<u>18</u>


    Rising day filled the wide valley with light, setting the mist and steam all aglow, turning the clouds rosy-gold. But Miche had seen and marked the shimmer of steel. Could hear (now that he bothered to listen) the rattle of weapons, creaking of leather and roughened breath of those trying hard to be quiet. Right.


    No use at all when their quarry was elvish. The hunting pack’s curses rang loud as they battled their way through that dank, tangled forest. They were distant, creeping along under cover of branches and vines. He couldn’t make out their size or their species. Nothing about the way that they moved or spoke sounded friendly, though.


    The blond elf pulled his bow and quiver out of their magical pockets, slinging the one, stringing the other and nocking an arrow.


    “Old One,” growled Marget, scowling intently. She placed a hand on his shoulder, where the tattooed head of a wyvern spat flame. “Be sure that my work stays unpunctured.”


    Miche snorted.


    “Yes. Well… I’ll do my best to keep them from wrecking your canvas.”


    She grinned at him, showing more teeth than ought to have fit in one mouth.


    “If they are orcs,” rumbled Marget. (They weren’t. At least, from the sound of things, not very big ones.) “Seek out a large, well-scarred male. Say that you have a sister.”


    Miche frowned.


    “I despise him already. He doesn’t deserve my sister.” Which just made her laugh.


    Nameless had scrambled back onto his shoulder, digging sharp claws into already needle-scarred flesh. It was a measure of patience and friendship that he didn’t just fling the vile beast straight out of their cave and into the forest below.


    There must have been a time when his closest companions weren’t an orc and a smelly marten, he thought… but if so, Miche couldn’t recall it. Shaking his head, he lifted the bow.


    “I will smoke-step into their midst, then leap about from one to another. That should alarm and scatter them.”


    Marget nodded.


    “Vrol,” she muttered. “My brother’s name was Vrol. It should be brought to live-use on my first born… but I give it to you, Old One. If there be a fine male, when you set forth to fight him, call yourself Vrol, Free Male of the Slopes.”


    He could see from her face and turned-aside gaze that what she’d just done really mattered. So, bowing a little, Miche said,


    “I am honored to bear the name of your kin, Marget. I shall do my best to make it resound.”


    She looked at him, face very still, then lowered her head till her forehead touched his.


    “Return with many fresh scars and a kill, Hunter,” she ordered, moving away to arm herself and hide her emotion.


    Miche flashed from the cave moments later. The distance was great, but he could see where he meant to go, had manna in heaps and a solid plan.


    Bow partly drawn, he materialized on a huge, mossy tree-branch (big as a city street). Above and slightly in front of those laboring would-be assailants, he had ample time and a very good angle for scouting. There were nine… ten… eleven he saw; bow-legged goblinoids, most of them… one or two lizard-men, all armed with short swords and spears. Decent odds.


    Chose his first target then smoke-stepped again, bow fully drawn. Appeared directly in front of a stooped, scrawny male. No orc at all, but the fiercest-looking warrior this hunt-pack could boast. The creature’s eyes flew wide, showing white ring around all of that red. It rocked backward, reaching wildly for weapons and barking a warning.


    “Ark-gash!”


    Miche slashed at its nose with his arrow-tip, saying,


    “Hullo!”


    …Then smoke-stepping off, again. Did this repeatedly; flashing over to one goblinoid after another, drawing blood from each startled creature with his unreleased arrow.


    “I’m Vrol.”


    (Poof!)


    “A free male.”


    (Puff!)


    “Of the slopes.”


    (Flicker!)


    “I have a <u>sister</u>,”


    (Flash!)


    “Too hulking and strong,”


    (Pop!)


    “For the likes of <u>you</u>.”


    (Zap!)


    This final leap put him in front of their evident leader, a lizard-thing mage, with somebody’s skull perched on its head like a helmet. Not elven or human. Possibly orc. But for some reason, the sight enraged Miche.


    He swept out with the bow and clenched arrow, knocking that bleached, fragile bone helm right off the thing’s head and onto the ground. A carnivorous flower seized it at once, breaking the bone to shards with a chorus of rustling cracks.


    Miche then braced, twisted and kicked, sending that gibbering mage flying backward into a hive of assemblers. Crushed the delicate structure, which was made of chewed leaves and thin wire. The mechanoid creatures swarmed angrily forth, sending drones to defend their smashed hive.


    Firelord appeared as a blazing and circling orb, crisping anything that came within twenty feet of the elf. Nameless launched itself like a furry lightning-bolt, meanwhile, gashing faces and biting at hands.


    The entire howling, terrified mob scattered; each flailing off in a separate direction. Miche set a few cloaks on fire to speed their retreat, murmuring,


    “Keep your lives, and don’t come back.”


    Marget thudded up moments later, panting heavily; axe in one hand, sword in the other. Found nothing but Miche and Nameless (Firelord having ducked back inside again). Even those swirling assemblers were gone, shooting off over the treetops to seek lodging elsewhere.


    She cocked her head at the sounds of panicked retreat. At broken branches and puddles of urine. Looked a question at Miche, who just shrugged and lowered his bow.


    “They weren’t worth an arrow, much less a fight,” he told her. “If I were an orc, I wouldn’t insult my sister by letting one try.”


    “Hunh,” grunted Marget, sheathing her sword and re-slinging the axe. “It seems that we travel together still, Vrol-who-strides-once-more.”


    He carefully fired the arrow into the ground, then retrieved it and unstrung his bow. That latest name and title felt good… close to right… and he couldn’t look up for a moment. Then,


    “Maybe the next lot will include someone worthy. Until then, if everything’s packed, I suggest that we find that road and start moving.”


    Marget nodded.


    “I left Spots under cover, with enough spoor mark around her to scare off a troll. But a moment, Old One, and I will be back.”


    The orc was as good as her word, returning with the fawn in less time than it took Miche to cleanse and repocket his weapons. They set off southeast, avoiding the scattered hunting-pack’s trail. Made their way through a dank, noisy forest so dense, it was almost a wall.


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    Both the elf and orc were on highest alert, with Nameless scouting up front and ahead, climbing the vines and high branches. The scurrying marten found plenty to eat, for the forest abounded with insects and rats.


    Everywhere, creatures leapt, slithered or swung through the branches, hooting. Plants flowered and grew as they watched, battling each other for access to light. Poison was everywhere, usually aimed at whatever might take a bite of a tree or its leaves.


    On the other hand, this steaming arboreal warzone teemed with forage. One might trip, fall, and land on something to eat. Stumble onto a hollow tree-stump filled with fresh water and minnows, next. No one went hungry.


    Traveling hard, barely pausing for rest, they reached the old road before nightfall. It was in poor repair, its paving slabs thrust skyward and tilted apart by tree roots and grasses; all signposts long gone. Still…


    “The map places Amur twenty-six leagues down the road,” said Miche, looking sideways at a glowing image inside of his mind. “There is a shrine there, and maybe some of your people.”


    Marget spat rudely.


    “City folk,” she scoffed. “Rather bargain than fight. Armed with letters and words, instead of cold steel. I wouldn’t stay in a house with some scholar, Old One.”


    “Of course not,” he agreed, putting that thought away. “But we’ll find supplies there, at least.”


    Marget was outraged.


    “You mean to pay, with coin… not <u>raid</u>?” she demanded. “Must I take back Vrol''s name and scrape your tattoos?”


    The elf raked a hand through his hair, wishing the evening wasn’t so hot… that his “sister” wasn’t an utter barbarian… that he knew where his home lay, and how to get back.


    “I… no. Not buy, as such. Just…”


    Never finished the explanation because something dropped out of the trees to land with a sopping-wet plop on the road between Marget and Miche. A frog-thing; slimy, bright-colored and bug-eyed. Armed, too, with a wooden bat wrapped in wire and pointed, sharp flints. It didn’t look any friendlier than the goblinoids had, and it wasn’t alone. Fifteen slimy, red-and-black others followed it down from the treetops, dripping with poison. About ten feet tall, their clothing was slight, and their armor nothing but pieces of turtle and bug plating.


    “Hah!” Marget exploded, drawing her swords. “A fight before last-meal! That big one in front is mine, Old One!”


    She could have him, thought Miche (though at least they were off the topic of trade). He might have tried scaring them away, but then one of the frog-men pounced. It landed by Marget, whirling a bladed weight on a rope over its head, creating a whistling, razor-sharp scythe. The orc was already moving, dodging the weapon’s strike. Instead of orc-flesh, the blade slashed another frog-warrior’s bulging eye, spattering blood and goo everywhere.


    Marget brought her sword down in a whistling arc, cleaving her target in half. Miche dove, rolled, then came up under the rope-wielder’s weapon. Surged to his feet, sword in hand, as that bladed weight swung to the back of its arc. Gave the creature three feet of steel right through its armor and belly. Ducked to avoid the down-crashing rope-blade, then yanked his sword free and pivoted to face… not One-eye… but the next frog-man over. Or, maybe frog-woman, for her back was covered in bubbling foam. This glistening mass seemed to be full of writhing, saw-toothed black spawn.


    She (?) bowed herself forward, firing a cloud of the hissing small monsters at Miche. The elf responded with flame, creating a wall of fire that turned every one of those fast-flying tadpoles to greasy steam.


    Slicing another in half, he backed into Marget, whose face was all frog-blood and wide, savage grin. She was a wall. A cliff. And… while he was slighter in build… nothing got past Miche, either.


    “Come, demons!” roared Marget, startling birds into flight and shaking fruit from the treetops. “Come and die! This day is your last! This breath ends in blood! Come drape your corpse on my blade!”


    A pair of the frog-men hopped high, bounding clear over their prey with a net in tow. Sadly for them, Miche was fast and impatient. To him, after casting his mind the right way, they started to look very slow.


    The air turned to fiery pudding that he had to lean into, in order to move. He did it, though; slashing their net as it hung in the air, then beheading both leapers in one blazing arc. Ice-bolts took care of three more, freezing them solid. Then something hissed past from behind. A frog-spawn; its poisoned tail brushing his arm, raising a fiery welt. Marget struck him, somehow acting in time to push him out of the way of a second hurtling tadpole.


    He stumbled, recovered, then whirled to launch ice-bolts and flame. Too late, for one had struck Marget’s right shoulder, was chewing its way through her flesh, fast disappearing inside.


    She started to fall, seeming to drift like a leaf through slow-time. Miche caught her. Eased the orc down to the road’s tilted surface, as Firelord burst from hiding to sear and pop frog-men like kettle-grain.


    Time surged back to normal, bringing wind, cooler air, screaming birds, and Marget’s hoarse cursing. The tadpole was no more than a finger’s length of whipping tail, now; gnawing its way to the orc’s pounding heart.


    Miche knelt down beside Marget, summoning another ice-bolt; this one channeled, contained. He focused all of its power onto one squirming monster. Through the frog-spawn’s tail he sent dead-cold, killer frost, life-ending winter. Clear through the spawn, but no further.


    Marget shook in his arms, spitting curses and blood as the tadpole froze solid then shattered to bits in that deep, poisoned wound. Her eyes remained locked on his face. Her left hand gripped his arm, holding tight, but not crushing.


    “Shh… shh…” he said to her, summoning light, life and strength. “Shh… all is well, brave one.”


    Marget’s red eyes widened when Firelord flickered over to add his bit. The small god stopped her blood flow, then fashioned a ward circle. Nameless shot up a tree to keep watch. The surviving frogs were long gone, though. Miche tuned his hearing to listen, up all night holding his sister. His friend.


    He conjured weak beer in the morning, along with something almost like bread and a pretty fair mock-up of cheese. Fed her, murmuring spells to strengthen a faltering heart, banish pain and burn away venom.


    She was in no shape for wyvern steak, so he kept right on conjuring; goats’ milk for Spots and bland, easy fare for the invalid. Couldn’t rest from staying alert, because in this awful wood, death came from every direction.


    After three days, he was weak as the ghost of a temple-cat, but Marget had turned a corner. Her color came back, and her breath evened out. At length she was able to sit, wobbling only a little.


    “If you are able, we should move on,” he advised. “I burned up the bodies, but something else is certain to blunder along soon, and I’d like to not be here when it does.” He hadn’t the strength left to battle an errant breeze.


    Marget nodded, offering the elf a hand up.


    “You were there,” she said to him. “When I wandered in fever, close to the door, you were there shining with light, and my tattoos swirling all through you. So, I stayed.”


    Marget pressed his hand, then released it. Turned to look down the road next, rumbling,


    “Which way to this city of grubby traders, who I will bargain right down to their socks?”


    “It’s called Amur,” he smiled. “And, as your style of trading probably happens at knife-point, maybe let me get the food?”


    Marget leaned nearer and touched her forehead to his again. Then, she straightened.


    “In this matter, Vrol-young-tree-who-is-no-longer-short, I follow your lead.”


    “Onward then,” he replied. “I can rest as we travel, if you will keep watch.”


    “To the final breath and beyond, Old One,” she vowed, meaning it. She’d saved his life, and then he had saved hers. To an orc, that was deeper than kinship or marriage. Stronger than love.


    It took them two days to reach Amur, which turned out to lie at a shattered crossroads. The location was right, and maybe the name, but…city? Not even close.


    They were slashing their way through a knot of carnivorous vines, back onto the road’s pitted surface. Heard a low roaring noise, and scented great masses of people, which caused them to slow their pace. Next rounded a spur of dense forest, peering out to see open land, for the first time in days. There was a patchwork quilt of shanties and tents and wood temples below, for Amur lay cupped in a hollow.


    “That’s it? The city you spoke of?” scoffed Marget. “I see only a tangle of worms, unearthed by a kick.”


    Miche shrugged.


    “I didn’t build it,” he said. “And much time has passed since anyone freshened the map. The shrine should be somewhere up… oh.”


    Oh, indeed. Amur’s shrine crowned a very high tower, according to notes on the map. Well, like most of Amur, that tower was gone; crumbled away and its stones carted off, leaving only a portal whirling alone, high in the air.


    “You can fly, Vrol?” asked Marget, elbowing Miche. He studied the situation, rather than answering.


    There were booths and tents, huts and lean-tos, and temples with ladders. All set up like an ocean of cloth, wood and rust, clustered below that rotating gate. A hundred-and-fifty feet in the air, he thought, gazing upward.


    “I can levitate,” the elf said aloud, watching a line of ecstatic, bell-ringing worshippers dance by.


    “Better notion,” growled Marget. “I run ahead at full speed, clearing a path. You follow. Then, under the shrine, I throw you.”


    Miche turned to gauge the size of her biceps.


    “I’m sure you could do it,” he admitted. “But I’d rather not leave you alone with an angry mob of trampled locals. Shrines are supposed to be peaceful, and these folk seem addled enough.”


    The smell of incense and sewage, of spices and trash, was overpowering. Miche turned down his senses (surprised to learn he could do that). The droning music and constant drums faded from thunder to hiss. Better.


    “My plan is faster,” insisted the orc.


    “You haven’t heard mine,” objected the elf (who hadn’t thought of one, yet).


    They were still hidden by thickets, with Nameless sprawled out on a branch high above them, pretending to watch, but mostly just scratching. Then a shadow appeared, seeming to darken that mist-covered sky. Magnified by strong sunlight above and many layers of cloud, the shadow looked like a mighty dragon.


    At once, all of the people dropped to the ground, chanting three sounds again and again: ‘Ov-rah-lod! Ov-rah-lod!’


    In perfect unison they maintained the chant, while that shadow-drake circled and swooped, overhead. Then four of those huddling worshippers dared to stand up, lifting their arms to the sky. More and more joined them, but Amur’s god was selective. Only ten were swept into the air by a swirling mage-wind; carried spiraling up like dried leaves, nearer and nearer that portal. Shouldn’t have mattered to Miche when the mage-wind deserted them, and all but two plummeted groundward, shrieking. Not his people, not his world, not his problem…


    …but the elf acted anyhow, casting slow-fall to bring them all safely back down. All but two, who were taken up into the clouds and vanished from sight. Overhead, the dragon-shade struck a ferocious pose. A voice boomed out in the quick, mincing speech of the dark world. Nothing he cared to hear or decipher, though Marget was paying attention.


    Next the shadow banked off, leaving the crowd still bowed to that filthy and littered ground. On sudden impulse, Miche whispered,


    “My plan: while the crowd is distracted, I’ll glide across to the gate and drop in.” He was already off the ground, pushing against a substantial ley-line. Next rose like a phoenix, high above Marget.


    “Not your plan!” she hissed after him. “You couldn’t have known!”


    He didn’t respond directly, merely signing: Stay out of sight. Then, soaring high over bent backs and bowed heads, on a sea of chanting, pushed by a mage-wind, the elf darted into another lost shrine.