was not used to being this helpless. He knew there had to be a way out of this, that there had to be something he could do, but he could not think of anything. And the more time passed, the less he would be able to think. He could already feel the death of the tech affecting his mind. Something was missing, something that had always been there. Although it was not yet life-threatening, there was no getting around the fact that a part of him was dead. His right arm was limp and lifeless - he could still move it, but there was so little strength and feel left that he could just barely grab his staff. His shoulders were hunched from the lingering echo of pain still coursing through them, and the killer was spreading down his left arm.

He knew he might be able to make a run for it. The effect of conjuring had been faster and more aggressive than that of moving, so he might just run away, call his ship to the doorway, jump in and take off, hoping that he would be able to leave the planet without being attacked, pursued or tracked. It would be a desperate try.

With startling effort, he turned his head to look at the doorway that led out, and he saw that his plan would not work. A massive iron door had closed over the entrance. He tried to contact his ship, but it was no good. The trap was closing further around him.

With a loud bang, the smaller doors that led to the Shadow-skin chamber flew open. Out of it flowed not darkness but light and sounds of rejoicing. Suddenly, the large hall was filled with an amazingly skillful illusion. Behind the pillars there was a lively, curious crowd of dark-eyed, tanned people clad in white linens and loincloths, wearing wigs in different dark shades. In front of the pillars, lining the lane, were orderly rows of soldiers with spears and shields - the closest one stood right in front of him, and even from such a close distance, looked real enough to trick anyone who was not a techno-mage and used to detecting illusions.

Out of the small door came a procession of beautiful young men and women, carrying pedestals with flowers, food and statues of gods, burning incense, chanting and playing drums and other percussive instruments that he could not name.

In the middle of the group, not walking but gliding ahead on a flying platform, his feet off the ground, was a bald man, not young anymore, but not very old either. His loincloth was not white but deep black, embroidered with gold and crimson. His skin was as tanned as everyone else's, his eyes as dark and lined with kohl. But unlike all others, he was not an illusion, and the smooth features of his face were familiar. He had been wearing a turban the last time Galen had seen him. Galen's guess had been correct.

The ankh-symbol in the eighth pillar had been his best clue, being the last bit of what he had supposed to be the mage's name. The Egyptian architecture pointed to the same direction: a mage who enjoyed those ancient myths and had even taken his name from them: Djadjamonkh. He had been one of the techno-mages who had been lost during their complicated retreat into hiding. He had disappeared before they had reached their first planned hiding-place, so he had never learned of another, the final one, where they still were. They had taken him for one of the martyrs to the cause. Everyone had been certain that the Shadows had attacked and killed him, just as they had tried to attack many others, with varying amounts of success. Galen could not say whether they had been completely wrong: perhaps Djadjamonkh had indeed been attacked, perhaps he had resisted for a time until he had been forced to give in to the Shadow's wishes. They had had many ways of persuasion, all of them strong - promises of fulfilled dreams, of power beyond imagining, or threats worse than the darkest of nightmares.

Whatever had happened, the results were clear. Djadjamonkh had become nothing more than another pawn in the great game, fulfilling the techno-mage's originally destined role as agents of chaos and servants to the Shadows. To create something as horrible as the killer that was slowly gnawing Galen to the death from the inside, or even to accept such a weapon from his lords and put it to use, Djadjamonkh must have partially lost who he had been. Just like Elizar and Razeel had, becoming something completely different, yet eerily alike to their former selves. Djadjamonkh was still fond of the Egyptian myths, and still enjoyed spectacular illusions. Galen had never known him well, and he didn't know what secret wishes of power or destruction he might have harbored earlier.

The procession stopped advancing at the instant when Djadjamonkh reached Galen. His platform lowered him smoothly to the ground. He clapped his hands together and all the illusions disappeared, leaving the hall empty again, but for the two of them, and the light still flowing from the Shadow chamber through the small door. The music stayed as well, but the chanting had become a menacing whisper, and a drum was beating out the rapid rhythm of Galen's heart, reverberating painfully through the dead tech.

"So, tell me, nedjes-Galen, what does it feel like? The tech dying, neuron by neuron, cell by cell?" Djadjamonkh asked, standing tall in front of him, his face calm and cool, reptilian. The wicked, victorious glow was somewhere deep in it, only just perceptible.

Galen wanted to stand face to face with him. Anger surged through him, through what remained of the tech, joining the pain in one horrible, overwhelming burning. He had not felt like this ever since he had merged with his tech. It was a memory from his dark past, reminiscent of the time when he had been filled with the rage and wish for chaos in the Shadow programming. But he could not risk standing up, could not risk speeding his death, now that he was faced with the one who had set it in him, perhaps his best, however unlikely, chance for a cure. He drew a deep, painful breath and looked up at Djadjamonkh, nailing him with his eyes.

"You tell me, Djadjamonkh, what does it feel like to be a traitor?" he hissed.

"You would call me a traitor? You, one of those who completely abandoned the Code in a desperate attempt to save your own skins? No, I think you are quite wrong, sen-i, my brother, to think that I might see myself as a traitor. I am one of the few left who stayed true to the code. I am here to take care of those who have broken against it, and who fully deserve the only suitable punishment for their heinous crime: flaying. I am even merciful enough to take care of it in such an elegant way, much less messy, and perhaps not as deadly."

Galen's foggy, aching mind was racing as desperately as his body. He had to think of something, he had to make Djadjamonkh talk, to reveal something, anything, that might help him. He was running out of time. The tech in his left arm was gone but for the few thin strands in his hand and fingers. He could already feel the hungry killer advancing to another area, starting its slow crawl down his spine.

"Yes, Djadjamonkh. It's definitely elegant. I envy you for your ability to create something so sophisticated, so original," he uttered, hoping that it wasn't too transparent.

The mage's dark eyes narrowed as he stared down at Galen, clearly trying to figure out what to make of this odd turn in the conversation. His lips spread in a malicious grin.

"It is indeed beautiful, and knowing that there is no cure, no way to stop it, makes it even more so," Djadjamonkh said. "But I would never take all the glory for myself. It is Razeel's work as much as mine, may she be given life forever and ever, wherever she lies. Without her help, you would not be sitting there without the slightest wound. You would have been cut open and the tech ripped out of you, half your brain dug out of your head, and now you would be bleeding to death."

Another wave of rage flared through Galen. If Djadjamonkh indeed believed what he was saying, he must be a far greater fool, or far more twisted, than Galen would have dared to believe. There was no mercy in this torment. Flaying might be brutal, but this was cruel in a completely different way, a slow, inevitable creeping death from the inside instead of a spectacular, bloody murder. Even though he had no visible wounds, he still felt as if he was bleeding to death, and half his brain would be taken out for good with the death of the tech. Perhaps Djadjamonkh believed he was being merciful, but certainly Razeel had done all she could to prolong this death, make it as torturous as possible. True to her style, as always.

And he said that there was no cure. Galen could not accept it, but he was ready to believe it. If this killer had been built to purge the world of rogue techno-mages who did not meet up to Djadjamonkh's criteria of being true to the Code, then why bother to create an antidote - and as the poison was probably based on Shadow technology, it was well possible that creating a cure would truly be impossible.

A desperate plan, yet another in the long line of the last hours, was forming in Galen's mind. He might be dead already, but he would have to stop this horror from ever reaching any other techno-mage. The tech was not all dead yet, he was still alive enough to cast a few spells. But he did not know whether Djadjamonkh was able to move away a Spell of Destruction, like Elizar and Razeel had been. He could not take the risk.

The pain was seeping down his spine, and his legs were falling soothingly numb. There was no tech in his legs, so there was no pain there. Some strength still lingered in the fingers of his left hand. The beat of the drum had grown irregular, spelling out the loosing battle that his body was fighting. He was breathing in ragged gasps. Still, he had to try. He knew what to do.

"I am curious, Djadjamonkh," he panted, fighting to keep his voice steady. "With this - amazing power - to rid the world of traitors - why do you stay on this - remote planet? Why do you not go - and destroy them - at once? Kill them all - as you can - as I know - you want to?"

"I am patient. I had to know for certain that it would work before I set out from my place of power. That is why I am so glad you came. You are all the proof I need. Whe your tech is dead for good, I will leave this place and hunt down all those who still remain. I shall carry on the legacy of Elizar and Razeel, the righteous ways true to the Code - all the traitors will come to face the consequences of what they have done -"

Djadjamonkh was rambling on and on, and Galen could see even with his limited senses that the Shadow programming, the irresistible burning anger, the glory of destruction and chaos, was taking hold of him. It was the best distraction he could hope for. He reached behind him, his hand flopping limply, but at least to the right direction. He got hold of his staff and associated with it, gaining new strength from the intact piece of chrysalis incorporated in it. He would let Djadjamonkh feel what it felt like when the tech died.

Galen did not clearly know how to configure the staff to emit a radio signal, but he did not need to. The tech and he both wanted it, and it happened. He was not sure about what the transmission should be like, but the part of him that was tech knew it instinctively. In one smooth move, before Djadjamonkh had any idea of what was happening, Galen brought the staff about and pointed it at him, sending the strong signal out in a narrow band that reached the tech at the end of his spine.

Djadjamonkh's knees buckled, and he went down in a heap. The music stopped. Galen's staff fell to the floor with a clatter, but the signal stayed strong and still reached Djadjamonkh. Galen had used the Shadow's failsafe against one of their own - he had shut down Djadjamonkh's tech, perhaps finding the only possible way to freedom. And now he only had to finish him off.

There was no triumph, no overwhelming joy of battle and chaos, as they thought forth the Spell of Destruction. A dark sphere began to take shape around Djadjamonkh's upper body, reddening and darkening. Time was twisting, moving, changing, flowing more slowly. As the sphere started to constrict, Galen stopped the radio transmission. The sphere vanished with a loud crack, and all that was left of Djadjamonkh was a pair of feet, sleek and tanned, with sandals of brown leather.

Galen had succeeded, but there was a price. He had conjured a powerful spell. The killer had leaped again, devastating the twin lines of tech running along his spine. Djadjamonkh's death had not affected it in any way. Now, it had only one way to go. The pain was burning at his neck, worse than ever before.

He had to get away. He was unable to move on his own. He had no choice. He wrapped his useless, clumsy arms around his staff to gain some hold of it, and conjured a flying platform, sending himself towards the large door as fast as he could, to minimize the time he had to keep up the spell.

He crashed against the iron door, the platform vanishing from under him. He had to get through the door, he had to get away from this planet, had to get help, before it was too late. But it was too late already. His head was one buzzing mass of pain. He had no idea how long it would take for the killer to work its way through all the tiny tendrils curved around, about and inside his brain. He could not see anymore, there was nothing but darkness around him. He pointed the staff at where he knew the door was, and blasted it, again and again, at the same time desperately calling out to his ship.

He knew he had cut through when the ship answered his call. It was there sooner than he had dared to hope, shooting at the remains of the door so he could get through.

He and the tech had no strength left to conjure anything else. They were screaming in agony. Barely conscious, completely blind and deaf, he crawled through the doorway, to the friendly hatch of his ship that was waiting for him, his dear, reliable ship.

The hatch closed, causing him to roll down to the floor, where he landed in an awkward position, but he could not move. He felt nothing at all. Still, there was a tiny corner of the tech that persisted, and a tiny corner of his mind. He had to stay awake a while longer. There was still something to be done, something he should do even though it could no longer save him.

He tried to focus, to gather enough air to speak. His breathing was no longer fast and ragged. He didn't have the strength to keep struggling. He had to concentrate on each shallow breath, because he was sure that if he stopped thinking about it, he would simply forget to breathe. It would be so much easier. He could feel his erratic heartbeat fading, becoming weaker, giving in to the horrible weight of what had happened to him.

"Ship," he whispered through unmoving, unfeeling lips, knowing that the half-sentient craft would hear and understand. "Find the Excalibur... They must know."

He had said it, he had given his last orders. He could finally let go. The last whisper of the tech's presence disappeared.

The tech was dead, and so was he.

One thought survived. Isabelle.

Finally, mercifully, the darkness took him.

...But worry not, reader. This is not a deathfic, so this is not the end. ;-) More will follow.