19


    He was moving in sudden, wild bursts. Could tell, because his sense of the land… its genius spirits, location and manna… kept changing. He was also half-conscious, drained like a wrung-out cloth.


    This was no restful, healing slumber, either. More like a deliberate struggle to keep him under control. Someone was working hard to prevent him from slowing his… captors? Keepers? … someone''s crazed flight. Over and over, a burst of fresh power seized the lot of them, tearing loose barely-formed roots. Again and again, they span heedlessly out through the void between places. Time after time, landed hard; over-extended and reeling.


    Too much, too fast, and likely to end with them trapped in the shadowy almost; the chaotic nothing that lay behind all that was real. Had he been fully conscious, he would have stopped them… or just been epically, violently ill.


    In the moments between, he sensed Gildyr and Cinda. That they were arguing. Weary. Concerned. That this desperate scramble was meant to protect and conceal him, somehow.


    Why? What were they running from?


    In the midst of another uproot-and-fling (before the crushing WHUMP into place-time-sensation) Val gathered some strength and wild manna. It was dark, swirling stuff like an underground river; unruly and tough to control. Worked, though; powering ''No'' and ''I won''t''.


    Barely aware of his actions, he pushed away, hard. Hooked himself out of their grasp, away from the void and into reality. To the nearest place that felt safe.


    (Weirdly… he''d misty-stepped all of his life, never noticing that reality''s underside dented and warped what lay below. That there were whole reversed mountains, forests and cities, like some kind of bumpy, negative map. One he could follow and ''read''.)


    Came out of the leap half-frozen and gasping. Just conscious enough to crawl to the shelter of somebody''s barn. Collapsed at the back of a stall, amid fodder and hay. Felt a velvety muzzle and warm, perfumed breath, then nothing at all for a very long time.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Gildyr and Cinda… bounced. There was no other word for it. Too late, they felt Valerian''s sudden lunge, then lost him entirely. Worse, the counter-effect of his leap deflected their path; pushing them wildly off course.


    Into… on top of, that is… a market stall and its furious, broom-wielding human proprietor. The shrieks, the burst spell-globes, spilt potions and cursing! The thwacking impact of broomstraw and handle. Gildyr managed to roll away and untangle himself from Cinda. Meanwhile, the seething ranger stripped what was left of Gildyr''s manna, using that stolen power to slip into shadow.


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    Shielding his head with both arms, Gildyr reflexively tried to stand up. Crushed half of the rickety wooden market stall, kicking another one over, as well. An entire shelf of bottled imps crashed to the pavement. Glass shattered. A horde of mischievous spirits swarmed free, zipping, diving and cackling. They surrounded the merchants and druid; pulling hair, pinching flesh and firing hex-magic.


    About the same time as Lerendar''s emotions calmed, allowing first thoughts of his brother… As an evil god tucked itself further into a pregnant elf and her half-formed baby… The Milardin town guard arrived.


    Scowling, dressed in Arvendahl green and black, the constables de-broomed both merchants, then hauled Gildyr up and out of that tangle of wood, cloth and spilled potion. He found out later that it had taken two local wizards and a hedge-witch to corral the freed imps and mop up their chaos. Damage and lost business totalled two-hundred-thirty gold coins. He was given no chance at all to explain (even if he''d been minded to try).


    The guards'' flinty, grey-haired sergeant slapped a numbing mage-lock collar around Gildyr''s neck, then shoved him at her waiting unit. Snarled,


    "Fenwick, Marrow, see that our hilarious visitor finds a nice, cozy room in His Lordship''s Stoneview Hostel."


    ''Hilarious'', he guessed, because some of the hexes had overturned luck, tinted his skin green and given him wolf ears. Also, his nose had grown to a point, and his feet were now hooves, causing both boots to slide off. Then half of his faerie pockets everted, dumping acorns, herbs and stored food all over the crowded market square.


    The guards'' leader shook her cropped head, surveying the mess and the gathering onlookers. Thieves were already at work, dipping quick hands into unguarded purses; stealing whatever would not scream or bite. Needing to end this, she snapped,


    "Deduct twenty coppers from the comedian''s fine, for whatever the injured parties can glean from his droppings… and get him out of my sight."


    They got.


    Gildyr''s tour of that lovely coast city was brief. He was too busy being dragged from the market square to Milardin''s lock-up, to take in the sights. Frog-marched, squeezed between a pair guards the size of cave-trolls, with dispositions to match. Noisy, grumbling cave-trolls. Pay, food, sour grog, sore feet, costly uniforms… nothing was right with Milardin''s constabulary. And, chiefest of all that nothing was Gildyr, himself.


    They came to a grim, iron-barred building. (Big sign outside proclaimed, ''Average wait time till execution: 3 days.'' Stained wooden chopping block nearby hinted at frequent, enthusiastic use.)


    Inside, Gildyr was brought before a bored half-elf officer whose speech seemed to consist of weary "Uh-huhs". Then, paperwork inked, scrolled and pigeon-holed, he was punted downstairs.


    "Put ''im in there with Puss," ordered the duty officer, as they left the main room. "Everything else is full up."


    Bulging Cave-troll number one chuckled. Clamping a meaty hand to the back of Gildyr''s neck, he jeered,


    "Hear that, Tree-lover? We gotcha a room and a pet. It dances, when it ain''t maulin'' cellmates. Watch yer fingers."


    "Two hundred-twenty-eight gold, ten silver, and one copper ha''pence by this time tomorrow," announced the officer, going back to his papers and daybrew. "Payable in coin, slave-time or blood. Your choice."


    An impossible fine, which the penniless druid had as much chance of paying as he did of turning to smoke and drifting away through the bars.


    Not with a mage-lock in place. Not with a blood-thirsty cellmate. Not with High Lord Arvendahl''s sudden and chilly attention. That the situation was about to get worse? Didn''t surprise him, at all.