Sword and Sorcery Seven, chapter twelve_Sword and Sorcery, a Novel

12

 Among the thousand death-ways (and one) was Mandor the Charmer’s particular favorite. Reversal played a neat trick, permitting the caged mouse to think itself victorious. That close to success and safety the victim would come, dealing tremendous damage to its stalking assassins. Then, at a smile and a sigil from the dying vampyre, all of that harm… the wounds, the pain and exhaustion… would be cast right back on the horrified victim.

 It was Mandor’s self-imposed rule that this deed had to happen artistically, at the very last possible moment. His masterpiece had to be epic, with the bodies falling just so, at their height of emotion and struggle.

 His lordship was quite an imposing target, and the vital moment was right about now. Arvendahl’s upward slash had torn into the transformed assassin’s gut; shredding through muscle, and scattering ropy, undead entrails like reeking confetti. Beautiful, seriously, and Mandor was moved to applaud.

 In the meantime, Fallon’s life-drain had just about hollowed the struggling elf to fragile and crumbling ash. As fast as his lordship could raise wards, that wailing banshee consumed them, plunging her smoky clawed hands ever closer to Arvendahl’s heart.

 The tableau was just about perfect, though the other two marks (a pair of young, battered exiles) needed more pathos, more danger… so Mandor held off a bit longer. The sun was rising. Its rosy-gold light scorched the vampyre’s flesh. He continued to smile as wisps of vapor rose and his undead skin began shriveling. Wait a bit longer… wait… as a tide of furious monsters emerged, as manticore spikes began dropping like venomous hail; as a transport gate opened wide and… unbelievably… not one ship but two glided up. All while a second great battle raged overhead.

 But a true artist seeks always ‘exactly’, not ‘almost’. Mandor shifted a bit of his damage to those two younger marks. Just a gash or two, and the crackling lash of searing-hot pain.

 His lordship rushed forward to take advantage of the young marks’ sudden distraction, fighting to wrest away their lives, not attempting to save his own. He had bent to take up a dropped sword (the blond lordling’s, fittingly) and now he stalked the young pair, blade upraised.

 Over the clamor of battle, the roar of surging and pounding surf, Arvendahl raged,

 “This is for the one you betrayed. For the one you took from me, mongrel! In Sherazedan’s name, die!”

 But the darker-haired youngster lurched to his feet (beautifully, wonderfully). Like a hero of epics, he summoned and lifted a crossbow; took aim and fired. Then a hawk and a very small griffin struck like thunderbolts, out of the flaring dawn. Next, the blond mark twisted halfway around in a cleric’s grip, hurling Arvendahl’s sword… ripped from his own breast… like a javelin.

 It was then, at that precise instant, that Mandor whispered, “Reversal”.

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 Not far away, between a grand hunting lodge and the cliff, a transport gate split reality. Lady Alyanara shot through it first, just ahead of her husband, Lord Galadin. He was fully possessed by his god, now; becoming the sword-arm of Firelord, and he blazed like a star.

 As for her own patron deity, Mother (so Ally thought of her) contented herself with looking through Alyanara’s eyes, nudging her actions. Behind them strode Reston, Galadin’s son with a mortal, and red-haired Keldaran, first-born to Ally. Behind them came Starloft’s whole warband, less twelve.

 Her daughter and grandsons were all in terrible danger. She’d sensed their plight, along with that of both boys’ wives and their children. Not hard to see why. There was a demon present, a prince of fouled air and darkness. Spotting the creature, Galadin-as-Firelord growled, “Mine!” and flew upward, trailing flame like a comet.

 There was also a stone giant. Very young and not yet actively fighting, but a definite threat, all the same. Closer in, a pair of monstrous killers strove with Lord Arvendahl. Nor was that all.

 A tangled clot of sorcery tied everyone’s fate and their vision together… someone had leveled a last-magic death curse… and released a horde of bellowing monsters. Ally counted an ogre, three trolls and a manticore, all arrowing in like a hunting pack.

 On the less dark side, two ships had appeared. One was clearly a pirate vessel, the other was Seahorse, riding a giant, on-rushing wave.

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 “Turn your back for a week,” murmured Ally, shaking her head, “and everything comes to a boil.” (Explodes right out of the pot, actually; spattering burning-hot damage everywhere.)

 Well, Keldaran and Reston could certainly deal with the monsters and pirates. Seahorse no doubt brought aid (she could already hear the sweet voice and chords of a talented bard). That tangled web of magic, however, was her mess to unravel.

 Alyanara left the boys to their business. Summoning manna, she drifted high in the air like another bright sun. Could have snipped here and there like a gardener, but there was no time. Instead, Ally simply took all the binding and cross-vision spells into herself, returning everything below back to normal… in exchange for absorbing whatever harm they had wrought.

 Alyanara was a demi-goddess. She foreknew her own death. This wasn’t the time, no matter what ghastly wound she absorbed, how doubled over with pain she became. She’d survive. Just, that agonizing flood of…

 Of gut rip… crushed ribs… sword-thrust… talon-raked eye… bolt through the chest… life drain… and venomous spikes…

 That cascade of wounds nearly drove her unconscious. It would have killed her, had she been mortal, or simply an elf. Hurt though, so very much, despite all that her hovering mother could do to shield Ally.

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 High overhead, Fee was pierced through by fiery claws. Both arms were locked to her sides and her weapon fallen. Worse, she could see nothing at all but a confused and blurred image of grainy dark stone. Alfea tasted candy suddenly (a molasses-twist?) which oddly enough brought comfort. Bean, she thought. It was Bean whose sweet little mind touched her own, reaching for mama. Bean, whose life was threatened by Skyland. By a demon who thought that he’d brought low a heavenly drake. Alfea shoved at those searing talons, wrenching herself partly free.

 “Vugrok! Thrice I have named you,” she said to the fiend, “and now I command you: Begone! Foul smoke of the unmourned dead, return to the fires below!”

 Skyland just laughed at her.

 “You cannot banish me, slut!” jeered the demon, skull-faced and reeking of death. “We are not in the fey-wild, nor upon the Accursed Isles! Your names have no power to bind, here!”

 Then a black, frozen arrow slashed up to strike at the demon’s heart. Blazing light exploded like dawn, seeming to hollow Skyland right out. Alfea’s vison returned to normal, as her husband’s grandfather smashed his way into the fight, wielding a fiery blade (and his god).

 She twisted free of Skyland’s slackening grip, once again forming her spear. Firelord/ Galadin winked at Alfea. Then, they drove home their blades; spearhead and sword-thrust plunging straight through that monster’s vile heart.

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 Kaazin just stared for a moment, taking in all the weltering chaos as well as he could. Then,

 “Don’t know whether to enter the fight or just sit back and enjoy a good drinking game,” he mused aloud, leaning far over the console. “I’d quaff one for every time Day-spawn or one of his allies is killed. and you’d drink for every dead monster or blow against Arvendahl.”

 He went so far as to conjure a pitcher of Heart’s Blood… but Glassy struck it aside with a ringing clout of her hand, snapping,

 “Twelve million platinum, drow! I’ll beat Arvendahl to death, pulp him with your bloody corpse if I have to, but no way am I losing that money!”

 Mortals. Female mortals. Forever fretting for all the wrong things.

 “As you will,” grunted Kaazin, shrugging. Downed a swift draught of Heart’s Blood, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and sent the flask off, snarling, “Battle it is, and no fault of mine if a wayward strike (or ten) dices that Sun-spawn to quivering chunks.”

 Tess snorted impatiently, leading their race to the deck.

 “Kill whoever you want to, drow. Makes no difference to me," she called over one shoulder. "Just be certain that Arvendahl’s head ends up riding a hook on the mast!”

 At her shouted command, three heavy, spiked anchors dropped from their clamps, thundering down to the cliff-top below. Just missed that rumbling stone pillar, crashing like meteors onto the mainland. One anchor struck Arvendahl’s hunting lodge, crushing and dragging the beautiful structure off its foundations with a tremendous, splintering roar. One hit his lordship’s monster paddock, releasing a screeching lamia. A third cratered rock, blasting a hole on the cliff, then gouging a long, sparking gash as Flying Cloud swayed to a halt overhead.

 Glassy and Kaazin leapt from the deck; sliding down a long anchor chain (her) or bounding to the ravaged cliff on a conjured stairway of corpses and rocks (him). Laughed aloud as they dropped, because both pirates loved a good, vicious fight.

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 Val was quickly surrounded; not just Filno and Vikran the cleric, but Dad and Uncle Reston rushing to place themselves between him and his furious enemy. Important, because he had to keep looking upward. Had to help Cinda to aim.

 Saw his bodyguard (once love) draw her bow and fire a shining black arrow. Saw it strike home, slashing just past Alfea and into the demon’s webbed ribcage. Then magical bonds snapped like old string. Everyone’s vision went back to normal, switching to here and now. Right.

 No one had drawn out Arvendahl’s sword. They hadn’t dared to, for fear of causing more damage through working its blade from his breastbone and chest. Right, so... Valerian did it, himself. Yanked Grassfire out of that splintery gash with both hands, releasing a fountain of blood and wet air.

 It… the sword… spoke in his mind, saying, ‘End this’, as Arvendahl rushed upon Filimar, shouting a threat. Val had a sucking chest wound, now. Couldn’t draw breath to reply. But he nodded, twisting around in the cleric’s grasp, just as Filno conjured and fired a crossbow. As a hawk and a griffin plunged down from above, slashing at Arvendahl’s face. As ‘Merlo’ smiled and whispered, “Reversal”.

 Then, praying silently, ‘Oberyn, son of the Morning, strider of night, shepherd of stars, guide weapon’s flight!’ Valerian used the last strength of his body and laboring heart. Hurled that fiery sword like a spear, directly at Arvendahl''s face.

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Sword and Sorcery Seven, chapter twelve