<u>28</u>
Skyla did not seem to recall the void-bomb attack or what had befallen her world and her shrine. Pressed on the matter, the bright-haired goddess would only respond,
“Please excuse the delay.”
…And Miche did not wish to trouble her. Besides, he had other problems to sort out. Though his own status as an Old One might be in question (there had been changes) Erron was indisputably elvish. The reconstituted general was glad to have a body of his own, once again, but he also felt terribly vulnerable. It was much easier to be wise and consoling when one was a data-ghost. Less so, when flesh, bone and blood, searing pain and last screams all rolled with the dice again.
“On the one hand,” said Miche. “I get the feeling we’ve somehow done this before and shall do again… unless we can settle things, this time.”
They had kindled a fire outside, on the pour-stone roof beside Rainbow Bridge. The space elevator was fully restored now, its cable soaring far out of sight to a glistening dot in the pre-dawn sky. Aerie Station, according to the map. Down on the mountain, the tower hummed in the wind like the strings of a dulcimer, providing a little shelter. Overhead burned the river of stars and a pale, crescent moon, their light drawing both elves outdoors like a magnet.
Meanwhile, Skyla was busy creating new beast-folk. The gaps in her memory made it difficult to converse with her. Asked the wrong question, she’d simply go still, flicker briefly, and then repeat,
“Please excuse the delay.”
It seemed better to leave the shrine, dining on biscuit and day-brew outside, than to cause its goddess further confusion. Besides, they did not feel the cold. Not really. Erron grunted, poking at their fire with a stick. Unlike Miche, he could not just reach in and shift burning wood with his hands.
“If all this has happened before, you’d think we’d remember some of the ways not to succeed,” he grumbled. “Instead, we have plenty of aches and terrors, but no useful experience. I’m tired, Miche. I don’t want to die again. Not like that.” Erron’s voice trailed off in a whisper as he stirred up embers and stared at the flames. His brown hair glowed almost copper in the firelight. His eyes were bruise-purple, looking haunted and bleak. It had been much worse than just bad, and only their friendship, need for revenge and concern for his family kept Erron from porting away. Miche rubbed at the back of his own tension-wracked neck, turning a few things over in his mind.
“If we aren’t sure what to avoid,” he mused, “We can still make a few guesses. We can set aside our first impulses, because whatever we’d normally do is probably wrong. It’s failed every time up to now, at least.”
Erron nodded. He could no longer scan, but their restored mental map showed a quartet of dots closing in on their position. One was Dark Cloud.
“Going with that, my natural reflex is to take the elevator up to the Aerie, then rush on to Far Keep and battle that murderous whoreson directly.”
“That is my notion, too,” admitted the younger elf. “Which probably makes it a bad idea.”
His long hair contained strands of auburn, now, and his eyes were more slate than pale grey… but he was himself once again, still in serious trouble.
“Let’s call the direct approach a failed strategy and come up with something better. Allies, maybe. I have always rid myself of companions. I never wanted to risk them or admit that I needed help… but maybe they have to come with us, too.”
“Or perhaps,” said a voice from the darkness, “you just need another way in.”
Miche and Erron shot to their feet, summoning armor and weapons from their faerie pockets and raw, stored manna. Shielded themselves with magical force, causing the wards to flare up.
“Peace,” said the voice, as someone took shape out of frost and twilight, under the towering framework of Rainbow Bridge. “We have the same enemy, if no great love for each other.”
The voice was feminine and musical, with an unsettling minor-key edge. Its words were chirped in the degraded local pidgin. (And, yes, he could understand what she said.)
“Show yourself,” snapped Erron, coming around the fire to stand beside Miche, bow in hand. “No one meets in this place by happenstance. You are here because you were sent, or else you’re hunting down elves.”
“Very astute, General. Yes, to both accusations,” said the speaker, shedding the darkness that swathed her. “But I find myself in difficult circumstances, and you can trust me just as far as I can trust you.”
She seemed to weave herself out of the shadows, approaching from under that massive tower. The magical stranger was very slender and tall, with floor-length white hair, grey skin and a pair of luminous, slanting blue eyes. There were no other facial features on that perfectly oval face. No mouth or nose, at all. Her chirping voice was a mere projection, pulsing from the air near her eerie, mostly blank face.
Glowing sigils swirled continuously around the tall sorceress, causing her long black garment to ripple with light. Bad enough… but her left arm was Marget’s, shrunken to fit that slim body. The stolen arm twitched as if sensing other commands than hers, causing the sorceress to clamp it tight to her side.
“As you see, I cannot breathe, drink or eat, and only a spell sustains me,” she continued, edging slowly nearer. “I haven’t much time. I was sent here, starving, to battle and weaken you… but an unwilling tool may turn on its master, as both of you can attest.”The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
The sorceress seemed to flow rather than walk. Her long white hair moved on its own, completely indifferent to the icy, mountaintop wind. As both elves backed away, she spoke again, saying,
“We can do battle, goading you on like a pair of wild bulls and killing me, or you can accept my advice and my aid. A bargain of sorts, but you must save me first.”
Miche glanced over at Erron. The newcomer’s offer felt very much like a trap, and neither of them wanted to approach that pathetically unfinished lure. Worse... Miche repressed a shudder. Her face, her voice and the shape were different, but he’d served at her will, suffered much at her hands. No disguise could conceal the witch from him. Speaking to Erron, he said,
“Whatever we tried before, hasn’t worked. She is dying, but she’ll put up a terrible fight before being killed again. We’ll be drained by the battle, giving an edge to the Fallen One.”
“Trask,” supplied Erron, sourly. “His real name is Fenrik Trask, and he is not as pure human as he wanted his followers to believe. A shade or a ghoul, now, thanks to my curse.”
Right. It took absolutely all that he had, but Miche signed: Cover me. Take Firelord. He waited until the small god had left him before putting his weapons away and approaching that slim, half-formed visitor. He was probably going to die now… but Erron and Firelord could still get free, and Miche would not risk harm to the god.
Heart thudding, breath coming fast, he left the safety of their campsite. Miche heard the creak of Erron’s drawn bow as he went across to stand before the witch who’d enslaved and tormented him. His hand itched for a sword. He could feel the energy-blade buzzing and straining in its faerie pocket, trying hard to break free. Clenched both hands to fists, then forced them back open again, scrubbing their palms on his tattered red cloak. He wanted to vomit, run away, beat her to pulp, but did none of those things. Said raggedly,
“Take what you need to restore yourself. We will hear what you have to say, after that.”
She hesitated. Erron’s bow was drawn, and it did not waver; the gleaming arrowhead aimed squarely between her slanting blue eyes.
“The general will slay me, when I lower my shield to feed,” she objected. But Miche made a slight headshake and dropped his own shield spell.
“He knows what I’m doing and why,” said the young elf. “He will stay his hand... unless you try to drain me completely.”
The transformed witch bowed her head.
“Be it so, then. Your offer, freely given, I accept.”
It was Marget’s torn-away hand that reached forth toward him. She touched his shoulder, and then… as Miche braced himself not to flinch… pressed her stolen palm to his chest. Through armor and clothing her hand sank to touch him, reaching after his manna, spirit and lifeforce.
And it happened. Manna flowed, but it wasn’t stripped. Not taken by terror and force but given by choice. A few heartbeats passed, while Erron cursed, and the witch flared with transferred power.
A sudden slim nose and scarlet mouth formed under her luminous eyes. She gasped aloud, breathing for the first time in over a day. The witch reeled away from her former slave, breaking contact and rasping,
“Water, please…”
Erron cast his weapon aside. Rushed over to brace up the young elf, who was terribly shaken but not… not drained to the edge of death by a leering monster.
“I can still finish her,” offered Lord Erron, while the witch upended their day-brew pot into her open mouth. “Did it once. I can do it again.”
Firelord came back. Lighting, restoring and strengthening; replacing all that Miche had given away.
“I am now worshipped by another,” said the god, who was no longer so small. “The second follower approaches, pursuing one who intends you ill. Now is the time for a plan.” Typical god-talk. Never direct or quiet, Firelord’s speech caused the embers to bounce. Also triggered an avalanche. He <u>was</u> stronger, now, and that boosted Miche, in turn. The young elf clasped Erron’s shoulder and then stepped away, saying,
“Leave her for now. She has offered peace and… so far… she’s kept to her word.”
Then, to Firelord,
“Your worship will spread to the ends of this wretched world, Shining One, but its folk have to change first, not you.”
Last of all, Miche addressed the witch.
“You spoke of another way into the Fallen One’s lair,” he demanded. “What is it?”
That ruby mouth curved in a humorless smile. The expression did not reach her eyes.
“He expects you to take Rainbow Bridge to the Aerie, then attempt to res… <u>urghhh</u>!”
She never finished her sentence. Instead, whatever vile power, whatever psychic connection linked the witch to her master came suddenly active. As the elves looked on, shocked, she burst into flame. Burned up in moments from inside out, consumed by roaring dark fire. The witch had no time to scream before her body withered to reeking ash that streamed away northward, into a wind that affected its flight not at all.
She left only the print of a single bare foot and a strange diagram on the pour-stone floor by their campfire. Miche looked it over, but saw nothing he recognized, and it very soon melted away. ‘Well,’ he thought, ‘the night-hag is dead again… Probably not for long.’ Couldn’t say that her second end bothered him any more than the first one had… except that once more he’d failed to destroy her body or fetch back Marget’s arm.
Miche turned from that vanishing diagram to look at Erron. Dark Cloud was almost upon them, according to their shared map. Three fast-moving dots appeared to be trailing the airship, also coming their way.
…And they very much needed a plan. Something the Fallen One wouldn’t expect and couldn’t prepare for.
“Allies,” Miche repeated, getting himself together. “For once, we don’t turn away help. We let others take some of the risk.”
Erron made a face.
“Definitely goes against the grain… but that may be the point. We can’t protect everyone, and we can’t win this fight by ourselves. So… we’ll take others with us, restore Aerie Shrine, and then find a <u>different</u> way into Far Keep. What do you suppose that diagram represented? Some kind of pass code or map?”
“No idea,” said Miche, as the sun’s first rays began painting the sky warm gold and rose. “But she used up the last of her manna setting it down.”
“You trust her?” asked Erron, watching Dark Cloud appear on the eastern horizon. Miche shook his head.
“Holy gods, <u>no</u>. She is on her own side, not ours or the Fallen One’s, but he is as dangerous to her as he is to us, so she may have been telling the truth.”
“He’ll make her pay for it,” said Erron, driving off terrible memory with a visible effort. Then, “Let’s move away from the tower, Miche. I would rather be clear when the Cloud docks.”
Wise, as it turned out, because the space elevator had not been built with airships in mind, and the process was cumbersome. The sleek black pirate ship slowed as it reached Lone Mountain. Eclipsing the last few stars, it banked around and came lower, flexing its steering wings and snaking out magical lines. Those serpentine ropes struck crossbeams and made themselves fast, drawing the airship into the tower with a chorus of very loud creaking and grinding sounds. On a wary impulse, both elves raised their shield spells.
There came a flurry of hissing lines, the thunderous boom of wood meeting magically reinforced metal. A heartbeat passed. Then, an explosion of construct-pirates burst from the airship, swarming over its sides to drop to the roof around Miche and Erron, loud as cannon shot.
“Surrender yourself, ‘Captain’,” shouted their leader, gazing down from the rail. “I have taken command of this ship, your friends are long gone, and I’ll wager there’s a substantial reward for your hide, whether or not you’re still breathing inside of it.”
And that’s when the fight started.