《Sword and Sorcery, a Novel》


 Chapter One-Twenty

    Finally beginning those promised edits! Long, because it was my National Novel Writer''s Month entry. If I could figure out how to cut and resize it, I would.


    By way of Introduction:


    Karandun used to float free on the Ocean of Mists and Storms; far to the south of more settled lands, and only rarely accessible. Surrounded by fearsome currents and teeming with giants and monsters left over from primal chaos, the fog-shrouded island was left to fend for itself. So say the bards, at any rate.


    How and why this slow-spinning realm was able to drift like a leaf, pointing sometimes one way, sometimes another, no one has ever explained. Enough to say that it was. That, so the gods willed it, back when they still interfered in the doings of mortals.


    Then came Oberyn, Son of the Morning, Strider of Night, Shepherd of Stars, whose first footfall onto this plane, out of the rift and onto firm land, brushed upon Karandun. And what a footfall! The western plain, so they say, is naught but the scuff of his heel. (Rolling one''s eyes is impious, and shall result in a doubled assignment. Attend!)


    Forthwith and ever after, Karandun ceased her slow, graceful dance, becoming as deeply rooted as other, less magical, lands. Now, she lies cupped like a jewel in the palm of a turbulent ocean, fixed forever in place.


    But the Strider had not come alone, nor only to fasten down wandering lands. With him, once he''d opened a way, came many great champions and mages. Battle was instantly joined, fought against creatures of horror and all of their fell, loathsome gods.


    Dragons, giants, trolls and other, less wholesome creatures were slain, exiled of (rarely) won over to light. Some yet abide. Others have shriveled down to mere legend and myth, slinking back into darkness.


    (It is easy to scoff when surrounded by order and plenty, while enjoying the peace of a realm torn by others from raw, pulsing chaos. May their like come again! Manna springs forth and you know not whence, nor how! Dragons remain as mere toys, dandled by lofty young maidens and lords! The Under-deep¡­ Yes, it exists, you-who-know-better¡­ The Under-realm has been sealed quite away, locked by the sigil of Oberyn. Go and try, if you dare. Join the throng who''ve been burnt beyond ashes, touching that vigilant rune! There shall be one less troublesome headache to bear! No? Very well, onward.)


    Oberyn, having claimed this realm as his own, partially linked it to Faerie. The Needle yet stands as mute gateway and sentry, though few know its secrets, and fewer still have climbed to its uttermost peak.


    At first, it seemed as though total victory had been attained, and the forces of darkness driven away, forever. New stars appeared like a scatter of gems in the sky, aligning themselves to declare Strider''s glory. Our moon was drawn out of fathomless space; slim, cold and beautiful, lighting the hours of night.


    But the vilest of horrors had not come forth with the first arrival of order. Biding its time, the distillation of chaos, pain and despair took gradual form. Plating itself in armor forged by each murder, betrayal and lie, feeding on treachery, it grew unbelievably strong, there in the veriest dark.


    All that was needed, for the monster to burst from its torpor was distraction; inattention; a relaxation of tiresome vigilance.


    Then¡­ but all know what happened thereafter. How that rankest of serpents struck on the longest night of the year. How Oberyn and his champions, slow to believe and respond, rode forth at last to confront it. How continents sank or were shattered, cloud giant nations crashed to the ground. How an uneasy peace descended at last. One from which no one¡­ not the Chaos-serpent, not Oberyn or any of his mighty warriors, ever returned.


    And so, there it hung. Not peace, but stasis. One which required but a pebble''s fall to disturb.


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    1


    He''d been drinking pretty intensely; staying just on the sweet side of broke and blind drunk, with the help of some powerful spells and an iron constitution. See, he''d actually done it; completed his third apprenticeship cycle to the most sarcastic, demanding, impossible master in Karellon, Sherazedan the subtle, master of all that is, was and is yet to be; declaimer of truth, scryer of paths, possessor of the hidden third eye, Imperial court mage and healer, brother to His Transcendent Majesty, blah, blah, blah¡­ That the old lich had seemed just as surprised as Val himself, cocking a silver-pale eyebrow and muttering,


    "I suppose that you''ve not entirely disgraced your name and your heritage," scarcely mattered.


    He''d succeeded, against all odds, bets and expectations; using a few slightly rejiggered spells and his own quick wits to earn the title ''journeyman mage'', a staff and a month away from the workbench.


    He was supposed to be using that time for meditation; for planning his masterwork cantrip and storing up manna. Or, you know¡­ going out on the town with the usual set of noble young ruffians, stirring up gold and excitement amid neon spell-glows and beckoning shills.


    Someone (Prince Nalderick) had suggested they tackle the drinking part of the Seven Challenges. Sounded like fun, so off they went to the Open Casket; Marlie, Lyr, Naldo and Val; pausing for dice games, attractive companionship and deleterious moisture pretty near every step of the way.


    No duels, because, even half-drunk, Valerian Tarandahl was not to be lightly crossed swords with. Even dressed down, he went armed, and everyone recognized Nightshade.


    Anyhow, they''d at last burst into the Casket, brimming with sufficient coin and lowered boundaries to make slamming down the strongest draughts the planes could distill seem like a fine idea.


    Auburn-haired Marlie¡­ Aldimarilon Kalistiel when he was feeling his rank¡­ tossed a coin at the shimmering door-ward, snapping,


    "The Seven Challenges drinking tourney, at once!"


    Magical energies sparked, shifted and faded over the doorway, allowing them entrance and scanning their purses. The tavern-keeper, Paryn Feen- no one important, wagged his grey head, but accepted their coin, showing the four high-born elves to a private booth in the back.


    Fresh bread was brought, thumped down on the table with spiced oil and salted fruits by a stout halfling barmaid. She grinned at the tipsy young elves, shoving their food across the splintered oak surface to make room for a great deal of powerful drink.


    "Yer Lordships y''ll be needin'' somethin'' ta help youse absorb all that hooch," she told them, over the warm-up band''s final song. A perfect cap to a marvelous night, and it should have been aces.


    Val was surrounded by laughing companions, scented smoke and pounding loud music (the house band that night was the Necrophiles). He was flush with success and with freedom. An entire month away from Sherazedan! From court! Maybe away from the city, completely.


    Ridiculous boasts were made. Nalderick, for one, claiming that he could drink all three of his teammates under the table and still take on the rest of the crowd. Naturally, Val had to top that, drawling,


    "Kitten play. I can down all four draughts in the space of a song, then empty the sea-folk drinking horn."


    Naldo''s green eyes widened a bit. He sketched a slight, seated bow.


    "By all means, proceed, " purred the Prince-Attendant, mentally counting his winnings. Further money changed hands.


    By this time, the drinks had arrived; Flame brew, Tornadic ale, Krush Mudd and Moonlyte, to be knocked back in any order an utter fool might desire. Val wasn''t concerned. He''d always been able to handle his liquor, and high-stakes betting was a vital resource for one with more noble lineage than funds; even a back-door imperial princeling.


    Brushing a strand of blond hair from his face, he used casual magic to line up the bottles before him. As for the drinking horn, that was still just a shadowed suggestion. It would not take actual form until Val had slammed down the first four.


    Somehow, word of the contest had spread. Other patrons gathered to watch and place hefty wagers. Val affected not to notice, reaching first for the clawed iron bottle of Flame brew. At a murmured word¡­ his master would have approved the intricate spell, if not its use¡­ the metal bottle popped open, dragging air from the bar and pulsing with heat.


    The next song began: Raven Heart, a screeching power ballad with a very long lute solo.


    ''To Firelord,'' thought Valerian, invoking his family god. ''Grant me a clear head tonight, Milord, and half of the winnings are yours.''


    None of it showed on his face, though. Using his right hand rather than magic, this time, Val lifted that pulsing-hot flask to his mouth and, with calm, practiced elegance, downed its contents in one graceful draught. Not enough to just swallow the stuff. He had to look good while doing so.


    Right.


    Went down rather like magma, but at least he''d not had to drink it in flame giant quantities. More than challenging enough, even so. It tasted of dragon fire and char, with a very strong burnt metal aftertaste.


    Down it went, causing all of Val''s senses to heighten. He grew a sudden few inches and developed a slight, golden tan. Otherwise, nothing.


    Out in the gathered crowd, someone muttered and paid up. Their problem, for misjudging his capacity for strong drink, not his for taking their money.


    Next, the young high elf summoned the flask of Moonlyte. Silvery-pale and sprinkled with tiny bright gems that twinkled and flashed like blue eyes, this bottle was blessedly cool to the touch.


    Another beautiful one-off spell unwound its filigree cap seal, releasing a shimmering glow, along with a scent like mint, iced fruit and cold river stone.


    Kalisandra''s goddess was Frost Maiden, to whom Val had once or twice made offerings, while spending time in her realm. Thinking now of that laughing, mischievous huntress, Val promised to spare any creatures the goddess chose to light up, then raised the flask to his slightly scorched mouth and tossed off its contents.


    The liquor within tasted like wintery, pine-scented air. Like frost scraped off an icy window. Like snow-laden branches and mist. It also numbed him slightly, healing a very raw throat.


    At this point, he was seeing into the spectators'' flesh, clear on through to their fates. A touch of his aunt Meliara''s curse, that, but only when drunk, thank mighty Oberyn. Val deliberately didn''t look at his friends. Better not to know.


    The Krush Mudd and Tornadic ale remained. Equally bad, the pair of them, but with very different effects. Val left the matter to fate and demand, reaching out with another spell guided by surges of crowd noise.


    His magic seized upon the studded leather tube of Mudd, drawing the heavy container toward him and making it pulse with red sparks. All for show, but a scowling half-orc in back snarled,


    "He''s cheating! Them spells is switching the drinks fer milk or water!"


    Val paused. Cocked an eyebrow and gestured, sending the tube of Mudd arcing gently over the crowd to hang in midair before the startled half-orc.


    "By all means, my good creature," he drawled, "try some, yourself."


    No light threat, as Mudd was something like alcoholic gravel suspended in smoke-flavored tar. Just getting it down took heroic determination, often leading to protracted coma, madness or death.


    The half-orc reddened, snarled a few curses, then melted back into the jeering mob. Val let the moment hang a bit longer, giving himself time to steady a little before retrieving the slow-spinning tube.


    "Anyone else?" he inquired, sounding bored. No one spoke up, so Val fielded that hovering, weaponized landslide and flipped off its cap.


    What happened next was hotly debated throughout the Open Casket and, later, at court. For certain, he raised the tube to his mouth and started to drink. It¡­ was truly awful. Very much the worst thing he''d ever tasted, in sludgy texture and excrescent tang. Brewed in the Boglands by trolls, the stuff was clearly not meant for elvish throats.


    Also, though, that''s when his father''s sword appeared, glowing like a star; hanging in midair right before Val. Turning everything else in the place to smoke and illusion, the sword obscured its surroundings; piercing the table, shrieking a war-cry of vengeance and fury and blood.


    No.


    Not possible. Not here, not now, not to him, as that would mean¡­


    The young elf lord surged to his feet, half tipping the heavy oak table. People and creatures around him shouted and scattered, for manna was draining like water from everything else around Val but that wretched, blaring-loud sword.


    Sheer, raw, bloody-fanged panic triggered a sudden escape spell, one of the proofs he''d given of journeyman competence. Winking out like a candle, Valerian Tarandahl ad Keldaran vanished from the Open Casket with a thunderclap bang, bailing out on his friends, the packed house and a very steep bill.


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    2


    The escape spell punched him roughly out of the tavern, turning space inside out like an old bag, to remove him from danger. Maybe because he''d just been shocked sober, or because his world had been ripped apart at its root, Val showed up at the planned site¡­ some three feet over the ground.


    He materialized in the old waterfall cave where he, his older brother Lerendar and their father Keldaran camped out, when the family visited Karellon. The cave floor was sandy, with here and there scattered bed rolls and "rough it" supplies; to the left, a fire pit, further back, a bow-rack and arrows.


    Elves, like cats, tend to land on their feet, but Val was still deeply shaken. He stumbled a bit upon hitting the ground. Had maybe ten seconds of peace, before the wretched sword reappeared, brighter and louder than ever.


    A solid wave of rejection-nausea-rage overcame Val, who seized the hilt with both hands, swung the blade around once, and flung out straight through the sheeting waterfall, out of his family''s campsite.


    No good. The accursed thing arched back around, cracking him on the head with its pommel in the process.


    Val reeled backward, abjuring the sword with spell, rune and gesture, but nothing worked. The call of blood and fire and vengeance would not be drowned out nor extinguished.


    Now it flung a torrent of images at him, filling his mind with dad''s jerking body and rolling head; with Lerendar trapped beneath a screaming, struggling bay horse. With goblins swarming like ants, dancing in blood.


    And mother¡­? Not in the vision-tide. Whatever had happened had not included Lady Elisindara. Maybe. She might simply not matter at all to the sword of the Tarandahls, the sentient blade that he rejected with all he had in him.


    ''Silmerana, Warden of the North,'' it kept repeating in tones of cold, slashing metal, ''Claim title and weapon, rise up to avenge the fallen!''


    But, Val only backed as far as that shallow cavern would let him, stopping when timber and rock ground at his back and his palms.


    "Go away," he grated, through tightly clenched teeth. "Leave me be."


    But, it would not. Switching tactics suddenly, the weapon sneered,


    ''If there were anyone else¡­ anyone remotely worthy¡­ then to him or her I should have gone, Wastrel, but there remains only you.''


    Right.


    They''d never gotten along. The few times back home at Starloft that his father had allowed Val to take the sword''s hilt, "Smythe" had loudly declared him a waste of breath, space and generative energies. At the last such humiliation, Dad had just laughed. Touseling his younger son''s pale hair, he''d said,


    "No matter. Oberyn willing, the need will never arise. Even if it did, Son, you''d grow to be man enough. We always do."


    Except¡­ he couldn''t. Didn''t want to. Wasn''t Keldaran or Lerendar. Wasn''t ready or able, at all. Back then, his older brother had winked at him, slapped at the family blade with an open palm and said,


    "Stop that! Bad sword! Behave, or I''ll only use you at table, for spreading butter!"


    Only, neither of the family warriors were here. Just Val; part-time courtier and half-hearted mage. Smythe burst through his paralysis yet again, snapping,


    ''Cease your sniveling and take hold of my hilt, boy!'' warning, ''Attempt to throw me away one more time, and you will have a concussion to go with that hangover!''


    "Look," began Val, trying to reason with this ancestral soul trapped in a strip of sharp metal. "You hate me¡­"


    ''Yes,'' agreed Smythe (Vesendorin, actually, but Val had a genuine gift for stupid nicknames).


    "...and you can certainly find a more capable wielder¡­"


    ''In any ditch, cave or hovel.''


    "So, go do it, then!" stormed the young elf, battling anguish, rage and the worst headache he''d ever experienced. "Reston Horsemaster is¡­"


    ''Naught but a low-bred Feen; Lord Galadin''s by-blow. Unworthy by half-elven blood, and beneath consideration. Now, take my hilt. Swear vengeance and rescue!'' shrieked that persistent, unpitying sword, with a noise like blade against whetstone.


    "Rescue?"


    Val thought back through all that Smythe had shown him. Dad was gone. The spot in his mind that pulsed with Keldaran''s life force had darkened forever, but Lerendar''s presence still flickered. His brother, pinned beneath poor, flailing Raya¡­ was Lerendar still¡­?


    ''Your brother yet lives, sorely injured and fading,'' Smythe informed him. ''All three of us will benefit if there is any spark of nobility hidden deep in your worthless husk, boy. With a bit of dispatch and energy, Lord Lerendar may yet be saved.''


    Right.


    He wanted to curl up and hide. To vomit up all of the ultra-plane liquor he''d forced down back at the Open Casket. Instead, Valerian reached out a hand, willing it not to shake as he first touched that leather-and-wire wrapped hilt, and then seized hold. It buzzed and rattled in his grip like a bottle of hornets, stinging the palm of his hand.


    ''Swear,'' Smythe demanded. ''Swear that there will be blood upon blood in black goblin torrents, until your father''s death is avenged and your brother regained.''


    Wanted to hit another escape spell. Run away and let somebody else do the hard part. Only, he was all that was left. The only one whose bloodline Smythe would accept. So, raggedly, Val said,


    "I swear. Dad¡­ I''m sorry. I''m not the one who should be¡­ Lerendar, I''ll do whatever I can to¡­"


    ''You will succeed or perish, boy, along with myself and the Tarandahl family name, lands and honor.''


    Val took another deep breath. For just an instant, he thought that he felt warm, firm pressure on his right shoulder, as though a familiar hand had clasped him and given a brisk shake. He started to reach for his father''s scarred hand, but nothing was there. Until the world itself ended, he would never again see Keldaran. But, there was still time, still maybe a way to help Lerendar.


    "I will find out what happened," he whispered. "Find and slay the ones responsible, whoever they are and wherever that takes me. I will rescue my brother, or die in the attempt. This, I swear before Oberyn and Firelord. Hear me, all powers and spirits of Karandun."


    His voice did not resonate, but a sudden glow filled the cave, and the rushing water outside seemed to boom and surge in response. His vow had been heard and accepted.


    All at once, that enchanted animation left Smythe, causing the broadsword to drop nearly out of his grasp. Val caught the thing before it hit ground, then tried a few awkward slashes and parries. Like handling a fence-post, it was, and about as easy to wear.


    He experimented with ways to position the blade that still left room to draw Nightshade¡­ now the auxiliary back-up sword¡­ without too many snags. Maybe across his back, if he practiced. For now, though¡­


    Val removed his weapons and cloak. Found a midair food cache and spelled it open, using Dad''s favorite cantrip. A pocket dimension unzipped for him, spilling forth a plate of rolled flat cakes, cloudberry jam, dried venison and a bottle of faintly alcoholic family spirit.


    From habit, he lit the fire pit with a murmured spell and then set three places, as though Dad and merry, always-too-big-for-the-room Lerendar would be back from their hunt at any moment. Couldn''t make himself take two away.


    Poured out an offering to Alaryn Firelord, instead. Next, he sat down and ate, putting himself mentally back in the past; back to a time when the cave rang with laughter, tall tales and Lerendar''s stupid practical jokes.


    Dawn crept its way past the noisy waterfall, lighting Valerian Tarandahl''s trance-held body and slow, quiet meal. He''d set himself to emerge from the rest in a candle-mark, surfacing with a wince, to a pounding headache and prisms of water-split light.


    Cleaned everything up and spelled it back into its faerie pocket, in the usual half-shifted plane. Then, it was down to business. An attempt to contact his mother netted nothing at all but a silvery ward-off. She was alive, then, but elsewhere; plunged into mourning so deep, it defied comprehension. His grandmother, the Lady Alyanara, had sought the fey wilds when Granddad was killed, departing Karandun forever¡­ but maybe mother would stay.


    With words of command and squared shoulders, Val summoned a fresh scrying bubble. This time, he tried reaching for Reston Feen Tarandahl, his father''s half-brother; Starloft Castle''s master of horse.


    The bubble connection was brief and jittery. Reston was on horseback, riding hard through a tangled, dark forest. His stern, bristly face was slashed and abraded, his grey hair matted with blood. Glimpsing his nephew''s image, the half-elf leaned forward in the saddle, green eyes bright with sudden relief.


    "Lord Valerian! Thank mighty Oberyn!" he cried out. Then, all in a rush, "No! Do not say, or think, your location. Stay in the City, but not at court, or with anyone expected. We are betrayed, Milord, and your father has fallen. Your brother is taken, but I mean to¡­"


    Reston never finished the sentence. A sudden hoarse shout from one side, and a hailstorm of hissing dark arrows burning to ash against magical wards, tore away Reston''s attention. The scrying bubble burst into shards, breaking contact.


    Betrayed?


    Laid out on the sandy floor beside Nightshade, Smythe began glowing again. A fierce, wasp-like hum rose from that angry and sentient weapon, causing sand grains to scatter and bounce. Val shook his silver-blond head.


    "I''m not going back to the City," he decided, reaching for weapons and cloak. "Reston needs me, and I shall not break my oath."


    The sword''s glitter faded to a fretful shower of sparks; its hum to a faint vibration.


    "Could you tell where he was?" probed Val. "I saw a forest, rocks and part of a riverbank¡­ maybe the Swixbent. We could join Reston''s warband and help him to¡­"


    ''Keep to your path, boy. Lord Lerendar has been taken to the goblin stronghold, and the Feen does not matter.''


    Not to Smythe, maybe, but Val thought differently. As for Lerendar¡­ the goblin stronghold was a tangled scribble of shallow, foul-smelling tunnels in the far west of Ilirian, his family''s realm.


    His father and grandfather before him had seized and claimed uncharted wilderness for His Imperial Majesty; pressing the goblins almost back to the mountains. There had never not been war, in Val''s experience. Raid, followed by counterattack and stiffened border patrols, since he''d been old enough to sit on Granddad''s lap and listen to stories; tracing the scars on Galadin''s face and hands.


    Not that things were less dangerous in the City. That nest of vipers was a cauldron of poison, intrigue and slander; its high noble houses vying constantly for prestige and influence. Offering a handclasp while aiming a dagger. There the peril was doused in honey and masked with a smile. He knew. He''d lived there for nearly ten cycles.


    Now that Ilirian''s borders were fairly secure¡­ now that his father''s realm had begun to yield profits, any one of Karellon''s high noble factions might have moved to strip it away from the Tarandahls. Might have arranged accidents, brewed storms or funded uprisings.


    No. He would not return to the City. But, if not there, where could he safely go?


    Briefly, Val considered Starshire, the village that clung to his family''s estate. Except, if he was being hunted, home would be the first place an attacker might look. He had family there. Mother (hopefully) and scores of half-elven uncles and aunts. Lerendar''s aging human consort, Beatriz, and their small daughter Zara lived on the castle outskirts. Oberyn knew what had happened to them.


    Needing to do something, anything, Val spelled his quiver and bow out of a faerie pocket, slung the various weapons, then headed back out of that cave. It would be a long climb down dank, mossy steps to the forest floor, but once on the ground, he could find a mount and ride north, doing his best to move fast and stay hidden.


    Not a real vow, this time. No powers were invoked, and Smythe stayed completely quiescent; just a heavy, overlong weight at his back. Still, as he bounded downward through rainbow mist, shaking branches and slippery, vibrating rock, Val said to his brother,


    "I''m coming, Lerendar. Stay alive. Do whatever you have to. I''m on my way."


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    3


    Val was born at Starloft Castle in Ilirian. Had been raised there by his family and servants until old enough to be fostered at Court. Then, sent off to Karellon, he served as junior page and apprentice to Sherazedan, going home or to Lindyn for twice-yearly visits; Starloft and Storm Peak, by turns. As to which he preferred?


    Difficult question. He''d changed far more than home had, in all those long cycles of service to Sherazedan. More than that, Ilirian was always at war. It was tough to be more than just an occasional visitor. A family footnote, as none of his city skills mattered there.


    If he rode out to battle with Dad and Lerendar, they had to protect and watch out for him. If he stayed back with Mother, he felt useless and soft. Lerendar''s jokes¡­ jerking a thumb at the back of the warband and saying, "That''s where the spell-casters ride, Shorty!"... didn''t help.


    Visits to Lindyn were complicated by the fact that he''d been betrothed to Kalisandra Geldaharys since early childhood. They''d had an on-again, off-again personal relationship for over a hundred years of men, with marriage looming ahead of them both like some sort of eternal, excruciating formal dance. He liked Kalisandra very much¡­ but mostly pretended not to. Safer, that way.


    The day they''d first met, he''d taken his toy bow and quiver and gone up to the gardens high atop Starloft. Everyone else was busy and distracted; by what, they wouldn''t explain. Even Katina Nanny, his half-elven nurse (and aunt) had merely shaken her head at him, sighing,


    "Run along, Master Val, and do try to behave. You''ve a big day tomorrow."


    She''d been unwilling to play, produce snacks or tell stories, despite all his wheedling.


    Well enough. Starloft Castle was huge¡­ a converted stone-giant stronghold¡­ and Valerian was a venturesome lad. His milk-brother, Tam, being mostly human, had long since shot up and outgrown him. No fun there. So, Val crept down to the armory, using cross-plane tunnels the adults knew nothing about, seized his small bow and went off to play.


    The gardens were pocket folded and magically enhanced; centering on an eternal loop of mythical rivers. Five bridges crossed it, dividing the main watercourse into sections of varying speed, length and clarity.


    The trees and plants changed each time, as well. Sometimes, even the sky. Better yet, the river was well stocked with fish, frogs and serpents, providing many fine targets for a boy with a bow and spotty supervision.


    Only the noble family and guests were allowed in this paradise, meaning that Val¡­ hopping from rock to rock, or leaning through the bridge railings to get a shot at something that slithered and flashed in the water below, was nearly always alone. Except for the day when everything changed.


    He''d drawn and fired, piercing a giant bass. String-buzz, strike, and then an eruption of violent splashing, as his arrow sank home and the line drew taught. The trick was, like Dad said: aim low, and then aim lower than that. The fish is not where you think.


    He was about to haul in his catch, when a girl appeared on the bridge. His bridge, his river. Right there, not a stone''s throw away.


    She was about his age. Maybe a little bit older, and scowling like the chief cook before a state banquet. Dark hair was caught back in a fuzzy braid. One blue eye, one brown one. Dressed, like himself, in seen-better-days, grubby play clothes. Exactly where he didn''t expect to see anyone, except Tam or Lerendar.


    Spelling the struggling bass to stillness, Val drew himself up to his full not-very-much, and lowered his bow. Of all the questions tumbling about in his head, the one that came out was,


    "Who let you in here?"


    "No one," she snapped in response. "I escaped, and I''m not getting married."


    Oh. Well, that was all right, then. He escaped, all the time.


    "Who said you had to get married?" asked Val, healing the aggrieved fish and then tossing it back in the water for later sport.


    "Counselor Garrod, but I won''t," insisted the girl, hands at her hips and lower lip threatening murder.


    "Me, either," declared Val, bounding from wet rock to an arched wooden bridge. Here, the water was quiet and clear, with plenty of deep, shady places for serpents and fish. "They''d have to catch me, first, and they won''t. I know too many places to hide."


    Which was true, as long as they didn''t use magic. The girl looked around.


    "I don''t know," she said, shaking her head. "It seems pretty open, to me."


    "Huh. That''s where you''re stupid, or else you don''t know. This garden and river are spliced together from sections all over the world. I can see how they did it, and maybe get through one of the splices and out to the place that section''s really a part of," he explained, loftily. Then, because he was honest, Val added, "At least, I''m pretty sure I can. Just have to decide where I''d like to end up."


    In the mountains? A dense, piney forest? A meadow of dancing flowers? The willow grove? Tough choices all around, and¡­


    "Plus, I need to pack food for the trip, except I always forget and keep eating it all. Wait¡­"


    He still had most of a sandwich tucked away in a faerie pocket. Bread and plum jam. Spelling it forth, he tore and offered a piece to the girl.


    "You can have some, if you want."


    She did want, accepting the bigger half of his slightly squished, raggedly torn hand-meal.


    "Thanks, this is good. Got anything to drink?"


    (He did. Fizzy juice in wax bottles that Tam had brought back from Lobum.)


    They sat down on a sun-warmed wood railing together, watching birds, chewing food and then wax; planning eternal freedom.


    "I''m going to be a ranger," she told him. "I''ll hunt my own food, kill millions of orcs and never get married, ever. Not to some stupid, dumb northerner!"


    Val shrugged elaborately, watching the serpents and fish, down below.


    "If that''s the best you can do, have fun. I''m going to¡­ to open a plane and start my own realm, with only me and Tam and Lerendar, when he''s not calling me ''Shorty''... and Katina Nanny, so we''ll have someone there who''ll be glad we''ve come back from hunting."


    The girl snorted.


    "I don''t need anyone," she said. Then, "Can you show me how to shoot fish? I''ve never seen anyone do that before."


    Could he¡­? Val leapt to his feet, only just not smiling.


    "I don''t know if girls can do it," he scoffed. Turned out they could, almost better than half-wild boys.


    They spent an enjoyable afternoon getting progressively dirtier; wading into the river or teetering on jutting embankments, shooting anything that moved in the water below. Finally, as sunset painted the sky, someone bellowed,


    "Valerian! Val, you pint-sized dwarf, where are you?!"


    Lerendar.


    The boy''s grey eyes widened. Turning to face his companion, he whispered,


    "It''s my brother. You''d better go, before he sees you. Sometimes he''s fun, but sometimes he''s not, and you can''t ever tell which, until it''s too late."


    Her two-colored eyes narrowed.


    "Fine. I was getting bored, anyhow¡­ but let''s take an oath, right now, to meet again and to never get married, ever, to anyone. I''ll let you slaughter orcs with me," she added, "just as soon as I''ve gotten away from my stupid retainers."


    Generous. Val nodded, striking palms with his new best friend.


    "Oath plighted¡­ and I''ll let you come to my plane and bow-fish the rocks and bridges. There''ll be way bigger streams than this, with water dragons."


    Why not? All he had to do was find the right sort of golden fish, and he could dream up whatever he wanted.


    She smiled for the first time.


    "It''s a deal. I''m gone."


    And, she was. Slipping off between trees just before Lerendar showed up to claim him. This time, his brother was in a fine mood. He pounced on Val; big, blond and rangy, all horse-scent and leather and time spent outdoors.


    "Come here, Shorty!" he grinned, catching Val and tossing him high in the air. "Whoof! You smell like a goat! Home, now!"


    Caught the laughing boy in mid flight and then swung Val up onto his shoulders for a pony-ride back to the family compound. Val said nothing at all about his visitor, but he didn''t forget her, either.


    And then, there she was, the very next day, standing rigidly at the sacred grove. Waves of cold came off her like wind, blighting the plants all around with creeping frost; causing the massed onlookers to reach for their cloaks.


    Like Val, she''d been forcibly bathed, dressed and perfumed. She looked like a life-sized doll wrapped up in silk brocade, gems and heirlooms. Magical sigils buzzed around her like glittering gnats. Even just turning her head, she rattled. Only those two-colored furious eyes looked the same.


    Mother placed a fancy gift box in his hands and then kissed his forehead (as best she could past the golden helmet and jeweled diadem). Giving him a little push, she whispered,


    "Forward, dearest. Take her the gift, and then the priest will bless and hand-fast you."


    Right. Well, no one had discussed this with him. Val looked around, but Dad seemed to be pondering strategy and Lerendar thought it all funny. Granddad was present; tall and silvery-haired, with Grandmother Alyanara, but neither was smiling. No help, there. The gathered townsfolk and nobles were teary-eyed and sniffling, which was a definite grim sign.


    Val''s mouth went utterly dry. He thought about throwing the present and running away¡­ except that''s not what heroes with their own planes did.


    Instead, miserably, under the girl''s wrathful glare, he trudged up through that twin row of sacred oaks. Kept walking until he reached the stone altar. The priest of Oberyn was there, just a looming, deep-voiced shadow to Val. All that the boy could see was her, and holy flame, was she angry.


    ''Oath-breaker!'' she mouthed, her snarling voice knife-blade clear in his head. ''I hate you!''


    What? That wasn''t fair. She''d been here first, lying in wait for unwilling boys with wrapped presents. Spiritedly, Val came back with,


    ''I hate you more, and I''m not getting married!''


    Under the priest''s direction, as sunlight dripped down through shifting green leaves, Val thrust out his gift (whatever it was; hopefully poison, or maybe a rat). Glowering at him, the girl mouthed,


    ''I''m going to a whole different realm, a hundred planes away!''


    She practically ripped the box from his hands, tossing it over her shoulder to some poor, doomed courtier.


    ''Only a hundred?'' Val shot back. ''Better go further than that, so I can''t smell you!''


    At this, the girl tore off a priceless family heirloom and threw it at him, striking Val squarely on the chin. His lessons had worked, She had great aim.


    They exploded into an immediate scuffle, having to be hauled apart by the priest and both amused families. But, this was serious. This was blood and broken oaths and hideous threats.


    Anyhow, they were betrothed. Valerian Tarandahl ad Keldaran to Kalisandra Geldaharys ad Sanderyn¡­ whether they liked it or not. He kept a second-level scar from the impact of that musty old brooch of hers, sometimes displaying the mark for effect. She could not do the same with her black eye, so hah!


    Subsequent meeting tended to go something like this:


    Her- "Ewww!"


    Him- "You, again."


    ¡­ after which they''d go bow-fishing or sneak out looking for goblins to vex.


    So matters stood for a cycle or two. Val''s frequent escapes brought him sometimes up to the rooftop gardens, sometimes down to the stables, the armory, dog kennels or kitchen. There, the half-elves and servants would at first feign irritation. They always gave in, though; letting him feed and curry the horses, play at training the dogs, hack at a practice dummy with child-sized weapons, or steal pinches of pastry dough.


    Tara Cookie nearly always had an extra something-or-other that she''d just happened to bake, often letting him shape a dough-man with frosting and berries for eyes, for his supper up in the nursery, later. He got handed around a lot by his half-blood uncles and aunts; now on this groom''s shoulders, next on that chef''s broad hip.


    There was a great deal to do, and he hardly sensed that the only people who ever noticed him missing were Katina Nanny, Alaina Tutor or Reston Horsemaster¡­ and sometimes Lerendar. Not very often Tam, anymore. His milk brother had grown up all in a rush, and no longer had time to play.


    In the end, somebody always "caught" him, and Val came back upstairs in Katina''s embrace or swinging and skipping at the end of Alaina''s arm. Reston would conjure a fiery spirit horse and let him ride back up to the nursery like a conquering hero.


    Then mother and dad sent him away to the distant imperial city of Karellon. He did not want to go, but no one who mattered would listen. His parents merely summoned their youngest son for an audience, one bright summer day.


    Katina dressed him in fine, stiff new clothes and led him further upstairs to dad''s office, whispering,


    "There now, Master Val. Mind you behave and prove you''ve some upbringing. Give them that picture you drew, and bow on the griffin carpet, hand to forehead as you bid them good day and glad tidings. Can you remember all that?"


    He''d nodded, asking,


    "But, why do they want to see me, Nana? I''m not getting married again, am I? One stupid girl is enough! I could give her away¡­ maybe Dad wants her, or Reston."


    Katina laughed, knelt down and hugged him close; her amber eyes loving and sad. Val hid himself in the screen of her coppery hair, feeling safe.


    Only, he wasn''t. A pair of red-uniformed guards stood watch at the doors to his father''s office. As Val and Katina came forward, the pair tapped the butts of their halberds against the stone floor. Then they bowed, spelling open the massive bronze doors.


    (Everything elvish, was big. Everything older than that was titanic; built to the scale of a stone giant. Lord Galadin had had to do some adapting, constructing a whole network of scaffolds and roofless buildings inside of that cavernous space.)


    Val recognized both of those guards. Rykka and Marten, who always made time to play swords in the arms-court. He waved at them, going past. Katina gave him a final, encouraging squeeze, then sent him on through the doors.


    The guards could not wave back (not allowed) but one crossed his eyes and the other one winked. (An early lesson in life: there was often great strength to be found in small places and folk of low rank.)


    Squaring his shoulders, Val marched on in.


    Keldaran was seated by the fireplace, with mother standing behind, one slim hand on his chair. Lord Keldaran was tall, even seated, with grey-red hair and pale eyes. Elisindara was slender and calm, with hair like a river of ice and wide violet eyes. Neither looked especially happy, so Val feared that he''d done something wrong. Maybe shot too many fishes?


    A low fire was burning at the hearth, stirred up by scented magical breezes. The boy walked straight up to his parents, remembering to stop at the gold and red griffin carpet, planting one small foot on its fiercely beaked head. Then, taking a deep breath, he bowed. Remembered to touch hand to forehead in respect, saying,


    "My lord father and lady mother, I bid you good day and glad tidings and¡­ and¡­ here''s a picture I drew," producing a bit of nursery artwork. Dad, on a stick-horse, with about twenty goblins skewered on a very long, leveled spear. One of the goblins was upside-down, yelping: ''Oh, no! He got me!''


    Keldaran''s mouth twitched, while Elisindara shut her eyes briefly, sighing,


    "He has spent far too much time with the servants."


    "Well, there shall be no more of that," said his father. "Or, at least, not as much."


    Then,


    "Son, come here. Yes, thank you. I shall cherish it. Now, you are about to set off on an important mission. One that will greatly bolster our¡­"


    There was more, but Val hadn''t understood diplomacy then, any better than he grasped the concept of marriage. All he knew was that he was being packed off somewhere far away, to learn magic and city-stuff, by parents who seemed not to want him.


    After Keldaran stopped talking, there was a short, painful silence. He kept looking from one to the other stern face, hoping that someone would laugh and take it all back. Then mother''s hand brushed the top of his head.


    "Lord Galadin''s order," she whispered softly.


    Said his father, reaching over to pull the boy against one knee,


    "You do not leave until autumn, in Harvest Month. Until then, I propose that we go to the deer camp, and then look for one closer to Karellon. There is time, yet."


    Val had nearly collapsed from relief. At that age, summer seemed endless, and any delay at all, release from his banishment. Kalisandra, when told of all this at her yearly state visit, snorted,


    "Sounds like just the thing that would happen to a stupid, dumb baby northerner. Want to run away to Lindyn? There''s plenty of deep caves and deadly swamps to hide in, and lots of orcs that need slaughtering. You could be my first warrior."


    It was a tempting offer, and Val considered it¡­ only Kalisandra said that he''d have to call her "my lady" and admit she was better at everything, so¡­ no. Didn''t happen.


    Fall arrived, and the month of High Harvest. On the fifth day, at near the appointed time, Val sat huddled on the person-sized steps of the castle, skinny arms hugging his up-raised knees. He was dressed in his family''s finest, heart jerking and thudding inside of him.


    Katina Nanny and Reston Horsemaster left their duties to sit on the stairs alongside him. Katina fussed with his hair and clothing, giving him many last kisses and a positively guaranteed lucky charm that she''d bought from Magister Serrio, himself, at the last fair. Reston also gave Val a present.


    "It''s a clasp-knife," he explained, showing the boy how to fold shut and open its steel blade. "Easy to tuck into a boot-top or coin pouch, without getting slashed in the process. Wherever you go and whatever you do," added his dark-haired uncle, "You always need a good knife."


    One by one, others appeared, all having sudden mysterious errands to the front steps of Starloft. Tara Cookie brought a wrapped lunch, with an entire battalion of dough-men, spelled to last without spoiling.


    "If ye find y''rself hungry, there in the City. Oberyn knows what y''ll find t'' eat in that place," she mourned, wringing her reddened hands.


    The chief groom brought Barrel, his spotted pony, while the huntsman arrived with seemingly all of the deerhounds. Altogether, there were almost more presents and packed meals than Val had faerie pockets to stash them in¡­ and then Lerendar came.


    As one, the servants stood up and inclined their heads, saying respectfully, "Milord," and retreating from Val.


    Lerendar nodded back. Then, after a brief hesitation, he said,


    "Thank you, all, for doing this."


    The servants began to depart. Taking Val''s hand, Lerendar led the boy off down the stairs. About halfway along, he paused. Looking furtively around, Val''s brother pulled something out of midair. A beautiful, full-sized bow and quiver.


    "Take it, hurry, and spell it away in a pocket," Lerendar hissed. "I stole it from the armory, and I plan to say that I saw you in there, this morning, once you''re out of reach. It''ll blow over by the time you visit next year¡­ probably."


    It was Vesendorin''s bow, and almost as important as Smythe, the possessed family long sword. Val''s eyes widened, but he did as Lerendar bade him, and tucked bow and quiver away. Lerendar grinned at him, mussing Val''s hair with one hand, then spelling it smooth again.


    "Don''t tell, Shorty!" he laughed. And Val wouldn''t. Not ever, for anything.


    Mother and Dad appeared next, each of them taking their youngest son by a hand, walking him further toward where a magical portal shimmered and hissed at the foot of the stairs. They, too, had gifts and advice. Keldaran''s was a bag of holding, Elisindara''s, a spell book.


    Their advice was pretty straightforward, mostly being where to fish, hunt and fight around Karallon, and how best to hold his own at court.


    But they, too, were met; this time by Granddad¡­ Lord Galadin¡­ and Grandmother Alyanara. Mother and Dad bowed and then backed away.


    Grandmother kissed his forehead, smelling and feeling like sunlight and flowers, even in autumn. Even for an elf, she was fair and delicate; almost lovely enough to cause pain.


    "Be well, Valerian," she whispered. "And here is a sideways blessing: in the unexpected things, may you always be fortunate."


    Something golden and warm seemed to fill him, at that, gently nudging his fate. "There will always, always be a safe path. A way clear, Little Love. Look for the sideways path. It will be there, whenever you need a way out."


    Galadin waited until his lady had finished her blessing. Very tall, with shining white hair and grey eyes, he looked like a god to his awe-struck young grandson.


    When Alanyara stepped aside, Galadin squatted down in full armor, bringing his face level with Val''s.


    "I am sending you out on a mission," he said, in a calm, deep voice. "Your task is to learn as much as you can from the people of Karellon. Listen to rumors. Learn diplomacy. Grow strong in magic. We need that. But," he added, looking directly into Val''s eyes, "Whatever you learn there, whatever disguise you have to assume, do not let it reach the core of you. You belong to Ilirian, boy. Here you were born, and here you will always return."


    He''d brought a bit of fresh earth, which smelt of fallen leaves and pine straw. Touching it to the boy''s forehead and chest, above the heart, Galadin said,


    "Blessing or curse, you will never truly be one of them. Your heart and life-spring will always be here."


    And then Lord Galadin Tarandahl ob Elrynn, Silmerana, warden of the north, stood up again, armor creaking and rattling like hail on a metal roof. Taking Val''s hand, he led the boy down those last few steps to the waiting portal.


    There, on the other side, stood a slender elf in a hooded blue cloak. He held a tall staff, and his eyes glowed nearly white. Val caught the vague impression of books, magical artifacts and preening ravens behind the old sorcerer. To his tremendous shock, Galadin bowed deeply.


    "Your Imperial Highness," he said, "I present to you for fosterage and training in the magical arts my grandson, Valerian Tarandahl ad Keldaran ob Galadin."


    The mage-lord snorted impatiently. Looking very much down through the portal, he said,


    "Yes, yes, very nice. I suppose that he''ll have to do, as you have no other. Dispense with the rest of the formalities, Galadin. The scamp is accepted, and his contract signed. I''ve vital research to get back to. World-shaking importance, etc. Now, come, child. You can start on the raven cages."


    He tipped the head of his staff forward, causing the portal to ripple like water, unlocking it from his side. Val watched the sigils flare in his mind''s eye, seeing the magic; how it was done, how it might be made better, or altered. But that didn''t hold his attention.


    Instead of releasing his grandfather''s hand, he squeezed it once, turning to look back at all those who''d come to see him off. His official family nodded. His half-blood uncles and aunts, the people of Starshire, blew kisses or lifted a hand in farewell.


    Val waved back with his free hand, turned loose of Granddad, and then stepped through the portal. Backward, to keep home in sight and in heart for as long as he could.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    4


    A long, hard ride got him to Snowmont, a bustling town on the icy flanks of the Talons, well north of Karellon. He''d changed horses three times, nearly laming the last one; a piebald mare with more heart than good sense. Much like her hungover, saddle-worn rider.


    At any rate, short of funds and needing rest, he''d had to stop somewhere, and Snowmont wasn''t that far off his path.


    He arrived just before sunset, beating the main gate closure by less than a candle mark. Was almost too tired to look for an inn. Had to see to Patches, his horse, first, anyhow. Honestly would have bedded down in the straw beside her at the rent-stable, only a young, birch-bark skinned groom sidled up to say,


    "Try the Merry Lad on High Street, Milord. Buernar''s place. Food''s not bad, beds and companions are clean. Ale''s passable."


    Val snorted.


    "High praise, indeed," he drawled, brushing Patches and tenderly rubbing her dry. "Are the clientele there much given to swordplay or games of chance?"


    If nothing else, he had a pair of gemmed tarrasque shell dice to earn coin with, and Nightshade. The groom cocked his head, sending greenish hair-vines sliding over his rough-textured face.


    "Aye¡­" the fellow allowed, "if y''re game be fair. Buernar brooks nae tainted cards, nor altered dice, and ''ee don''t permit brawling."


    Val stiffened. Faint sparks began flaring to life in the air all around him. His fingertips warmed.


    "I do not cheat," he said coldly. Then Patches shoved him with her big, ugly head, nearly sending the young elf-lord sprawling. Started lipping his pale blond hair, too, which¡­ Well, it was tough to stay angry or look very dignified with a horse snuffing your clothing for treats.


    He pulled a quartered apple and several sugar cubes out of a faerie pocket and fed them to Patches. Tossed a silver piece to the groom as well, saying,


    "I thank you for the counsel, wood-sprite. Look after the horse, if you will. An extra silver piece for hot mash and a blanket."


    He couldn''t really afford the expense, but it were better to starve than to let his steed suffer, and sheer, stubborn pride wouldn''t permit him to bargain.


    The groom smiled, bowing and taking the coin.


    "Yes, Milord, thank you. She''ll be well cared for¡­ and do you tell Buernar that Sapling sent you, y''r lordship ''ll find equal comfort."


    Val sighed, feeling all at once terribly weary.


    "I do not require a rubdown," he said, "nor companionship, but food and a roof would be very much welcome."


    Sapling''s face split as he smiled in response, weeping black sap from a myriad tiny fine cracks.


    "Aye, Milord. There be lanterns at the door, for a copper apiece, if y''d light y''r way t'' the inn¡­ but doubtless y''r lordship c''n manage his own light." And see in the dark, the young sprite didn''t add.


    Val nodded more grandly than he felt, gave Patches a last fond forelock and ear scratch, then took his leave of the stable. The night outside was brisk but not unbearable, thanks to the founders'' powerful weather-wards. Old, but still firm, their sigils and formulae spiraled and pulsed in his mind''s eye, forming a dome over Snowmont. Good work, above. Bit sloppy and fading, below ground. Not his business, in any case.


    High Street¡­ There was an announcement board by the wide stable door. It teemed with adverts and offers tacked up in various scripts. Adventurers wanted¡­ two-headed puppies available¡­ no-fail potions for courage, hair growth and love¡­ your fortune told¡­ Ah. The Merry Lad, rooms to let by the hour or night¡­ with a map of the town.


    He had to look twice at the Inn''s printed advert, where someone had scrawled in orcish, ''bad ale, bearded women''. Val shook his head, a serious mistake with a throbbing hangover like he still possessed. It got even worse whenever he picked up or practiced with Smythe, who sometimes refused to come out of its sheath, at all. Loudly claimed that Valerian was better suited to wielding a meat cleaver than an actual weapon. Worse, the wretched thing could change its balance at will. He swore it.


    Right. Memorizing his route, Val turned away from the battered signboard, got his bearings and then headed east. Cut across the town square and Market Street, keeping to lighted ways to discourage attack. Not that he couldn''t have handled it¡­ but publicly winning a fight might keep other patrons from betting against him at cards, dice or dueling. Trouble was¡­


    You know how, when you''re really exhausted, your eyes unfocus and you start seeing double? Well, Valerian''s mind was tired enough to unmoor, meaning that part of him was walking through Snowmont, scattering casual radiance. Most of him, though, was elsewhere, at a family picnic in Starshire. His view switched randomly back and forth from slick cobbled streets and iron lampposts to the village green on a bright afternoon in late spring. Everyone he cared about was there, still well and alive, causing most of Val''s attention to shift back into the past. Then,


    "A coin, noble sir, for peace?"


    A soft voice shattered his reverie. Someone had touched him, seizing the edge of his no-color cloak. Val landed hard in the present, spinning away from the grip, left hand dropping to Nightshade''s jeweled hilt. Didn''t draw. Not yet. Didn''t have to.


    It was merely a ragged wood-elf, wearing druidic clothes and a sign that read: ''Love the unlovable'' and ''United for peace''. He had nut-brown hair and big, sad green eyes and seemed to exhale tiny bright motes with each breath. Val automatically hated him; sensing gooey philosophy and some sort of complex wild magic.


    The wood-elf reached out once more for Valerian''s travel-stained cloak. The other hand bore, not a weapon, but a polished wooden alms bowl.


    "A small coin? Whatever you can spare for the cause of peace, noble lord?"


    "Unhand me, Sirrah," said Val; cold and remote and wishing himself back in the past. "There is no peace. There never shall be."


    The wood-elf ducked his head, smiling beatifically. Val instantly hated him worse. But then that raggedy beggar said,


    "You were unmoored and wandering, noble lord. A dangerous thing at night, in a town like Snowmont. Best to keep one''s mind firmly fixed in the here and now, Gran always says."


    Val drew himself up even higher, feeling the fireglow starting to stir deep within him. But he was somewhat out of his way, so¡­


    "Know you the way to the inn, woodling?" he enquired.


    "Of course! My name is Gildyr," said the beggar, with a dewy-eyed smile and slight bow. "And I represent¡­"


    "I care not at all," interrupted the high-elf. "Not for your worthless peace, your tedious cause or your common name. I seek the inn. Guide me thither, or begone."


    Abstracting a copper from his sadly dwindling supply, Val scornfully thumb-flicked the coin at Gildyr, all the while listening hard for potential accomplices. But, no¡­ it seemed that the tattered young druid was alone, really meant all that drek about peace.


    The wood-elf hadn''t stopped smiling. He bowed once more, sketching a sign of blessing in midair.


    "As Gran always says, may the spirits of forest and glade keep you ever¡­"


    "Safe. Yes, I get the concept. We may take it as read that the flowers and bugs shed their joy on my path, etc. The inn, if you please, Gilban."


    "Gildyr," the fellow corrected his better¡­ but Val let the matter drop. It really was perilous to withdraw too far from the present, and Lerendar needed him.


    "This way, milord," said his squishy-kind druidic guide. "Paths which seem random have often the deepest of meanings, Gran always says."


    "And how does one shut granny up?" muttered Val, sensing through Gildyr all the noise, squalor and tumble of a wood-elf hovel.


    "Oh, Gran''s full of all the best tales and advice, milord¡­ and here we are at the Merry Lad. Here I''ll depart, by your leave, and¡­" Gildyr next did possibly the stupidest, most insulting thing he could have done. He reconjured Valerian''s copper and offered it back. "Here. I think that you need this more than¡­"


    Nightshade hissed forth like a serpent, so fast as to be nearly invisible. The blade tip, lit by a reflexive burning hands spell, hovered less than a split hairsbreadth from Gildyr''s tanned throat, just above the necklace of elk''s teeth.


    "Take it," snarled Val, "or I gut thee, and stamp it into thy corpse," as brittlely formal as a rootless court dandy could get.


    Gildyr smiled sadly, radiating maddening grace and benevolence.


    "Of course, noble sir. I bid thee good night and glad tidings to come."


    That brought him up short and sharp, sounding of home. Of Katina, Reston, Tara and ''all them as had the raising of our young lord'' for so many glad cycles.


    Val resheathed Nightshade and took a deep breath. Looked¡­ really looked at the wood-elf, who stood smiling gently in the warm glow of the inn''s bottle-glass window. Still annoying, but¡­ perhaps a bit less so. Bowing back very slightly, the high-elf said,


    "I am Valerian Tarandahl ad Keldaran, at your service and your family''s, good druid."


    The wood-elf started at this, but Val entirely failed to notice, adding quietly


    "Keep the coin. If peace may truly be bought, your sort will be the ones to accomplish the feat. All I know is blood and fire and vengeance. Good night, and glad tidings."


    With that, the weary young high-elf spelled open the inn''s wooden door and went on inside. He did not see Gildyr complete a sigil of healing and heart''s ease behind him. Nor did he notice the golden-eyed, velvet-black shadow that hovered like smoke on the rooftop, above.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    4


    A faded and wind-rattled sign above the door had depicted a laughing, red-cheeked boy with a big, foaming tankard. Not entirely false advertising, as it turned out.


    Inside, the Merry Lad was warmed and lit by tallow dip candles and guttering lamps. A low, smoke-blacked ceiling rattled and creaked, dribbling continual dust from the doings above. Three rows of crowded wood tables filled its interior. A determined bard yodeled and plucked at his lute in the tavern''s west corner, sheltered from most of the spittle and rotten fruit.


    The tavern thundered with discordant noise, but an elf could discern and trace each separate sound, following many conversations at once, if he chose to. Val was mostly too tired, beyond probing for obvious threats.


    He scanned the main room before stepping further within. Saw a rough, unwashed throng of battered fortune seekers and laboring types. Mostly humans, with a fair sprinkling of other races and a small, antic, golden-furred monkey. That was out of place; more the sort of exotic pet that a highborn lady might show off, back in the City, or a wizard''s familiar¡­ though Val sensed no one especially powerful.


    Thus far, the place seemed not unendurable, and exhaustion argued for stopping right here. He still held out hope for a warm night under a roof and out of his armor. For that reason, alone, the Merry Lad was worth looking into.


    The hearth was capacious enough to stand in and spread both arms, without ducking one''s head. Flagged and bordered in river rock, it was tended by a sullen, one-legged troll, who splashed sour ale by the cup onto something that roasted there. The scent was unfamiliar, and roused no desire for experimentation in Val.


    So much for obvious comestibles.


    NO special orders! Declared a sign over the service window, in ten different languages. His hopes for a decent meal wilted dramatically.


    The floor beneath him was covered in rushes and ground-nut shells, flecked with other, less identifiable bits. Concerned for his dragon-hide boots, Val levitated slightly. Just enough to keep him off the ground and out of the mess.


    Meanwhile, that golden-furred monkey was working the crowd. The sprightly small beast capered and danced to the accompaniment of roared, off-key singing, an energetic rhythm provided by heavy flagons pounding scarred wood. At the end of each verse, the beast was rewarded with gulps of strong drink and a shower of tossed coins.


    Somehow, the creature seemed able to sense and gather them all. At least, Val didn''t see any coppers hitting that food-spattered floor. Then,


    "Take yer order, Sir?" someone shouted, at about elbow height.


    He glanced down and aside, where a squat, broad, lightly-bearded dwarf stood waiting. She (though it wasn''t polite to admit that he knew) wore a stained canvas apron over her coarse linen tunic and trousers. Her beard and red hair were woven with bits of metal and glass, and a stout wooden cudgel projected from her wide leather belt.


    Seemed peaceful enough at first glance, but the fires of dwarvish greed burned like coals in those reddish-dark eyes. A race of coin-loving bargain hounds, every last one of them. Meanwhile,


    "Ale, ale, foamy and pale!" boomed the crowd. "Good fer the soul, keeps ye hearty an'' hale! Keep up the drinks an'' yer venture won''t fail! Ale, ale, ale!


    "Pour us more ale, or our verse ''ll grow stale! Ale, ale, ale!"


    "Or whatever foul grog Buernar''s hawked up tonight!" wavered a spotty young wag in the back.


    The monkey sprang from its swinging perch on a roof beam to land with a thump and a scrabble on Valerian''s shoulder. He wasn''t alarmed. There had been many such beasts at Magister Serrio''s fair, everytime it came north to Ilirian. As a small boy, he''d been delighted by their comic miming and dances. This one winked at him, then held out a tiny, expectant hand.


    Taking everything in turn, Val replied,


    "What is offered by way of a meal?"


    ¡­ spelled a brief cone of silence to save his abraded hearing¡­


    ¡­ and produced a coin for that small, wrinkled, grinning performer.


    Growled the she-dwarf,


    "We''ve shepherd''s pie, cottage pie, harbor pie, Buernar''s surprise, freshly baked bread, cheese with the bad bits scraped off, Ulmo''s catch o'' the month, and ale."


    Val''s flickering hopes dwindled still further. It wasn''t much of a menu, even for one who''d just spent a seven-night in the saddle, eating what little he''d packed or could glean from the bushes in passing.


    Considering that the ocean was much more than a stone-giant''s throw from Snowmont, he didn''t trust any fish they might offer¡­ nor did he care to risk whatever Buernar meant to surprise him with.


    The monkey sketched an elaborate bow, tucking Val''s copper away in its little red vest. In return, it offered what seemed to be ship''s biscuit, of the sort Val had often consumed aboard Silver Wind. Smiling despite himself, he accepted the stone-hard treat.


    Its business concluded, the manikin launched itself from his shoulder to somebody''s sweating bald head. Screeching and chattering, it next waved hairy long arms for another loud chorus of ''Ale''.


    Valerian turned his attention back to the waiting dwarf-maid, losing his smile in the process.


    "Bread, if you please," he ordered in Common and hand-sign. "With hot day-brew, if you have any."


    The dwarf hitched up her trousers and scowled.


    "We''ve ale," she insisted.


    Somebody new strode forward, then; parting the crowd like a steel-prowed ship breaking ice. A taller, thunderous-looking male dwarf.


    "Trouble, Bron?" he growled, in a voice like a rumbling after-shock.


    The female waggled her hand back and forth, saying,


    "''Is lordship, ''ere, wants day-brew."


    "Oh, he does, does he?" grunted the male, whose dark hair and beard were a mass of wire-wrapped braids. Looking Val up and down disrespectfully, the dwarf snapped,


    "I be Buernar. This is me place. I serve shepherd''s pie, cottage pie, harbor pie, Ulmo''s catch o'' the month, fresh bread, shaved cheese, me special surprise, and ale. No daybrew till mornin'', when there''s also baked eggs. Now¡­ what will yer lordship be havin''?"


    ''A flaming pox on all dwarves and their odious kitchens'', sprang to mind, but Val never said so. Instead, a howled curse split that thick, yeasty air.


    A fleet, shadowy figure dodged, darted and ducked through the laughing crowd. Vaulting tables and spilling drinks, it sprang from an overturned bench and collided with Val, no doubt saving him from insulting his host. Changed the subject, at any rate.


    It¡­ she¡­ Val got an instant impression of inky-black fur and sinuous motion. Of golden, slit-pupiled eyes in an intelligent, cat-like face. Also, clawed hands, feeling clumsily after his coin pouch.


    "Here! Stop, thief!" Bellowed a defrauded fellow sufferer, about seven feet tall and incredibly hairy, wherever she wasn''t netted in scars. Dressed in a tasteful mixture of rusting armor and badly-cured hides, she carried a barrow''s worth of blunt, pitted weapons. A bridge somewhere was clearly missing its cannibal troll.


    Leveling a sausage-like finger at the person¡­ (animal?) ¡­ accosting Valerian, the creature roared,


    "I been thefted, by that!"


    Naturally. And, judging from the number of one-handed patrons, the penalty for theft here was steep. Val needed space and time to think. Wasn''t likely to get either without dipping into his manna, though.


    The monkey had ceased dancing. Now it hopped lightly from pocket to boot top to purse, helping itself to unsecured items and money. The tavern''s patrons were oblivious, surging to their feet with a great scraping clatter of benches.


    Shouting encouragement to both sides, they formed a circle of flesh around Val, the would-be thief and her queen-sized, glowering victim. On a brighter note, the singing and thumping had mercifully stopped. Not his hangover, though. That kept right on pounding his skull to the rhythm of ''Ale, ale, ale''.


    Well, he''d wanted a fight, but the troll-spawn and crowd didn''t seem like the sorts to place lofty bets or take a loss lightly. Better to depart with what grace he could muster, the high-elf decided. After all, not his business.


    "Get ''em, Trude!" shouted a love-struck oaf up in front.


    Yet¡­ just as he''d known at a glance that Gildyr was naught but a commoner, the thief''s clothing and gear cried shop-worn nobility. She was a lady in need, whose hand he would break, if she didn''t stop stripping the gems from his scabbard.


    Right.


    Val muttered, "Slow time", causing the mob, innkeeper and hulking accuser to move and speak as though planted in mud. Got an arm-lock around the squirming thief and then, just as the spell wound down, flipped back his cloak.


    Lacquered scale mail and jeweled weapons gleamed in the firelight. At his back, Smythe woke up enough to commence a hornet-like buzz. More threat to himself than the tightly-packed crowd, but they didn''t know that.


    Val drew himself up, reaching maybe to Trude''s unshaven chin. In his very best elegant drawl, the elf said,


    "A misunderstanding, good creature, I''m sure."


    Truthfully, the cat-person didn''t seem capable of looting a corpse without waking it up. Her monkey was the actual crime lord, but Val wasn''t saying so.


    It chattered and screamed, then leapt to the cat-girl''s shoulder. Its vest pockets bulging with pilfered goods, the monkey turned, bent over and waved its fuzzy backside at the furious troll-woman, raising its plumy gold tail for maximal offense and exposure. So much for the diplomatic solution.


    Val had to stifle the first good laugh he''d had in a week. Would have crossed the poisoned waste for that tiny, larcenous ape, who was clearly the light-fingered half of Kitty and company.


    Somehow maintaining his arrogant poise, Valerian took a step forward; free hand drifting down to the hilt of his dueling sword. Then Buernar cut in. Pointing first at the elf, then at Trude, he barked,


    "Take it outside! There ''ll be no brawling here, or I''ll summon the night guard, and you c''n spend yer first fortnight in Snowmont as guests o'' Lord Orrin!"


    The woman''s face split into a craggy gape, showcasing broken teeth and a gold tongue stud. Before she could hurl further accusations, Val asked,


    "How much do you claim the girl stole?"


    "Nuthin''!" raged Trude. "But she were caught in th'' act! Got me weddin'' ring half off!"


    Mentally saluting the stalwart soul who''d dared offer romance to Trude, Val examined a proffered meaty fist. A tarnished band of orichalcum was indeed halfway free, stuck between two bulging knuckles.


    Val shot a sidelong, ''Seriously?'' glance at the cat-girl, who shrugged. Still perched on her shoulder, the monkey shifted into a ribald dance funny enough to warm a lich''s stilled heart.


    "For your trouble," said the high-elf, producing a half silver piece. Worth it and then some, to get shed of the Merry Lad.


    Trude muttered and glared, but accepted his weregild, then stomped off to collect her admirer and get further soused. All to the good. Keeping one arm locked around that catastrophically inept cutpurse, Valerian turned to go.


    Buernar was not precisely in his way, but positioned so as to not be unnoticed. Speaking to the velvet-furred thief, he jerked a broad thumb at the door and snapped,


    "You, out. Permanently."


    Then, to Val,


    "Come back in the mornin'', Milord, if yer seekin'' a bit of adventure an'' mutual profit."


    Val''s head was ringing like a tower of war-bells. Mutual profit did seem desirable, though, so he nodded slightly, then made for the door. Nearly there, the cat-girl leaned close to whisper, in accented Common,


    "Perhaps one being hunted like a hare is more cautious now, when declaring his name and lineage. Much coin had been dropped into all the wrong hands, for a wandering son of Keldaran."


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    5


    He wasn''t so far gone as to miss the implicit threat in the cat-burglar''s words¡­ but too tired, too wracked with buried emotion to deal with it all, right then. Anyhow, action was always simpler and quicker than thought. Usually righter, too.


    Val half-dragged the plane''s least effective robber out of that clamorous hole of a tavern. Out where the frosty night air and pale star-gleam made him instantly feel more alert. Turning to look down at the cat-girl, he released her, stepped back and then bowed from the waist, saying,


    "I fear that you have the advantage of me, Milady, as I know not your name or your lineage¡­ nor yours, good sir," he added, with a nod to her chattering, bouncing monkey.


    Her face was inexpressively feline, without signs beyond ear-flicks, whisker motion and pupil changes to convey her emotions. Swept-forward whiskers, a soft rumbling noise and upright ears seemed close to a smile, though.


    Closing a bit of the distance between them, she placed her right arm across her chest, performing a fluid return bow.


    "The vocal part of my name, in your ear-range, is Salem, of Distant Sands Oasis, third heir."


    Third heir? Then he outranked her, and could relax a bit more. A princess might have been trouble; able to pull him away from his business back home. So much for introductions.


    Looking her over, he saw that Salem wore close-fitting dark garments of obvious quality, but very few ornaments. Nothing noisy, eye-catching or bright, beyond the monkey. Only a dark leather belt, studded with vials and strange tools circled her waist. Her tail was prehensile; banded in golden hair and highly distracting as it swept hypnotically back and forth. Val had to concentrate to attend to the rest of her answer.


    "As to the little one, I am calling him Cap''n, and he is a very prince of his people," (The monkey perked up) "... or so he claims." (and then rounded on Salem, screeching a loud, purely simian insult.)


    Val considered, paging back through the past, through all of his master''s tomes, scrolls and manuals, until,


    "Albegast''s Annex of Beasts, Volume 36, page 15¡­ Tabaxi. That''s it. You''re a Tabaxi: desert-dwelling sentient cat-person¡­ but the illustration doesn''t look much like you," he concluded, a bit doubtfully.


    More like a well-armed and antic heraldic leopard. The pose and face were especially unrealistic. He''d have to inform the old lich, if ever he got back to the City. But Salem was speaking, again.


    "I am Night Clan," she said, not really explaining the difference. Something like High, Sea and Wood elves, possibly?


    Moments later, a third person joined them. Val sensed Gildyr''s presence before seeing him; some shift in the breeze, scent of pine-straw and foolishness, or twittering woodland birdcall announced the druid''s arrival. As a sparrow, he fluttered off of the inn''s thrumming window ledge. As a dewy-eyed peacemonger, he rose up before Salem and Val, beaming gentle good fellowship.


    "Greetings, Mil¡­"


    "Shut up," snapped the high elf. "Val. Just¡­ Val, as it seems that I cannot rid myself of your presence without resorting to steel." (Still an attractive option.)


    Gildyr started to chirp something bouncy and positive in reply, but Val wasn''t listening. Speaking mostly to Salem and Cap''n, he said,


    "I intend to¡­"


    Someone had warned him not to speak or think about his location, advice he chose to take.


    "...seek alternate lodging. Alone." (For Gildyr offered him space at his dry spot, under a local bridge. Possibly Trude''s bridge, and Val had had more than enough of her.) "You shall meet me again once I''ve¡­"


    Got some rest, restored his manna, eaten that ship''s biscuit.


    "...composed myself."


    Bowing once more in Salem''s direction, he added politely,


    "Milady, by your leave."


    Even remembered to lift a hand in farewell to Gildyr, before raising the hood of his cloak and effectively vanishing from sight. The phrase "hunted like a hare" had troubled him deeply.


    Valerian hated skulking. Would much rather have charged right into the town square and kicked Lord Orrin''s bust straight off of its lofty pillar, brandishing Nightshade in one hand and Smythe in the other, inviting all comers. Amusing, if not very wise.


    Except, Lerendar and Ilirian needed him back in one piece, not in chunks. Better to keep to the shadows.


    The night guards were out. He could hear their heavy tread and occasional calls as they patrolled the streets of Snowmont.


    Val remained cloaked, keeping to byways and moving only when no one was watching; making no sound at all. In this way, at around second bell, he made his way back to the rent-stable, where clean straw and warm horse breath awaited him.


    Patches whickered softly as Val unbarred her stall. The cozy space was redolent of beery hot mash. Patches herself was draped in a green and gold blanket; one of Lord Orrin''s with the crest picked off.


    Might have been smarter to just saddle up and leave town, but the mare was exhausted, and he didn''t want to add horse theft to his mounting heap of troubles. Besides, he was more in the past than the present, now.


    That spring day had grown to take up most of the high-elf''s attention. He had neither the strength nor desire to resist being home, safe, warm and happy with the people he loved.


    Part of him greeted and curried Patches, rubbing her legs and checking her feet. Most of him ran through Magister Serrio''s fair, chasing Kalisandra, buying fried food and winning magic stuffed toys.


    The dry, slightly sweet taste of ship''s biscuit, shared with an inquisitive horse, vied with hot funnel cake, burnt fingers and who could still whistle with the most cake in their mouth. Val, as it happened¡­ but then Sandy beat him two falls out of three at the wrestling pit (not that he''d tried very hard).


    The stable''s old white dog came into the stall around third bell of the night watch. She sniffed him, wagging her tail, then circled a few times and plumped herself down in the straw beside Val. She did not care for apples, but accepted a strip of dried venison before falling into past dreams of her own. Soon, her legs jerked and she happy-whined, running through long ago fields.


    Anyone peering through the bars, drawn by strange, soft light, would have seen a young elf sitting in the straw with his legs drawn up and his arms wrapped around them, head on his knees. Glittering faintly at the edges, sometimes he faded almost entirely. Then a horse''s warm muzzle would snuff at his pale blond hair, dribbling beer-soaked grain, or a dog''s tail would thump the ground as she licked his hand.


    The dog and horse kept him grounded in now with their nudging and moving about. Once, something paused in the street outside, but the watchdog''s rumbling growl warned it off. Val was low in manna, his personal scent disguised by horse and hound, fodder and hay, so maybe he''d not been detected.


    Or maybe those druidic chants, and the rogue in the shadows had something to do with it.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Sapling''s papery throat clearing and general bumping woke Val from his trance, the next morning. Bright motes of dust drifted and twirled in the sunbeams. White Dog yawned and stretched herself as she rose from her bed in the straw. Patches pushed at his back with her clunky black-and-white hammer head. Not at all an attractive steed. Nothing like Dustroc¡­ but a keeper.


    The bitter-warm perfume of day-brew hung in the air like those dust motes, lifting Valerian''s mental fog. He got up, muttered a cleansing spell on himself, and a healing spell upon Patches and White Dog.


    "Feel better," he urged, easing the aches of exertion and age. Produced a few tidbits for breakfast as well, emptying his second-to-final food cache. That done, Val unbarred the stall and went forth.


    Sapling hailed him from the office, inviting the high-elf within. He clearly seethed with curiosity, knot hole eyes gleaming, but managed a bit of restraint, nonetheless. Bowing and smiling, the groom offered his guest a steaming cup.


    "Good morn to ye, Milord. Ye¡­?"


    "Found the company and accommodations here, more to my liking," said Val, between blowing at froth and taking short gulps. He owed no one an explanation of his doings or decisions, but kindness deserved acknowledgement, so¡­


    "Good morning," he responded, "and, thank you."


    Sapling''s smile broadened, causing more cracks to form and bloom on his silver-barked face. He rustled and creaked whenever he moved, sounding like wind-stirred branches as he bustled about fetching day-brew, sirop and flat cakes.


    Glancing discreetly about (elves could be curious, too) Val saw that the office was hung with well-ordered tack and horse furnishings, as well as bridles and saddles for other, more exotic mounts.


    He was particularly drawn to the griffin set-up in one corner. Beautiful and well maintained, its leather gleamed softly with oil, while all of its metal fixtures still shimmered with flaking gold leaf. The saddle was a work of art.


    Val did not inquire as to price; too proud and rank-conscious to concern himself over mere coin.


    "If milord would have it," hinted Sapling, crossing under a round, glass-paned skylight, "I could be lettin'' it go fer a mere five silver and¡­ and a fey blessing upon my poor tree."


    There was a dwarf birch in a blue-glazed tub, at about center-office, carefully placed so that sunshine would reach it from skylight and window, both.


    "Most o'' the gems been pried out an'' replaced with glass, anyhow, and no one in these parts needs griffin tack."


    Neither, really, did Valerian, whose family beast might be the griffin, but whose home stables included not one. Reston had never trusted the creatures, who did have a taste for horseflesh. Still¡­


    "Its previous owner fell upon hard times?" he asked, picking up and admiring the bridle, built to encircle a massive, flesh-rending beak.


    Sapling nodded.


    "Aye, milord. He were a Constellate paladin. Called himself Strongbow. He were human, and quite aged, as they go. He died here that night, and his beast passed o'' grief, guardin'' his corpse till the end. I ain''t looted him, Lord, but set all his gear an'' effects aside fer safe keepin''. Would ye be passin'' anywhere close to the Needle? Aye? In that case, I could let ye have harness an'' bridle fer ten coppers, a blessin'' on my tree, and y''r word that Strongbow''s stuff ''ll get back to the Constellate."


    Val had no griffin steed and wasn''t likely to find one. Yet¡­ the harness drew him powerfully. A riveted orichalcum plate, still brightly polished, was etched with the name "Sawyer".


    For just an instant, he heard the scream of a hunting beast; saw its furled russet wings and spread talons as it dove at a terrified buck. Sawyer had been fierce, indeed, and tremendously loyal.


    Val did not bargain. In fact, added two coppers to Sapling''s request. As for the fey blessing, a sparrow that had been hopping and pecking on the open windowsill fluttered into the room, landing with careful, teetering balance on the lip of the dwarf-birch''s tub.


    Moments later, Gildyr was there, folding out of his bird shape with a smile and a flare of green light.


    "Good morn and glad tidings! Peace to all in this establishment!"


    Val should have been angry about being followed and spied upon. Instead, he indicated the druid with a nod, saying drily,


    "Here is one who excels at blessings, needed or not."


    Sapling fairly leapt with delight, crying,


    "Your lordship numbers a druid amongst his retainers? Had I but known! Good elf," he turned his attention to Gildyr, "my tree is just over here. I just stay at my post since Ansel''s away at trade, yet I find myself drooping."


    The high-elf returned to his cup of fragrant, stewed bark, and to putting griffin harness away in an empty food cache. The paladin''s effects¡­ journal, coin purse, holy symbol, satchel and sewing kit¡­ went in there, as well.


    Meanwhile, Gildyr and Sapling were becoming fast friends, as something night-dark and stealthy flowed about in the room''s shadowed nooks. Absolutely not stealing, under Valerian''s withering gaze.


    The monkey turned up to land unsteadily upon his left shoulder, both little hands clutching its head. Gazing at Val with squinted dark eyes, it mimed pathetically for day-brew. Val helped his fellow sufferer, carefully tipping the mug so that Cap''n could grip it and drink.


    Off to the side, Gildyr slowly circled that tub-stunted birch, chanting and gesturing. Cool wind and glacial waters were called upon. Spirits of long-vanished ice invoked, filling the tree with their essence. Making it surge with sudden new growth. Gildyr seemed almost to blossom, as well; as though part of the wood-elf were dryad.


    Roots burst out of the earthenware tub and clear through the floor, driving down to the soil below, splitting stone tiling to riddle the stable''s dank cellar.


    "Your tree needs contact and company," explained Gildyr, apologetically. "The spores bring nourishment and convey protection upon all that roots, good dryad. No tree should ever be isolated. Especially not a young birch." Then, lifting a slender brown eyebrow, "If I may?"


    Sapling clasped both long-fingered hands and cried,


    "I would be honored, good elf!"


    And then Gildyr turned into motes and flowed somehow into the tree, down through those twining new roots and away.


    Right. Tree magic, blah, blah. Moments later, Gildyr was back, seeming somehow refreshed.


    Sapling was flourishing, too, looking greener and fuller. Less reedy. His silver-barked face spit over and over with smiling and growth. Meanwhile, Val finished his day-brew, poured more and shared it with Cap''n.


    Breakfast was maple cakes and bacon provided by Sapling. For Gildyr, Cap''n and Valerian, at least. Salem went up to the hayloft to hunt for herself, radiating disgust at the omnivore''s "dead-fodder".


    All in all, a rather fine morning.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    6


    "Move, day-spawn!" snarled a rider, kicking him savagely onward.


    He''d been silenced; prevented from speaking aloud by the blood-magic runes carved at the base of his throat. His hands had been savagely mauled, as well, left thumb and right forefinger wrenched off and hurled to the wargs, who''d snarled and fought for the bloody treats. No more gestural magic or sigils. Not now, and maybe not ever again.


    His heavy collar was braided of leather and elf-bane, linked by loops of strong cord to the rusted chain that held all the captives in a single, shuffling file. He could not recall what had happened, how he''d been captured, and didn''t have much more left in him. Escape seemed impossible.


    The bone-dry air and wafting dust nearly strangled him, making every breath a serrated blade. He kept both swollen, torn hands shoved into his armpits, squeezing as hard as he could to stop sluggishly oozing blood. He could no longer heal himself, nor would the wounds scab shut.


    Mile after mile, just stumbled along in a line that never seemed to stop moving, not even for desperate illness or death. Fallen captives were not even unlocked; merely dragged along by the others until one of their guards rode up and slashed off the corpse''s head, letting the collar scrape loose of its truncated neck. Patrolling wargs made bloody, noisy short work of any remains.


    The barely glimpsed landscape was stony, uneven and endless, with a drow-spun dust cloud obscuring its features, hiding even the pale, distant sun.


    He lost track of how many times he crashed to his knees and fell, struggling weakly to rise, gasping and choking whenever the collar and chain were pulled taut. Lashes, clubbing and curses drove him upright again and again until¡­ just when he couldn''t have gone any farther¡­ the line stopped at last.


    Near death from thirst and exhaustion, he stood swaying a moment then dropped to the ground, managing to take the fall on his badly abraded right elbow and shoulder. Close to blinded by blood, dust and sweat, he did not notice, at first, when someone came down the line with a wooden bucket and ladle.


    Then water poured onto his head and face, and someone dabbed at his eyes with a cloth that might have been medicinal, a thousand dead captives ago. Squinting upward, he saw a young half-drow girl with a broken nose and a twisted left arm.


    Shaking her head for quiet, she dipped the ladle once more, this time bringing its bowl to his mouth. His hands were too sorely injured to help guide the tin pannikin, so much of the fluid dripped down his chin, washing dirt and dried blood from the silencing runes.


    A sharp bark and buffett from one of their captors forced the girl onward, but he had a mouthful of water and, nearby, a small, scrubby tree. Some sort of wind-weathered pine.


    Hardest thing he''d ever done was not to swallow that bloodied and tepid water. Despite his raging thirst, the young elf succeeded in elbow crawling his way to the tree, moving only when the slavers and wargs were not looking. An inches-slow, pain-crippled process.


    Just as the line of captives was being kicked and cursed back onto their feet, he reached his goal. The binding cords had stretched nearly as far as they''d go, but he''d made it.


    Looking swiftly around, he at last let the water out of his mouth and onto the tree roots, where dry, dusty soil flared briefly darker. Next¡­ and it hurt beyond words to express¡­ he used the longest remaining finger on his least-swollen hand to trace a pair of sigils onto that moistened dirt.


    Shoulders shaking, not remembering how this had happened or where they were headed, he placed both of his puffy, torn hands against tree bark. For a long moment, nothing happened at all. Then a soft green light flared, and a pair of slim, long-fingered sylph hands came forth, enfolding his own in their grasp.


    Warmth and sudden vitality flooded him, healing his hands and burning away those roughly gashed runes. He surged to his feet with a loud, savage cry, fire flaring from fingertips clear to his shoulders. Brought his foot down, hard, on the sigils, scuffing out what he''d written. Then, as wargs howled and drow slavers screeched¡­


    The trial vision ended with heart-stopping suddenness. Valerian stumbled, nearly falling at the center of a great stone chamber. The other four apprentices had pressed themselves back as far as they could against the curved wall, eyes dinner-plate wide, mouthing ward spells. Above him, the ceiling smoldered and crackled, still glowing hot where his fire had scorched it.


    Val straightened out of a feral crouch, brushing sparks from his tunic and hair, heart still hammering violently. Not true. Not real, any of it. Just¡­


    Trial¡­ the trial. Had he passed it?


    Sherazedan''s golden-pale face and silver eyes were nearly impossible to read. Val''s master stood with arms folded across his chest, a large, white raven pacing back and forth on one shoulder.


    "An¡­ innovative solution," mused the wizard, his long blue robe and tall staff untouched by the flame. "Receiving outside assistance is not forbidden, one supposes¡­"


    A brittle, melodic laugh cut off the rest of Sherazedan''s words.


    "What else could one expect from our true believer?" sneered Solara. She was Sherazedan''s oldest apprentice, and closest to journeyman status. Very beautiful, with tall, pointed ears, golden hair, and the personality of a wounded drider, she found Valerian''s up-country habits and temple attendance ludicrous.


    "Did you pray to your god for help, Rustic?" she smirked, getting some laughs from the others.


    Val hated her deeply. Was only sorry that his fiery outburst hadn''t singed her bald-headed. Before he could reply, Sherazedan held up a many-ringed hand, saying,


    "Your mockery is unseemly, Solara. Out of place in one who would wield the cosmos'' mightiest forces. I invite you to consider this, as you assume all of Valerian''s chores for the week.


    The Sidhe-maiden''s wide violet eyes spat hatred, but she bowed as gracefully as a dancer or riverside reed.


    "Of course, Master. I shall think long and deeply on how such a one should be properly treated." Then, placing a forefinger to her chin and tipping her lovely head to one side, Solara mused, "I suppose I might bring him some incense to burn to his holy spark, or sew pads for all of that kneeling he does."


    Sherazedan said nothing further. Merely lifted an arm to point at a sudden opening in the chamber wall.


    Solara smirked, then turned on her heel and left, dainty nose high in the air. Probably not to clean raven stands, either. Why did girls always hate him? And why were they always so stupid?


    Val peered up at his master''s impassive face, rubbing hands that still ached from having been torn apart. The base of his throat pulsed and burned where the slavers had cut those silencing runes. Why would a trial¡­ a mere vision¡­ still hurt?


    "Master," he ventured. "Was what happened just now a fated seeing? Will it come true?"


    Somebody snorted, but¡­


    "A perceptive question," said the hooded court wizard, sparing a glance at his least-attentive apprentice. "One without a clear answer. Yes, in a sense. Somewhere in all of the planes, one or more of your analogues will be caught by Drow slavers. It were well to prepare, therefore, in the event that quick wits and receptive dryads cannot resolve your dilemma."


    There was more to it than that, as his master well knew. Val had managed to alter and scrawl a very complex pair of sigils. ''I compel'' and ''Obey'' had been turned into something new.


    What he''d written in blood and wet dirt had been ''Help, please''... but he didn''t think that anyone else had seen it except Sherazedan. Didn''t matter, anyhow, because it wasn''t going to happen. He wouldn''t let it.


    "Someone else, maybe, but they won''t catch me," insisted the stubborn boy. "I''ll be winning all my fights with steel, not magic."


    His master was not insulted. Smiling thinly, Sherazedan inscribed a midair sigil and said,


    "Stop time," bringing nearly everyone else to a stand-still.


    "You are doing something I''ve never seen before in one so young, child. You are taking and changing existing magics with not much more than a sketchy thought. This is a subtle and dangerous gift. Control yourself. Apply yourself to your studies, or it all ends in failure and grief."


    But Valerian wouldn''t back down.


    "I don''t have to control magic. It''s not that important. I am just learning here till my folk call me home!"


    He never noticed a slim, silent shadow listening hard from the portal. Sherazedan shook his head.


    "Be mindful of what you despise and what you depend on, small warrior," replied the court wizard. "Sometimes, that which one trusts the most can turn in one''s hand and cut deeply. Now, away with you. Forty pages on how you might have resolved that scenario without resorting to outside help. Start time. Nalderick, stand forth to your trial!"


    ¡­And everything moved once again, while that shadow slid off to make plans.


    Green-eyed, stalwart Prince Nalderick found himself facing a brace of maddened ogres. Val and the other apprentices could see a misty, blurred glimpse of what Nalderick was up against and of how he chose to react. It did not go well.


    The other boy''s attempt at a warding spell failed almost entirely, blocking sight, but not sound or scent. Had he been quicker at first to take cover, Nalderick might have picked them off one at a time. Instead, he''d stood his ground boldly¡­ and ended up pounded to jelly and eaten raw, scraped off the ground. His final roar of defiance ended in a long, piercing shriek, ragged with blood and torn lungs.


    Sherazedan ended the trial with a sigh, leaving Nalderick standing there stunned in mid-chamber.


    "That will do for today," the wizard announced, looking grim. "More study is quite evidently required, as is attention to shielding."


    The last two students filed out like ducklings, glad to be spared their turn for at least one more day. But Nalderick, badly shaken, hadn''t yet moved. Valerian hesitated a moment, then crossed the room to join his fellow apprentice.


    "What do you want, Rustic?!" snapped Nalderick. "Come to gloat at my failure?"


    Val shook his head, no.


    "You went down fighting and you never gave up," he said. "My father told me that sometimes, that''s all you can do." His god and his family would have been proud of Nalderick, but Val did not risk getting laughed at by saying so. "And my trial could''ve gone better, as well."


    "Yes, well¡­ you''re not the one who''ll be copying shielding tomes for a month¡­ but, I thank you."


    The other boy managed to stop reflexively shuddering after a few more deep breaths and a muttered will-boosting spell. He''d just died and been eaten. No easy thing to pull free of.


    "It was so real," he whispered hoarsely. "I thought that I''d be able to tell it was just a vision and keep my head, but¡­ but¡­ I really hope that it isn''t my fate!"


    Val pondered a moment. Then,


    "Well, you help me with drow and I''ll help you against ogres," he offered. "We can make a pact, so we don''t have to face it alone."


    The brown-haired prince snorted, rapidly recovering his usual cool self-assurance.


    "You''re one of a kind, Rustic, you know that?"


    Then, with a sudden smile, he remarked,


    "A bunch of us are getting together after lessons and chores for a game of court ball. Care to sub in for Dannor? He broke his legs when that flight spell went wrong. You do play, do you not?"


    "All the time," lied Valerian, who had a lot of moves to perfect between now and free period.


    Nalderick smiled again, already back to his normal, confident self.


    "Fourth bell, then, at the west ball court. Bring your gear and don''t be late. Darkness comes early, this time of year."


    ¡­Which was Valerian Tarandahl''s "arrival"; his entrance to Karellon''s high society, and the day that he made a lifelong friend of Nalderick Valinor ob Korvin, Prince Attendant.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    7


    It made no sense to draw eyes and attention with red-lacquered scale mail, so Val withdrew to the stall for a bit. Ostensibly seeing to Patches and gathering his things, but really affecting some changes.


    To be clear, he had no intention of skulking or hiding. Let them come, whoever was hunting a Tarandahl. Let them¡­ bring their best, right here and now. But he didn''t need to stand out like a stomped, mangled hand, either.


    Disguising himself with illusion was a definite option, but a spell like that required concentration to maintain. He''d have to be in no doubt whatsoever as to clothing, facial features and general conformation, should the magic need to be reapplied in a hurry. Well¡­


    Val rubbed the side of his chin for a moment, twisting his mouth in unconscious mimicry of Reston and Dad. Then he worked a very basic illusion. Didn''t make himself look like anyone else, but like Valerian, two cycles earlier; when he''d ascended to senior apprentice. A bit shorter and slimmer, with longer hair and a readier smile; athletic from hours of dueling practice and court ball games. A seeming no trouble at all to maintain.


    He hadn''t needed to pull out his spell book to do it. Why bother, for something so easy? Also couldn''t help tinkering a little, while inscribing those glimmering sigils and speaking the key word. ''Anka'' made more sense, and would provide greater clarity than ''Erd'', he felt certain.


    Only, instead of a bright flash and surface disguise, he transformed himself. It was a younger Val who emerged from that sorcerous frame-shift. Patches and White Dog weren''t much impressed, but the others¡­


    Salem, Gildyr and Sapling looked and then looked again, harder; the Tabaxi going so far as to circle and sniff at him, ears flat and tail lashing. Apparently, his scent had changed a bit, too.


    No more lordly, creased splendor in clothing, either. Now he wore casual boots, tan breeches and a loose white shirt with truly awful embroidery polluting its collar and cuffs. Kalisandra had been forced to produce it by Counselor Something-or-other, and had just about hurled the shirt at him for a name-day present, many visits ago.


    He''d kept it because it irritated her, scoring big points in their non-stop battle. There was also a brown half-cloak (which covered the worst of those uneven stick-figures) and Smythe, who would not be left behind.


    He''d had to spell up the size of that awful shirt, for he and Sandy had been quite a bit younger at their second gift exchange. It hadn''t gone much better than the first one, but at least he didn''t bear any actual scars. Just lasting memories.


    "I embroidered hungry ghouls, and I hope they eat you!" She''d snarled, adding,


    "You make me sick!"


    Managing to crumple the gift as he wrenched it out of her hands, Val shoved his own at her, shooting back,


    "Yeah? Well, you make me dead! And I poisoned all of your welcome cakes!"


    Tara Cookie had sworn that tincture of tropical bean would fell any monster, and Sandy was surely that. Plus, he''d stomped on the cake package; so, not only deadly, but squashed.


    Here and now, Sapling folded his hands, interlacing long, woody fingers and guarding his private opinion. Nobility were often eccentric in manner and dress. Everyone knew that.


    Gildyr switched shapes a few times, peering at the high-elf lordling as sparrow, bear, ferret and wolf. Assuming his own shape at last, the druid said,


    "That''s¡­ very fine work, Milord. Did you, um¡­ stitch it yourself?"


    "No," replied Val, stung by the very suggestion. "It''s terrible. I could do better with ship''s cordage for thread and a plank for a needle. It''s a present. I hate it¡­ but no one avoiding attention would wear anything this unnattractive. It''s strategy."


    Salem reached over to twitch at Valerian''s cloak, covering more of Sandy''s wretched, lop-sided stitching.


    "They would certainly stumble in shock," she agreed. "Granting time for action or flight."


    "I do not flee," said Val, gone suddenly cold and remote. "At least¡­ I''m running to, not away."


    Something stirred the black fur of her quick-withdrawn forearm. A sprightly gold monkey tattoo, making ridiculous faces. Val watched for a bit, feeling the weight of everything, all at once, almost too heavy to bear.


    Sapling cleared his throat diplomatically, then, saying,


    "Milord, good druid and Cat-madame¡­ There are a number of very fine shops in town, where supplies and advice c''n be had¡­ and Magister Serrio''s caravan ''ll be arrivin'', today. No tellin'' what ye''ll find, there."


    Val approved the dryad''s suggestion with a brief, chilly nod. He did need supplies¡­ but he''d be dead, drawn and quartered before he took off that miserable shirt. Principle of the thing, and all that.


    "I have to get moving again," he informed them, "just as soon as Patches can travel unburdened. I shall need to rent a fresh horse¡­ but I suppose there is time to go shopping, first. Perhaps learn what the innkeeper wishes."


    That, and work on a link to the family transport sigil, in Starloft. Even a few days shaved off of his travel time could mean life or death for Lerendar.


    Gildyr and Salem made as if to go with him, pricking Val in the pride and the pocket-book. ''Retainers'', Sapling had called them, but ''retainer'' implied contracted payment, while ''companion'' hinted at near-equal rank. A pain in the saddle sores (of which he had naught) either way.


    Gildyr resolved his dilemma with a bow and a smile.


    "We surely all need to top up our supplies," said the druid, spreading his hands. "And why not go together? There will be many new folk in town for the fair. The Tabaxi will need an escort to fend off the curious, and that you can surely provide, Milor¡­ Val."


    Pretty thin excuse, but the high-elf accepted it, at least until he could slip out of town. Alone. Without dragging anyone into his personal nightmare.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    8


    Snowmont by day was a glittering frost-scape. A town of stout two-and-three story buildings of wood and grey stone beneath a sugary dusting of new-fallen snow. The sun was well up, striking rainbows of light from each tiny drift. The cobbled streets were slick, wet on the stones themselves, icy in the gaps and wheel ruts between.


    Their breath misted in the air as Gildyr, Salem and Val left the rent-stable, ducking the ice-fanged edge of its creaking wood sign. Mounts to Let, it read, beneath a crudely painted green unicorn.


    It was impossible not to feel bold and venturesome on a morning this fine, with a sky so purely gem blue, you could tear off a piece, dip it and eat it, as Katina Nanny would say.


    "Frozen cloud berries and mint," said Val, forgetting himself in the moment.


    "Beg pardon, Milord?" asked the druid, slowing that loping stride to look at Valerian.


    "Oh¡­ erm¡­ the sky. Stupid. Never mind. Just¡­" He couldn''t extricate himself without explaining, but didn''t wish to seem foolish. "What, erm¡­ the sky would taste like, if¡­ you could tear off a piece, dip it and eat it."


    Katina had nearly always said, ''Honey posset, with lemon cream'', which everyone had on first snow days¡­ and he really, very badly, wanted just to be home.


    Gildyr and Salem both looked up for a moment. Then the Tabaxi said,


    "Minnows, fresh from the stream, in slippery, silvery fistfulls, wriggling all the way down. No dip but the water they swam in."


    Gildyr smiled dreamily, saying,


    "Apples, crisp and tart, with just a shake of spice-bark and caramel sauce¡­ but the flavor would surely change come noon, or at sunset. This deserves further thought."


    Val was off-stride, having expected rolled eyes and snorts of derision. Swiftly changing the subject, he nodded at the first likely shop, just across the town square. The sign-board above its door showed a bursting-full wagon, drawn by a pair of green unicorns. ''The Trader''s Wain'', it read.


    "That one," he decided, all at once lordly again. "No doubt the establishment will have all that is required, and we may then part company." Permanently.


    Gildyr smiled once more, then turned himself into a rabbit to dart and dash across the town square, dodging traffic and weaving through market stalls. Half of the square had been cordoned off by a shimmering mage-ban and dome. Those flowing sigils caught Val''s attention, as though a familiar hand had inscribed their binding and filled them with manna. Huh.


    Anyhow, within the forbidden zone, Magister Serrio''s colorful wagons and tents were already being set up. Valerian''s mood lifted another few notches. Reflexively, as though escorting a high-born court lady, he bowed and offered an arm, to help Salem across the square.


    "Milady, if I may?"


    Her pupils had shrunk to mere slits in the dayshine, but now they widened a bit, and her ears swung forward. Next, purring,


    "With gratitude," she placed a clawed hand in the crook of his arm and allowed herself to be ''guided''.


    They garnered a great deal of attention crossing the square. Snowmont was a fairly cosmopolitan place, as mountain towns went, but an attractive young high-elf squiring a hooded, person-form cat was far from an everyday sight.


    Folk were indeed curious, but held themselves mostly to pointing and impolite stares. Bird-Gildyr awaited his companions halfway; hopping and pecking at the bug-flecked base of Lord Orrin''s bust.


    "If you could have flown," objected Valerian, with a touch of exasperation, "why risk life, hide and limb dodging carts?"


    The sparrow fluttered up, then changed forms once again, becoming a grinning young druid just long enough to say,


    "More fun like this, two-footers! Try to keep up!"


    ¡­before dropping back into his lop-eared brown rabbit shape and streaking away from the marble pillar. Salem uttered a rumble, more felt than heard, and then she, too, was off, leaving her cloak in Val''s hands. He folded it up and tucked it away in a faerie pocket. Then, briefly meeting Orrin''s disapproving stone glare, he said,


    "They''re not bad, once you''ve gotten to know them."


    The marble bust was larger than life and magical; spelled so that Orrin could look through its eyes at his town. His manor house lay far above, clinging to the east flank of Kronnar like a burr, just this side of the weather ward.


    "No loitering, you!" called a town guardsman, hand at his truncheon. "See t'' yer business, if ye have any. If not, be off. We''ll have no beggars in Snowmont!"


    In the split, surprised instant before Val realized that the fellow was speaking to him¡­ dared address his better in such an uncouth and disrespectful manner¡­ he started to bristle, reaching for Nightshade''s absent hilt.


    Then he recalled his disguise. Though it went against everything that three cycles in Karellon had taught him, Valerian contented himself with a single, contemptuous glance. The fellow was merely human, after all; an elven-form simian. Decked out in Orrin''s green and white livery, he sported the usual stubbly face and may-fly lifespan. Then,


    "You there! Sergeant at Arms!" bellowed the marble head. "You are hereby demoted to private recruit! Turn in your truncheon and badge at the station, then hie yourself to the barracks for further discipline!"


    That¡­ was highly unexpected and troubling. Floundering a bit in uncertain social waters, Val inclined his head in a brief nod at Lord Orrin''s proxy.


    "Good day, your lordship," he said,trying for ''carefree wanderer'', rather than ''hunted young nobleman''.


    "So it is, so it is," said the bust, without altering one bit of that chiseled scowl. "You are most welcome in Snowmont, my dear high-elf. We are kin, you know, through my noble father."


    Orrin was a half-elf. Feen Arvendahl, Val thought he recalled. At least, this was Arvendahl territory, being part of Realm Alandrial, just south of Ilirian.


    "I thank you," he replied, determined to give away nothing of who he was. What if the Arvendahls had discovered the situation, and decided to redraw their northern border? The last free Tarandahl heir dropped into their laps like a gift would lead to (at best) a forced marriage. At worst, a sudden surfeit of poison, garrote or blade. Best to play vague and innocent.


    "I am just passing through town, Lord, on the way to¡­ Milardin."


    But the head was unmoved.


    "Nonsense! I insist that you come to my manor and sup at my board this even, noble sir! We get so few worthy visitors, and all news of places afar is of interest. This evening at sun¡­"


    A sparrow landed on Orrin''s stone curls, then vented its waste, breaking the contact. May or may not have been Gildyr, but Val murmured,


    "Many thanks," anyhow.


    Hurried the rest of the way through the town square. Or, mostly. The town guardsman hadn''t moved, still rooted to the spot of his humiliating demotion.


    His sense of injustice wouldn''t allow Val to ignore the man, who stood there with clenched fists and a shattered world. Coming forward, the high-elf said,


    "I deeply regret what has happened, and would make restitution, if possible."


    The man''s hard blue eyes met Val''s for an instant. Then he turned his head and spat to one side.


    "Lord Orrin has his ways. Open an'' generous one moment, rough as a started boar, th'' next. I were rude. I admit it¡­ an'' I''ll think o'' somethin''... somewhere far away from here. Milardin, p''raps. I''ve a sister there. I c''n land on my feet.``


    A tidy dismissal. Nor, Val sensed, would the man accept coin. Tam wouldn''t have. But magic was another matter, entirely. In graceful, three-dimensional script, Valerian cast a traveler''s blessing, wishing good fortune, fair winds and all speed to its target.


    The sigils glowed and spun momentarily, then sank into the guardsman''s chest, clear through his polished breastplate and tunic. There went manna he should have been hoarding, but Val felt responsible for the man''s public disgrace.


    Moments later, a human woman and child hurried over, drawn by rumor and outcry. The goodwife looked worried, but her small, hip-slung boy was oblivious, laughing and reaching for Da.


    "Good morn and glad tidings," murmured Valerian, knowing when to back off and retreat. In his wake, part of the crowd drew close to the guard and his family, offering whatever they had to spare, by way of support.


    Mood somewhat dampened, Val entered the shop, causing a tinkling spell-bell to chime. Gildyr and Salem were already there, fingering weapons and goods under the watchful eye of a bearded and surly she-dwarf. Snowmont was infested with the creatures, it seemed. This one was as red-haired as Alaryn Firelord, though very much shorter.


    "Welcome t'' the Traveler''s Wain," she lied, quite evidently wishing him elsewhere.


    Val graced her with a brief nod, then set about looking around. Food stuffs he needed, for times when he couldn''t just hunt or fish for himself. Fodder for the horse. Healing elixir, as well, because one never knew when misfortune or injury might prevent the open casting of spells. He had never forgotten¡­ could not forget¡­ what that felt like.


    The dwarf woman seemed to be everywhere he was, watching through lowered brows and simmering eyes as Val made his selections. He seemed to perplex her. Despite his plain garments and ugly shirt, the elf behaved as one unaccustomed to shopping for himself; never haggling over price. Never even inquiring, merely standing before items of interest, rather than picking them up.


    The good-hearted druid ambled forward to receive and carry his choices, once the dwarf''s young assistant¡­ a dwarven lad¡­ handed them over.


    "Yer retainer¡­ Milord?" asked the shopkeeper, somewhat doubtfully.


    Val shut his eyes, briefly, trying hard to wring manna and peace from an uncaring cosmos.


    "So it would appear," he sighed. Well, he could always figure out recompense later, the high-elf supposed.


    Ignoring Smythe''s impatient hornet-buzz, Val trailed Gildyr to the till, where the shop-keeper waited, rubbing her hands together with a sound like sandpaper on wood.


    He was about to reach for his coin purse when he spotted the fishing arrows. Beautifully barbed and slim-fletched in cormorant feathers, they''d been woven through the mesh of a net that hung on the wall behind the counter. His heart must have shown on his face, for the dwarf-woman''s beard actually split in a sudden, shy smile.


    "Me own work," she said, visibly glowing. "If yer lordship''d have ''em, they be naught but ten silver pennies, apiece."


    Ten¡­


    "If physical coin be short," she added (for no one much bow-fished in Snowmont) "Yer lordship''s scrip ''ll do fine."


    His scrip? That would mean using his name and seal to draw upon Stronghold Bank and Security, back in Karellon.


    Val had long since spent the month''s allowance and was supposed to be in disguise, but¡­ he was no longer a second, spare son. If Smythe were to be believed, he was now Silmerana, Warden of the North and lord of Ilirian.


    ¡­and he''d rather have thrown away every last coin than have the family fortune at his disposal, this way. That stew of mixed emotions came close to choking him. Then,


    "Valerian, is that you?" someone asked, from the shop''s open front door. And, just like that, he knew who had spelled those ban sigils.


    To the dwarven shopkeeper, he said,


    "I shall take all ten of them. Ready the scrip, if you please."


    Next, turning to face the doorway, Val sketched the slightest of bows, barely ducking his head and one shoulder.


    "Lady Solara, greetings."


    She swept within like a tide, gleaming in more than the usual range of colors; attended by creatures that flashed in and out of his sight as they boiled complexly through multiple planes, lit up by alien suns. Her staff of blonde maple wood shone like a star, and was topped by an overlarge, lustrous pearl. Clearly, Lord Orrin paid well.


    "Why, it is you!" crooned Solara, drifting above the stone floor with her slender bare feet¡­ their toes ringed and polished¡­ posed in a graceful dancer''s point. "Our very own true believer, here in the flesh. Oh, are you still just a journeyman, Rustic? And so low on manna! How embarrassing for you!"


    Because she was a nobly-born lady as well as a full sorceress, evidently in Lord Orrin''s employ, Val kept hold of his temper.


    "I am traveling north," he said flatly. "I shall leave Snowmont within the day."


    (With Patches limping on alternate legs, or on his back if he had to carry the mare, to leave this wretched place.)


    "North?" repeated Solara, as though mildly puzzled. Then, "Ah, yes¡­ there has been a spot of unpleasantness at your family burrow, hasn''t there? Poor Rustic! How terribly sad. Anyhow, Lord Orrin and I quite enjoyed the little show you put on, out in the town square. Still feeding beggars and strays, I see."


    Sparks flared up in the air all around him; drifting, rising and twisting. Ripples of heat made everything waver and dance, causing the dwarf to scrabble under the counter for a big wooden bucket.


    "No magic!" she growled. Then, shoving the pail at a shrinking half-drow, "you, girl! Go to the well and get help! Hurry!"


    The blue-skinned lass bolted away, bucket clutched to her chest. Val barely noticed. Solara drew closer, her beautiful face smiling gently; her aura pure daggers and ice.


    "Aww¡­ are we angry? Calling on Sparky the campfire god? Let me help: Now we fold our hands and pray, Firelord to light our way¡­"


    Valerian would no doubt have landed in one of Lord Orrin''s deepest cells, rather than his manor house, for assaulting his lordship''s mage. Only, a ferret poured itself like a river of fur, from the countertop onto Solara''s high-piled blonde hair.


    Then the drow-spawn shop girl scrambled back into the Wain with somebody else''s full bucket, leading three hurrying men.


    "Fire!" she yipped, flinging her water, which turned in mid splash to strike, not Val, but Solara. The bucket brigade did likewise, thoroughly drenching the sorceress, ferret, and a goodly portion of Val.


    The dwarf woman yanked that bucket out of her servant''''s thin hands, then bashed the girl''s head with it. Went for another blow, shouting at the fire brigade to get out. Valerian stepped between mistress and maidservant, recalling a broken-nosed, twisted-arm half-drow slave and her life saving drink.


    ¡­which was how he wound up on the floor in a puddle of water, stunned. Someone was crying at the back of the shop, while the dwarf woman wrung her broad hands and apologized.


    Val touched his forehead, feeling the hangover shift its base of operations to a nicely developing lump. Didn''t matter one tailor''s scrap to the high-elf. Solara was gone; dripping wet and torn by a ferret, having snarled,


    "This evening at second bell¡­ Orrin''s mansion for a¡­ banquet in your honor."


    ¡­ which must have been like spitting teeth, blood and bits. Touched his heart. Truly. Enough that he put himself back in the moment three times, to hear it all over again. Meanwhile, the shopkeeper was still bobbing and wringing her hands, fearing lost custom.


    "Yer lordship, please accept me apologies and ten percent off yer purchase. That half-blood''s a menace. Nuthin'' but trouble from the first day till now! I should never''ve taken ''er in!"


    Valerian lifted a hand to halt the torrent of words. A suspiciously damp druid appeared from behind a stack of dried peppers, making as if to help him off of the floor.


    To the shopkeeper, Val said,


    "Worth the price of admission, good dwarf." Worth double the price.


    To the druid,


    "Unnecessary. I am able to rise."


    ¡­ which he did, unassisted and gracefully, not much slipping on water, at all. Salem next emerged from the back of the shop, doing something with ears, tail and scent that was no doubt perfectly clear to Gildyr, but meant nothing whatever to Val.


    The crying had stopped, though, and then a door slammed in back, with light footsteps fading. That was as much as he got.


    The scrip was written and spelled. There was a moment of stomach-churning anxiety as he waited for it to clear. Then a stack of gold and platinum coins appeared on its glowing surface, which now had "Aute ob Oberyn'''' signed in below "Valerian Tarandahl ad Keldaran".


    So much for hiding, but at least he was no longer impoverished¡­ boasting plenty of coin he would rather never have had.


    Val gestured at the newly arrived funds.


    "Take the appropriate sum, with¡­ ten gold apiece for the needs of my, erm¡­ retainers."


    Gildyr''s green eyes widened like a child on his name day. Clasping both hands to his chest, he whispered,


    "Nine and a half gold for the cause of peace between peoples!"


    As for Salem, the Tabaxi sniffed,


    "You might simply have left your belt pouch unsealed, smooth-hide."


    Val shook his head and regretted it. Over Smythe''s angry hum, he said,


    "No. I''m not that stupid, and you''re not that good."


    At all. Even a little. Five times, already, he''d caught and foiled her attempts at his belt pouch. It was almost reflexive, now, reaching down to capture and pin a fleet, dark-furred wrist.


    Salem put out her rough tongue at him, then wandered off to fleece someone else.


    ''The next time someone yells "stop, thief", I''m going as fast as I can in the other direction,'' thought Val, not really meaning it. Then, ''Holy flame¡­ a banquet at Orrin''s place, with Solara crouching behind me, spelling up death.''


    Right. Sounded amazing. What could go wrong?


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    9


    Val didn''t have to look that far for trouble, as it turned out, because Smythe would not be ignored any longer. Vibrating at his back like a hive of assemblers, the sword screeched,


    ''Enough of this foolishness! Back on the road, Wastrel! Lord Lerendar stands in desperate need! Thy older, worthier sibling¡­''


    Valerian checked the spot in his mind where his brother''s life essence pulsed.


    "Is still alive, and I''m hurrying, but I require supplies, and Patches needs rest."


    Only, the Sword of the Tarandahls wasn''t having any. Loudly drowning out Valerian''s words, it shrilled,


    Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    ''Excuses! Slay the horse and purchase another! Doze in the saddle! There is time neither for banquet nor fair!"


    Val lunged from the Traveler''s Wain, avoiding the dwarf-woman''s goggling stare. But Smythe wasn''t finished.


    ''Back on the road!'' it torn-metal screamed, adding, ''Or, do you secretly long for Lord Lerendar''s death, so that you may pilfer more gold and besmotter the high seat of the Tarandahls with thine unworthy fundament?''


    And, all at once, the dam that had held back a roiling mass of heartache, terror, rage and shame burst completely apart. Outside the shop, Val reached blindly up and around, yanked Smythe from its battered old scabbard, then flung the blade onto the cobbled street. It clattered and spun, then started to lift. Val leapt forward, pinning that wire-wrapped hilt to the ground with a booted foot.


    "That''s it!" he raged. "I''m finished! No more!"


    The weapon began to heat up, glowing red and then white; turning puddled snow-melt to sizzling steam. A crowd gathered, but Val never noticed.


    "Go ahead!" he snapped. "Kill me and melt yourself! My brother will die, but who cares?! At least you''ll have got shed of me!"


    Something parted and silenced the crowd, then, leaving just Valerian, Salem and Gildyr yet moving. And Smythe, of course; still screeching aloud as it blasted forth heat and disgust.


    "Shorty, perhaps a modicum of restraint, when dealing with valuable magical heirlooms, dear child?"


    Furious, panting, embarrassed, Val tore his gaze from the blade of the Tarandahls. Spotted a tall, elegant figure; Tiefling-horned and dressed with impeccable taste. The being''s lightly curled, powdered hair was perfect, setting off a swarthy complexion and ironic smile. Magister Serrio, himself.


    Gildyr rushed up, grinning with child-like excitement, for all Karandun loved (and a little bit feared) the Ringmaster.


    Salem flowed backward, making shadow where none had existed before, one hand at her dagger hilt. Unlike Gildyr and Val, or the frozen crowd which surrounded them, she had no experience with this apparently undying showman.


    Valerian straightened from trying to grind his weapon into the road. Reset his half-cloak, complexly glad and embarrassed by the use of his childhood nickname. Further, he''d made an utter spectacle of himself before half of Snowmont.


    Still resentful, he stomped Smythe even harder into the street, scenting burnt boot-sole and blistered flesh. Worth it.


    "Magister Serrio," he said, after clearing his throat. "Pray forgive me for causing a scene. I quite forgot myself."


    Serrio cocked a slim, swooping eyebrow, saying,


    "With cause, dear child. Your ancestral blade has become ever more crass and unforgiving, over time. Hmm¡­" The frock-coated being seemed to consider. Then, snapping long, beringed fingers, he said, "There. I believe that should do."


    Several things happened at once, straining even the high-elf''s ability to track multiple threads:


    First, the faces of that frozen mob changed expression, going from avid curiosity to work-a-day business or fair-bound delight.


    Second, Smythe went suddenly dull; no longer glowing or fighting to rise. Still seething, Val kicked it, hard. Maybe that hurt. Maybe he gave not a flying imp''s tail; viciously enjoying the sight of a dulled, notched sword spinning away on the cobbles.


    "You killed it?" he asked, not really sorry at all.


    Thirdly, Val''s boot mended, the hangover cleared, his scorched foot healed completely, and Kalisandra''s wretched embroidery became a priceless work of tapestry art. No more bloody-fanged stick figure ghouls. Now collar and cuffs sported dignified griffins in Trandahl red and gold.


    Funnily enough, it was the stupid shirt he most cared about.


    "Change it back, please," he asked, looking and feeling bereft.


    This time, the other brow rose.


    "It was an exceedingly hideous garment," said Magister Serrio. "An offense to the eye, dear child."


    "I know. I hate it. Just¡­ somebody made it for me, and¡­ well¡­"


    Serrio smiled, understanding everything, as always.


    "Ah! Our very dear Kalisandra, no doubt? I see. Very well, then. Let it be as you wish. To your eyes, at least."


    The Ringmaster snapped again, and once more that spell-stretched linen was crowded with picked-out-and-restitched, misshapen monsters. Val relaxed. He really did hate that shirt, but¡­ Anyhow. Transformations reversed, he stood there once more as himself.


    Magister Serrio shifted position, coming closer without having stirred in the least.


    "And now, to potential business. I believe that you find yourself in a bit of a, shall we say, picklement. I mourn what has befallen your sire, dear child. Keldaran was a good man. He shall be missed."


    Val looked away. He could hold himself together as long as nobody reached out with kindness or sympathy. This unexpected compassion nearly unmanned him. The elf swallowed hard, clenched fists and jaw, but managed a nod, if not words.


    "As to the sword, your ''Smythe'' is not dead. It but sleeps, awaiting the sound of its true name, spoken thrice."


    Uh-huh. As if that was likely to happen, short of the end times and Oberyn''s call. Well, good to know what not to do, accidentally.


    "I won''t even use it to spread butter," he growled, fetching and resheathing the long, heavy, unbalanced thing.


    Now both of those slender, dark eyebrows scaled Serrio''s forehead.


    "Spread¡­? Ah. Lerendar¡­ whom, I believe, you have some interest in salvaging?"


    Cautiously, Val nodded yes. Magister Serrio''s eyes had flames in their pupils, though that civilized smile remained firmly in place.


    "A final free sample, dear child, from one with an academic interest in difficult cases. Let us say that, so long as you remain within a day''s ride of Snowmont, time outside of that boundary shall not advance. Consider yourself to be in a bubble, sealed away safe from the river of fate. Cross the line, and it''s back to the rapids, I fear, dear child. But for now, visit the fair, perform deeds of might and cunning for Buernar, attend Orrin''s banquet. Heal your steed. Then, perhaps, we may reach a mutually profitable bargain for Lerendar''s safe retrieval."


    Valerian hesitated. He very much wanted to save his brother. Would have given his own (apparently worthless) life to do so, if that were the price.


    Serrio chuckled gently, casting a larger shadow than seemed possible, given his size.


    "There is, indeed, always a price, Short-stuff. The question is, are you willing to pay it?


    With a courtly flourish and bow, the Ringmaster conjured a gilt-edged card from seeming thin air. A puff of wind conveyed it, tumbling and fluttering, to Valerian, who caught the stiff paper before it swept past.


    He glanced at it once, seeing the stylized head of a copper dragon printed on one side, and a close-written scrip on the other.


    "You have only to decide and sign, to gain assistance of a rather greater order of magnitude than anything else on the board, as of yet. But¡­ be advised, dear child¡­ once the Matriarch is in play, my offer is withdrawn. There, now. All settled and sorted. I hope to see you at the fair, Valerian, along with your delightful compatriots."


    Glancing aside at Gildyr, then Salem (who''d thought herself hidden) he chided them mildly, as well.


    "Cubby, as much as you long for peace and justice in this imperfect plane, there shall be no further attempts to unite my animal performers against me. Trust that everyone¡­ every last one¡­ is in this place of their own free will, for a reason dearer than life or eternity. Now, should you care to join them, come to the red tent tonight, after the evening''s final performance."


    Next, to the startled Tabaxi,


    "Kitten of Distant Stands Oasis, you are most welcome. Your curse is not. It halts at my borders, resumes beyond them¡­ and thieving tattoos should remain where they belong, or risk becoming no more than an ink stain. Are we clear?"


    Salem was just about able to nod, though her ears flattened backward and her tail had puffed bottle-brush thick.


    "Very good," he said, in a voice grown too loud and too resonant for human or tiefling. "Then we are agreed."


    Another crisp snap, and suddenly movement and sound returned to the scene, as Magister Serrio vanished.


    An unheeding crowd poured and surged around Gildyr, Salem and Val, clutching their hopes and their money, ready for magic and wonders and deals.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    10


    The Merry Lad was closest, just across the magically bisected town square. The ban was down, but a shimmer of space deformation still enclosed the fair. Not Solara''s work. Much more powerful, and delicately spelled; those flashing and tumbling sigils each a miniature, archaic masterpiece.


    Val studied them closely on the way past, feeling Serrio''s card burning a hole in its faerie pocket, almost literally. Some things could not be contained. Would not consent to be packed away and forgotten.


    His route was not direct, both because of the surging crowd, all streaming fair-ward, and because he preferred to avoid the gaze of Orrin''s stone head. Val paused to allow a line of farm-carts to rumble past on deeply grooved wheel ruts. After a moment, Gildyr caught up, panting and smiling. The druid attempted to make eye-contact, but Valerian didn''t care to see or speak with anyone, just then.


    "It, um¡­ may not be my place to say so¡­" the druid began.


    "It is not," Val cut him off, wishing that rumbling, creaking caravan anywhere at all save in his path, blocking escape.


    Gildyr stayed by the high-elf, determined to speak his piece, whatever it was. Not Salem. The restless Tabaxi leapt from a fluid crouch to a light landing atop high-piled sacks and then onward, hitting ground on the other side like an acrobat. Gave them a smug, flippant wave before vanishing into the crowd. The druid paid no attention, saying,


    "I wanted to tell you that I, too, am sorry for what happened to your father. Keldaran was listening. There was progress, and I''m certain that¡­"


    Valerian held up a banning hand, fingertips lined with the barest glitter of flame.


    "Stop," he grated, between tightly clenched teeth. "Be silent, or begone. I care not which." Was not in the mood to talk about dad. Not with anyone outside of temple or grove.


    Then a break appeared in the train of oxen-drawn carts. No more than a yard or two wide, but enough. Val darted through it with careless haste, nearly colliding with a well-armed young elf on the other side.


    "''Ware your path and your betters, fellow," sneered the raven-haired sprig of nobility; an Arvendahl through and through. Part of a group, he did not quite touch the cobbled street with its foul, slushy puddles.


    Val had not levitated, standing braced with his boots on the ground as the nobleman''s friends turned to watch. There were four, altogether. Not an impossible fight, but one best avoided.


    Before he could speak, the other elf¡­ dressed in fine clothing lightly threaded with Arvendahl green, peered closer, dropping hand from sword hilt. A bit doubtfully, he said,


    "But I know you, do I not? From¡­"


    Valerian thought swiftly, paging back through faces, names and events, until¡­


    "Fosterage at court," he supplied. "You were raised up in the manor of Elidan, High Lord Kalistiel."


    The other lad smiled at him, relaxing visibly, all barriers suddenly gone.


    "Weren''t those the days!" he crowed, reaching forth to clasp hands. "I am Filimar ad Tormun, a cadet of Family Arvendahl, and you were one of the Prince-Attendant''s set."


    Filimar winced.


    "We played your court-call team once, at the end of the main season. Had our collective rumps handed back to us on a fork, nicely seasoned and toasted. You outscored us, twenty-two to fifteen, but, gods! What a game¡­ and what an arm on Nalderick!"


    Val smiled back, remembering.


    "It was a much nearer thing than was shown by final numbers," he protested modestly. "Your team played well." Then, with a slight bow, "I am Valerian, of Family Tarandahl, on my journeyman quest for¡­"


    "Hah! Old Sherazedan, long may he mutter and peep!" concluded Filimar, laughing delightedly. "Hardest master in Karellon! My condolences, Valno. How you found time to practice at all strains comprehension! Say, remember the last City-wide festival scrum?"


    Did he?! Val shook a head full of violent, half-drunken memories.


    "Was it you that blacked my left eye?" he inquired.


    "Only if you were responsible for five loosened teeth and a swollen nose!"


    They shoulder-bumped, hand-clasped and shoved each other, while Filimar called out,


    "Arien, Sandor, Kellen, come meet the second-fastest defender in all of fair Karellon¡­ I present Valerian! Valno, here are as worthless a lot of parasites as you''d care to encounter."


    More laughter and boasting erupted at that, as Val made acquaintance with Filimar''s set. Gildyr and Salem drew nearer, meanwhile, watching with interest.


    "Anyhow, Valno," said his new comrade, automatically using the personal familiar name form, "A few of us are here for the fair, but also," his volume dropped dramatically, "to deal with this upstart Feen of an Orrin, who dares refer to himself as ''Lord Arvendahl''. The gall! Thought we''d¡­ you know¡­ scare him a little. Shake him back down to his proper level. You in?"


    Val knew very little of Orrin, beyond his execrable taste in court mages and statuary. Still, this new-found friendship with Filimar put the young high-elf in a terribly difficult position. Reston was a Feen. Katina and Tara were Feens, as were most of his uncles and aunts, thanks to Galadin''s free-roving ways.


    Before he could frame a response, Filimar''s gaze shifted to Salem. He looked the Tabaxi over, then looked back at Val. Lifting an eyebrow and smiling conspiratorially, Filimar said,


    "Hmm. Exotic. Must be quite a ride."


    Valerian froze. Salem was a lady, and under his escort. The intolerable insult had got to be avenged or revoked.


    With a deep bow to the amused Tabaxi, Val pulled her cloak back out of its faerie pocket, then settled it around her slim shoulders, saying,


    "Milady, please allow me to present Filimar Arvendahl ad Tormun. Filno, here is Lady Salem of Distant Sands Oasis, a traveler in our lands under my protection."


    Filimar''s blue eyes widened as he grasped the enormity of his blunder. The young elf bowed deeply and gracefully, murmuring,


    "Milady, a thousand abject apologies were not enough. I offer you lifelong service, at need or at whim. At your slightest word, I cross oceans and deserts!"


    Truly generous, well-spoken and fitting. Val cast a swift, sidelong glance at Salem, checking to see if she were satisfied with Filimar''s offer. He needn''t have worried.


    Salem yawned and stretched like a cat in the sun, musing,


    "So much formality. So much stiffness, when the music of scent and the magic of moonlight are all that one needs for friendship or mate-bond. Be at ease, elfling. I am not offended by trifles."


    Visibly relieved, Filimar straightened back up. To Salem, he said,


    "I thank you, Milady. The cadet house of Arvendahl offers all hospitality, now and for all time to come."


    Next, turning to Val,


    "At second bell this afternoon, by the dueling tent. With you on board, we''ll teach Orrin a lesson he''ll never forget¡­ if he lives to regret our tutelage."


    Spotting the druid, Filimar abstracted a silver penny from one of his faerie pockets. Tossed it at Gildyr, saying,


    "You, there! For peace, and to make certain your master recalls our get-together."


    Valerian could have introduced the wood-elf, as well, but did not. There Gildyr stood, with the dirt and mold of the forest under his fingernails, in an open fur vest and hide breeches, decked in tattoos, elks teeth and antlers¡­ with his tangled brown hair in a twig-pinned knot, begging bowl clipped to his belt. Just¡­ how to explain?


    Gildyr looked crestfallen as Filimar strolled away fairward. Then he hauled up his smile again, carefully tucking the penny away in a ''funds for peace'' pocket.


    Val folded his arms across his chest. Cleared his throat and then, at a nudge from Salem, he went over to Gildyr.


    "You were saying? Prior to my inexcusably hurried departure?"


    "Oh," said the druid. "Just that your father was, indeed, a good man and¡­ My people burn a sacred twig and make a wish in the name of their departed ones. The rising sparks carry their wish to the gods. I would do that, with your permission, for Lord Keldaran. What would he have asked for?"


    Valerian thought of his dad. Of hunting and fishing and learning to hold a bow. Of laughter and firelight, gone.


    "An end to the constant fighting, I think," he decided, at last. "More time to spend camping and ranging his lands."


    Gildyr smiled gently, going all misty-eyed.


    "I would have prayed for that, anyway. Doubly so, now that it is in Lord Keldaran''s name. May his son and heir seek the same."


    Val reached around to rub the back of his own neck with one hand, nearly skinning his knuckles on Smythe''s dead hilt in the process.


    "I am committed to vengeance," he said. "There is nothing I can do but seek answering blood. I have vowed, and so it must be. Orrin, though¡­" Valerian shifted uneasily, switching his weight from one foot to the other, torn by deep conflict. "Somebody needs to warn Orrin, without imperiling Filimar."


    ¡­and his proposed banquet would be too late to save the unwary half-elf. Salem flowed over, whiskers twitching and ears pointed forward.


    "Write a note," she suggested. "Spell it untraceable and then give it to me. I excel at going where I am not wanted, and seeing that which others wish hidden. I will place it on Lord Orrin''s desk. On the tip of his hairless nose, if that is your desire."


    Well, perhaps she was better at sneaking than she had been at theft.


    "We''ll do it," said Val, as they started once more for the Merry Lad. Whatever happened, he could not let a man be attacked for the crime of trying to better himself. Simply for being a Feen.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    11


    The Merry Lad was a very different place in the morning, with its hearth-fire doused and its windows flung wide to let in the chill, bracing air. Busy with cleanliness now, as a handful of scullery maids scraped flagons and pots in a long wooden trough by the door.


    Buernar''s most persistent customers sat blinking on the stone curb or lay in the gutter beside it, still singing of "Ale, ale, ale". As Val looked on, a pair of scowling gnomes used long wooden rakes to push waves of spattered floor-covering and noisome detritus out the front door, where crows fell to squabbling over the choicest morsels.


    Valerian stepped nimbly aside, saving his dragon-hide boots. Gildyr spotted something of interest in that ale-and-spittle-stained heap. Turned himself into a raven, then dove right down, emerging from the feathery scuffle with something gold. Then, hotly pursued by screeching and cawing crows, he shot off into the air, banking and wheeling, drawing most of the robber birds with him. One yet remained, though, pacing the windowsill, staring at Val.


    Salem stretched in the wintry sunshine, then whipped off her black cloak and tossed it to the high-elf. Struck that watchful bird with its weighted hem, in the process. Then, giving Val a golden-eyed wink, she leapt clear to the building''s thatched roof.


    The raven had vanished, maybe not a good sign¡­ but so had Salem, who seemed able to spirit herself into any shadow or crevice, at all. Whatever happened within, Val had a feeling the Tabaxi would be somewhere nearby, watching.


    Val waited while the gnomes dragged another drink-sodden patron into the sunlight, then he stepped cautiously in through the door. Looked around at a very changed tavern. The stone floor was being scrubbed clean by a brace of gnome females, under the watchful gaze of Bron, last night''s stubborn dwarf barmaid. She looked no sweeter by dayshine than she had by fireglow, Val noticed; still a square, glowering tree stump of a woman.


    Val acknowledged her glare with a nod, then looked around for the Inn''s proprietor. The high-elf cherished hope that he might yet end his streak of dramatic exits.


    ''Would be nice,'' he reflected, ''to leave a bar or a shop with some dignity, for once.'' Then,


    "Good morn, t'' ye, Yer Lordship," growled Buernar, from behind the bar. He was perched on a high wooden stool, poring over a giant ledger. There was a pitcher of steaming day-brew at his elbow, along with a number of clean, bottle-glass mugs. "Come and sit, if y''ve a mind."


    ¡­which was about as polite as a dwarf ever got.


    Sunlight and breezes chased dust motes and very lost snowflakes around through the air. Upstairs, on the second floor galley, bedding had been hung over railings and ropes to air. Creatures of various species and sexes sat on the stairs, slurping at drinks and repairing the night''s ravages. Most looked half asleep.


    Carefully avoiding the fresh-scrubbed sections of floor, Valerian went over to claim a stool across the bar from Buernar.


    "Care fer a cup, Yer Lordship?" inquired the dwarf, lifting his pitcher of day-brew.


    "Yes, if you please," Val responded, placing a handful of coppers on the bar''s polished wood surface. The beverage was hot and reviving, with something added by way of sweetness and flavoring.


    "Kelab sirop and powdered hazelnut," explained the dwarf. "Bron figgers it''ll bring in the mornin'' artistic an'' business set, if there be somethin'' sweet in the day-brew. She does milk and foam, as well."


    "It''ll bring ''em in once th'' word gets about," grunted Bronwen, not turning her gaze from those huddled gnome scrubbers.


    More might have been said on the matter, but then Buernar focused past Val to look at the tavern''s doorway. The elf glanced, as well. Saw a slim figure trembling in the threshold, pulling her hood as low as possible over a bruised, blue-skinned face.


    "She''s with yer lordship, now?" the dwarf rumbled. "Lasted longer with Hilt than I figgered she would¡­ but we don''t serve drow here, nor half-drow, neither. She c''n wait outside."


    Val started to protest that the girl was nothing to do with him. He''d taken a bucket to the head for her, already, surely repairing whatever debt he owed to her trial-vision self.


    But¡­ he''d reflexively started to tuck both his hands in the opposite armpits. Converted the motion, instead, to conjuring coins. Flipped a silver penny at the shivering girl, who now stood there with clenched fists and tight-shut eyes, silently mouthing ''Please, please, please,'' to whatever it was she worshiped.


    "A market stall near the rent stable sells fruit. Purchase apples for my horse and¡­ whatever you require for yourself," he ordered.


    Buernar snorted as the child opened her eyes, snatched at the hovering coin and then darted away.


    "Ten ter one says ye never sees ''er again, Yer Lordship¡­ an'' probably better off, at that. The girl''s luckless. Nuthin'' but trouble, from ''er unwanted birth ter right now."


    Which brought out the absolute worst in Valerian (never very far from the surface, truthfully). Rather than explain himself or take up for a maidservant, the high-elf finished his day-brew, gazing stonily at his own reflection in the tavern''s cracked mirror. Refused to ask what Buernar wished of him. Refused to say anything at all, until¡­


    "Burnin'' slag!" snapped the dwarf, at last. "As it seems yer lordship''s too fine ter engage in a spot o'' business¡­"


    Val shot to his feet and away from the bar, stating coldly,


    "I am not an adventurer. I do not bargain, haggle or transact business, my good dwarf. I am not in trade, nor is my sword for hire."


    "I''m not yer good dwarf," rumbled Buernar.


    "Very well, then. My average one."


    The tavern''s proprietor shut his seething dark eyes. Unclenching both fists with an obvious effort, Buernar raked at his beard.


    "All right. As it seems I must petition yer lordship''s aid¡­"


    "That, I may provide, regardless of ''profit''," said Val, once more taking his seat.


    After all, time was no longer an issue. More importantly, Magister Serrio had bidden him look into the matter, whatever it was.


    ''It'' turned out to be the local copper mine; Snowmont''s chief source of income. Winding through the flanks of Mount Skyrre, the mine''s copper vein seemed endless, admixed with gold, mithral and what the locals called "giant''s bones".


    "They be rare, but we find ''em," said Buernar, pulling a tray of salted baked eggs from the bread oven. "Sometimes bits o'' valuable giant gear an'' broken machine parts, too. Me kin ''ve worked the vein fer time out of mind, since our people were first driven from home by the cursed drow."


    Val nodded. The doings of the nightlings reverberated, still. Continued Buernar, looking grim,


    "Me cousin Flint be th'' foreman, an'' he told me, the day before everythin'' happened, that his spell scans ''d turned up somethin'' big an'' unmovin'', far down below. So¡­ they decided t'' divert the dig, just a bit. Just ter check things out, like."


    Glancing furtively around at the tavern, Buernar lowered his voice, saying,


    "Ye see, the copper n'' gold goes ter Lord Orrin, with a cut fer his liege lord at Arvendahl Castle. Tis the way things are, hereabouts, but anythin'' else¡­ any giant artifacts¡­ c''n be smuggled away fer sale out o'' town. Someday, when we''ve gathered enough coin, we plan ter mount an assault an'' reclaim our ''omeland. Armies an'' arms don''t come cheap, Milord." And then, raising his mug of day-brew, toasting fervently, "Next time, under a cave roof."


    "May it be so," replied Valerian, who had vows of his own to fulfill. Clinked his own mug against Buernar''s, then drank deep.


    By this time, Gildyr had returned, looking pleased with himself. A ripple of shadow beneath the main stairway hinted that Salem, too, was present.


    Val signaled the druid forward with a wordless flick of two fingers. Buernar gave the approaching wood-elf a nod, pouring another cup of day-brew. Kept talking, growing more animated as the tale unfolded.


    "The crux o'' the matter is, me cousin bent a new shaft down ter the artifact, poolin'' ''is strength with ''is crew. They ''aven''t come back, though, an'' no one''s been able ter get in an'' find ''em. There be ''eavy darkness an'' acid fog what turns ''em back, everytime."


    Seemed straightforward enough, but the high-elf hadn''t been lying. He was a journeyman mage and duelist, not an adventurer. Gildyr looked sympathetic, but then, he always did.


    "We can go in and find them for you, Good Buernar," said the druid. "Bring back the artifact, too. There''s three of us, so it should be a simple in and out, back in time for supper."


    The dwarf cleared his throat, looking suddenly crafty.


    "Well, as ter that¡­ Lord Orrin''s taken an interest, as well. He wants ter include¡­"


    "Me," said Solara, weaving herself out of dust motes and sunshine, right beside Val. "The venture may require an actual mage, not a mere amateur, waving his journeyman splinter."


    That "journeyman splinter" was a tall ashwood staff, which Valerian didn''t carry about because¡­ well, magic was only a phase. A thing he did because his family had sent him to learn it. He was truly a fighter; a wielder of sword and bow, like his father and Lerendar. Thus, he needed no cursed, embarrassing staff.


    As Buernar looked on with interest, Val stood up.


    "Lady Solara, yet again. It is definitely a day, and you seem to be in it." He''d already bowed to her once, that morning, all that politeness (and avoidance of nausea) required. Added, "I see that you''ve managed to clean yourself up." (Externally, at least.)


    Solara cocked a swooping, pale-golden eyebrow.


    "Is that a bit of spirit, Rustic? How unlooked for!"


    Buernar peered from one to the other, clearly enjoying Valerian''s discomfort. Then, Gildyr came forward a step, bowl in hand and shy smile in place.


    Solara flicked long-nailed fingers at him, hissing,


    "You! One shape alone, until I see fit to release you!"


    Something like a silencing spell or mage-ban left her delicate hand like a soap bubble, causing the base of Val''s throat to burn where, in vision, runes had been sliced.


    He reacted swiftly, not with a spell of his own, but by twisting one of her sigils, changing ''ban'' into ''boost'' on the fly.


    Gildyr flashed suddenly from elf to wasp to flapping gold carp, then back to himself, looking surprised and delighted.


    Solara''s gem-purple eyes narrowed. She stared hard at first Gildyr, then Valerian. After a moment, the sorceress shrugged.


    "I must have written in haste," she decided, "but it shall not happen again. We leave tomorrow afternoon at third bell. Meanwhile, Lord Orrin expects you at his manor, tonight, Rustic. See that you do not disappoint him."


    And with that, like an orc breaking wind, she flared and was gone.


    "Friend o'' yers?" hazarded Buernar, looking amused. "Ye do seem ter have a rare talent fer winnin'' folks over¡­ Yer Lordship."


    "Charm runs in the family," muttered Val, turning for the door. "I shall require a map of the mine, with the new shaft and artifact indicated thereon. If my retainers require aught by way of supply, they will make the need known to you. I shall return at first bell of the morning." Maybe if he left early enough, he could avoid that hag-witch, Solara. Maybe.


    Over one shoulder to Gildyr, as he strode from the inn, Valerian added,


    "Whatever you are able to save of twenty gold coins goes to peace, good druid. Happy, sharp bargaining."


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    12


    Someone awaited him outside, crouched by the waste pile. A net bag of apples had been placed on a clean bit of curb, with the change from a silver penny stacked neatly on top.


    The half-drow girl, for it was she, rose to a slightly hunched standing position and shuffled backward a pace, keeping her hood low over her ducked face.


    "Tis here, Lord. All of it," she whispered. "I counted twice, and¡­ and I found a copper in the road by the fair, as well."


    Then, wincing at having spoken unbidden, she backed even further. Her clothing was faded and ragged, but clean. As to age, Val would have placed her as somewhat older than Zara, his brother''s daughter¡­ but beatings and semi-starvation might have stunted the child.


    Seeing her brought back his trial vision, with echoes of terrible anguish, exhaustion and thirst. To distract himself¡­ because he was in control, not his fears of impending disaster¡­ Val summoned three apples out of the bag.


    Caught them in midair as they came arcing over, then shifted into an easy cascade, juggling the fruit first in one direction, then the other; sometimes using just mage-hands to do it.


    Halfway through, he applied a bit of fire magic to roast the apples in flight. The girl''s violet eyes grew wide, as she covered a smile with both scarred, shaking hands. Two teeth were missing in front.


    Once scent and feel told him that the fruit was done, Val tossed one to the girl and another over his shoulder, sending it flying to Gildyr.


    "''Ware, they are hot," he said, keeping the last for himself. Nodding permission, he started to eat. Bit drippy, but good.


    The half-drow had caught hers out of the air, edging away, eyes locked on his face. Then, disbelievingly, she took a small bite and another.


    Salem appeared, sneezing at the scent of roast fruit and conjured spice-bark. Val got out his clasp knife and cut a slice of warm apple for the Tabaxi, conjuring plate and spoon so she needn''t eat out of hand.


    From politeness, Salem consumed the morsel¡­ but she quite evidently didn''t enjoy it. Had probably had a much better luncheon up in the thatch.


    "I thank you for soggy fruit," she said, nevertheless.


    Dignity prevented Valerian from grinning at her. But then she said,


    "Next meal, I shall present you with a brace of freshly-caught rodents. First bite is yours, and the choicest entrails."


    Which rather cooled his amusement. To change the subject, Val turned his attention back to the girl-child. She''d bolted her apple; core, stem and seeds.


    "You''ve a name?" he inquired, fighting shadow pain in his hands and his throat.


    She huddled low, again, ducking her head.


    "You, girl," she whispered. "Lazy, worthless, ugly¡­" and a torrent of other, worse insults.


    Beside him, Salem uttered a musical half-yowl, producing something that sounded like ''Mee-eer-ee-ell''.


    "Mirielle?" Val hazarded, trying to match her for pitch and vowel length, and failing rather spectacularly.


    Salem''s whiskers lifted. She said,


    "You have left out the undertones, and the scent of milk and tongue-washed fur that means "kitten". But it is well enough¡­ for a smooth-hide."


    "I do my humble best, Milady," replied Valerian, bowing. Then, to Mirielle. "You were meant to purchase clothing, as well. Your present garb is unworthy of Family Tarandahl, to which you are now in service. Wait¡­ hang on a bit¡­"


    Fishing in one of his oldest, most cherished faerie pockets, Val drew forth a gilt badge, emblazoned with a pair of battling griffins. It had been Tam''s before his milk-brother left Starloft, forever. Katina''s eyes had been reddened from weeping for months, Val remembered. He gripped the badge for a last, brief moment, then handed it gently over.


    "Place this onto your cloak, with the words "I serve". Then, deliver the apples to Sapling, at the rent-stable. Tell him that they are for Patches¡­ and speak up. You represent me, and must not seem furtive, Mirielle. Wait there until I return. Understood?"


    The girl seemed too overwhelmed to respond. Happily, Salem was there, with all of the small noises and nudges that a cat would use to encourage a wobbling kitten. She helped Mirielle to place the badge at the neck of her ragged old cloak, saying,


    "You must use the rest of the elf-lord''s money to buy proper attire. Clothing of scarlet and gold, I believe." Inspired guess-work, because some colors, the Tabaxi plainly could not discern.


    "Yes, Miss," whispered Mirielle, half shrinking from an expected fist. Her fingernails were torn, bitten right down to the quick. Her hands were cracked and dry from icy water and scrub soap, their knuckles bruised from fending off beatings, as best she''d been able.


    Val used a quick healing-word spell, murmuring something in Elvish before sending the girl on her way.


    "That was well done, Mrowr," Salem told him. "You are more than you choose to present."


    Not enough, though. Not where it mattered. Placing a smile on his face, Valerian offered his arm.


    "Milady, by your leave? We''ve a fair to attend, and four murderous friends to lure off the scent¡­ but I think that I may have a plan." The beginnings of one, at any rate.


    She tucked a hand, claws sheathed, through the crook of his arm, saying grandly,


    "Lead onward, Mage-knight. I will see more of this place and its people."


    Behind them, they heard,


    "What?! Ye sow-hearted, skinflint son of a dryad an'' jackal! Would ye ruin me?!"


    ¡­as they strolled off into that swirling crowd.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    12.5


    Beyond the rippling mage wall, a very curved pocket universe spread; one filled with colorful tents, lively music and trumpeting magical creatures. Far larger than half a local town square, the fair spread up and arced over, like the inside of a shimmering spell-globe.


    Magister Serrio''s Caravan of Curios was well known and highly anticipated. It traveled the land perpetually, with only the smallest, most benighted of settlements not rating a fortnight''s visit from Serrio.


    Val had grown up attending the fair with Tam and Katina or Lerendar¡­ then, later, with Kalisandra¡­ and so he knew his way around. Could find all of the most tempting fried foods and game booths, knew the shortest route to the big red show tent. Had many times climbed the spiraling steps to the weightless fighting ring at mid-sphere. For the Tabaxi, however, all of these things were new and tremendously interesting.


    No matter where one passed through from outside, one found oneself always at the ticket and fortune booth. There was simply no sneaking in. (He knew; as scheming small children, Val and Sandy had tried every possible path, and been foiled, each time.)


    Today, the booth was draped in Arvendahl green and black, manned by sprightly imps dressed up as unicorns. At Starloft, they''d always been got up as griffins. In Karellon, as dragons.


    Val paid admission for himself and Salem, both, receiving two fortunes in the process.


    ''Beware large assailants and beautiful females'' seemed directed at Valerian, while ''Someone you love is closer than you think'' was probably meant for the puzzled Tabaxi. At least, the tiny scroll glowed when she touched it.


    "I''m not sure, either," shrugged her escort, "but I''ve kept every one since the first, and they always turned out to come true. Not quite the way you''d expect, though."


    After that (and a snap-portrait) they were in. The Serrio theme song lilted and bounced, too catchy to not hum along with. Air sprites danced overhead, trailing long, filmy streamers like sign boards with pictures that moved. This time, most displayed glowing eyes and the words ''Lionel: furious scourge of the desert!''


    Strolling performers sang and played or did flashy stage magic. Food smells wafted, tuned to the tastes of each visitor. All very loved and familiar, but Val had some vital supplies to purchase. He was not here to play.


    At the same time, he was Salem''s escort; honor bound to fend off the curious and be sure that she had a good time. All without seeming impatient.


    They had just left the ring toss booth (where she won a golden-fish in a mage globe) when two of Val''s problems sorted each other. Filimar turned up in his best green and black parade armor, his starry blue eyes locked on Salem. Bowing deeply for one in full battle regalia, the love-struck young elf cried,


    "Milady! May this unworthy heart, which beats for naught else but thy smile¡­ which stills at thy frown¡­ request the honor of escort?"


    The raven-haired cadet rose from his bow and extended a bent arm, looking hopeful. Possibly intoxicated, possibly having sampled a love spell (or both). At any rate, he seemed totally smitten and utterly serious.


    Val turned his head to regard the Tabaxi, whose ears and whiskers were all pointing forward.


    "If you''ve no objection, Lady Salem, we could meet at the show tent in¡­ say, two candle-mark''s time? It will save you being dragged through mage-supply row."


    "This is agreeable," she replied, accepting Filimar''s proffered right arm. Her hand, Valerian noticed, seemed to sink through that green lacquered armor, until the illusion adjusted. "In two marks, then, Mage-knight. Good hunting."


    Good shopping, actually, though that had much less cachet. Val bowed, lifting her free hand to his forehead. Before heading off, he extracted an oath from Filimar.


    "Your vow, Filno, that Lady Salem is defended and entertained, and not left alone for an instant." (Otherwise, she''d be tempted to steal.) "Swear it."


    "Upon my honor as an Arvendahl, Valno, this transcendent beauty shall be treated as the rose among weeds that she is. My service, once offered, is eternal. Let all powers and forces¡­ let Magister Serrio, himself¡­ hear and acknowledge my vow!"


    There was a popping noise, a brief fanfare, and a sudden shower of bright pink confetti (which Salem reflexively batted at). Oath evidently heard and accepted.


    Val kept a heroically straight face for the sake of Filimar''s pride, but Salem''s whiskers were twitching.


    "You two have fun," said Valerian, adding, "Outside the red tent, in two marks."


    And then, he was off, leaving a mage-trace on Salem''s black cloak, just in case.


    The avenue of the mages lay well off the main strip, necessitating a walk upward and over. Although he never felt sideways or upside down, Val was aware of the orientation shifting (and had frequently run about trying to make himself dizzy with it, as a small child). All part of the fun.


    Thinking of the past made him hurry his step. ''By the time Serrio reaches Starloft,'' he thought, ''may Lerendar be there to open the fair.''


    One situation at a time, though. The nearer at hand, first. His plan to save Orrin was simply this: work up a really powerful intoxication spell and then find a way to dose Filimar and his set with it, afterward leading them into a wild, public brawl. As a questioned guard had remarked,


    "Drunk n'' disorderly ''ll get ye a se''en night''s stay at Lord Orrin''s stone-view hostel."


    ¡­which was perfect, especially if the offenders were then hauled off by a senior Arvendahl. Ought to keep them too busy for plotting or murder¡­ only he had to get his ingredients, first.


    Found the right place¡­ Nocturna''s Tinctures and Notions¡­ then went in and looked around, earning an imp shopping assistance because of his noble status. As a mere journeyman, there were certain items that he could not purchase, locked up behind the main counter. The Tiefling shop boy was happy to sell him anything else, though, once he''d displayed his master''s seal.


    "My regards to Sherazedan," said the fawn-colored boy, calculating the price for night oil, spin-head and leave-senses powder. "What an honor to serve so mighty a wizard!"


    Surely, provided you liked raven cages and thankless, unending quests. But Val didn''t say so.


    "I have certainly grown as a mage," he told the awed Tiefling. Then, on a whim, the elf added, "There are open trials each fall, when apprentices rise to journeyman. You might try for acceptance. This should get you past the gates," he went on, handing the boy some coin and a mage token. "The remainder is up to you¡­ but the old lich¡­ erm, His Imperial Highness, is partial to lightning. Show him your best."


    "My lord, thank you¡­ thank you¡­ my name is Jack, lord, and I''ll not forget this, not ever!"


    To forestall that high tide of gratitude, Val concluded his purchases. Was just heading back out of Nocturna''s, when something happened. All at once, he was driven nearly out of his own body by a very powerful spell. It felt like he was standing in echoing darkness, barely attached to a physical form that somebody else was now puppeting.


    "Why, Valerian!" he distantly heard. "Here you are, again!"


    The distorted voice was female and familiar. Solara. Her sudden tight grip at Val''s elbow was perfectly clear and quite painful. "Come, dear. Let us take in the fair together."


    Her web of enchantments sought to smother his conscious will, but Val wouldn''t let it. Not entirely. He maintained the slightest of grips on his own hijacked body, fighting her hold every step of the way. Nevertheless, they wound up in an alley, between rows of tents. Leaning forward, all trace of false sweetness gone, Solara hissed,


    "Why are you here? Speak! What is your intent in Lord Orrin''s demesne?"


    "Solely to annoy you," Val whispered back, resisting a crushing compulsion to reveal his true purpose. "You looked amazing with a ferret attacking your head, soaking wet."


    Gilt eyebrows climbed that lily-white forehead.


    "Can it be that you are attracted, Rustic?" she purred. But,


    "I''d rather chop it off and throw it over my shoulder than roll into your well-trodden bed," Val shot back.


    ¡­ Which was how he ended up, blinking back to control and awareness, inside the main tent. He found himself at center ring with the hilt of a heavy, unbalanced sword gripped tight in both hands, facing a very large, black-maned Tabaxi warrior. A mage wall sealed them in, presumably to keep blood and flying bits off the cheering spectators. Drums thumped. Choiring voices shrilled "Lionel" over and over.


    ''Witch. Hag,'' thought Valerian, considering his options.


    The Tabaxi was chained by one booted foot to an iron stake at the center of that sawdust-strewn floor. He had about twenty feet of range, Val figured, which allowed a challenger a scant yard of safety by the mage wall. The creature bulged with muscle under a steel-grey, black pointed hide. His eyes were blue and¡­ not so much ferocious, as weary.


    "Put up a good show," hissed the monster, barely shifting that fanged mouth. "Keep moving. Make it look like a fight."


    Then the timer sounded. Smythe was worse than useless, unanimated, but Val didn''t want a public dressing down by his ancestor''s spirit, either.


    Lionel pounced forward, swinging an axe nearly as long as the elf was tall. It whistled overhead as Val instinctively ducked. Would have rolled aside, too, but Smythe''s overlong sheath prevented it.


    Instead scrambled for distance, lunged upright, again, stripping the sheath away and tossing that worthless four feet of blade aside. Hauled Nightshade back out of its faerie pocket, skittering sideways to avoid a thunder-clap down swing that would have cleft him from crown to crotch, had it connected.


    The axe-blade sank a foot deep in the ground, scattering a blizzard of sawdust. Next managed to fish out his dagger, as well. So, doubly armed.


    Flowed into a dueling stance, as if Nightshade stood any chance at all against an axe-blade the size of a serving tray. The Tabaxi''s reach was enormous, but his recovery time was twice that of Valerian, who had speed and ''small, darting target'' on his side.


    The whole world shrank to that ring, and to staying alive. He wasn''t dad, or Lerendar. Melee wasn''t his style. Could have ended the fight in an eyeblink with magic, but that would have been cheating.


    Roaring crowd, whistling axe-blade and his own thudding heart filled Val''s hearing. The oncoming Tabaxi, his sight.


    Nightshade spun a glittering web of steel. Pretty to look at, if not much use against giant cats and their man-sized weapons. So, strategy, then.


    Val took full advantage of the chain''s snapping bite; repeatedly luring Lionel to the edge of his reach, then taunting him into a furious leap.


    "Slow¡­ and ugly¡­" sneered Val, after dodging a powerful lunge. "No doubt stupid, as well. Staked out here for trying to sell¡­ what you stole¡­ to a guardsman!"


    Which nearly cost him his head.


    "You have no idea why I am here, or what I seek, gnat! Blow fly!" roared that ogre-sized mountain of cat muscle, shaking the tent poles and stands. The Tabaxi leapt too far, once again, but this time uprooted the stake.


    Val spun aside, heart hammering. It was the dagger that scored, as he feinted at the Tabaxi''s eyes with his sword. The foot long blade drew a line of oozing red across Lionel''s massive forearm, where he''d raised it to save his face.


    And, just like that, it was over. A gong boomed, and the shimmering barrier fell. Lionel stepped back, panting as heavily as Val, who was suddenly swarmed by cheering Arvendahls.


    Filimar nearly beat him unconscious with back-slaps and whooping head tousles, making it very difficult to re-pocket Nightshade. The noisy foolishness ceased for a bit when Magister Serrio appeared to take the hand of Valerian and Lionel, both¡­ but it was Val''s that he raised.


    "Ladies and gentle-beings, all!" cried the Ringmaster. "We have a winner, by right of first blood!"


    As the crowd roared approval and the Tabaxi licked at its wounded arm, Val murmured,


    "Feel better," sealing and cleansing the cut. Was a spectacle, himself, with messy, sawdust-flecked hair, his shirt jerked around sideways and pulled halfway out of his belt.


    Once Serrio released their hands, Valerian went over to Lionel. Then, as custom dictated, he placed hand to heart and bowed.


    "An excellent fight, Sir. I thank you for the sport¡­ and hope that you will not take my ill-mannered taunting to heart."


    After all, he might end up working for Serrio, soon, himself.


    "I take falls two out of five times a day," admitted the Tabaxi, in a low, weary rumble. "I''ve heard worse and faced better."


    Pride stung, Val stepped forward, ready to fight him again. Only, Magister Serrio made a great show of handing over his¡­ prize money? Very, very much prize money. The tent was packed to the canvas ceiling, and some heavy bets had been placed.


    "It seems that good and ill fortune vie to attend you," mused Serrio, placing a heavy purse in Valerian''s hands. "Yet there is still better and far, far worse yet to come. Take courage, dear child. You will need it."


    And then, somehow, Val found himself outside of that thundering tent, well to the right of its entrance. Filimar was there, with Kellen, Sandor and Arien, so he split the money five ways, only afterward thinking to ask,


    "Where is Salem?"


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    14


    Filimar''s angular jaw dropped. Heart-stricken, white as a fresh-laundered sheet, the young elf stuttered,


    "My lord, I¡­ I¡­ she was right there beside me, in the stands, and then¡­"


    Filimar bowed his dark head and started to drop to one knee before Valerian, but the northerner caught and prevented him.


    "No time for that," snapped Val, playing up ''worried'' to the hilt. "We must split up and search. We''ll need someone at the exit¡­"


    "My post," tall Kellen exclaimed, pushing forward. "Nothing and no one shall spirit the lady past me. My oath on''t!"


    Through the mage trace he''d put on her earlier, Val knew where Salem had got to¡­ unless she''d dropped her cloak. On the bright side, Filno and his set were no longer thinking of Orrin.


    "Keep looking until she is found," he urged them. "Whoever locates her, send up a mage-glow. Red and gold for me¡­"


    "Green for us," finished Filimar, looking like a man who''d taken his death-wound.


    "We''ll find her," Val assured him, adding, "Do not lose heart, Filno. I shall search the fish park. Divide the rest of the fair between you."


    On the one hand, this was too good a chance to divert the young Arvendahls for Val to ignore. On the other hand, he didn''t want Filimar to fall on his sword in shame and remorse for having failed at his duty.


    The younger elf bit his lip, but braced up and nodded.


    "An Arvendahl," he whispered hoarsely, quoting the family motto. "An Arvendahl to the fray!"


    Arrien, Kellen and Sandor surrounded their friend at once, picking up the chant.


    "An Arvendahl to the fray!" they roared, before all four went racing off through the crowd after Salem.


    Val watched them go, feeling like ten sorts of scheming snake for letting them panic. Turned away to misty-step to the park, thinking that at least they wouldn''t be spending a fortnight in Lord Orrin''s dungeon.


    Thirty feet at a time, in tingling bursts, Valerian crossed the fair. Used up all of his stored manna in the process, and had to drop into the market''s open source reservoirs¡­ even though he''d be deluged with free samples and endless magical adverts because of it.


    Finally arrived at the park, light-headed and panting, surrounded by babbling mage-glows. Val paused them all with an impatient gesture, looking around for Salem. His tracer provided a general location, but for the rest, he''d have to do some actual searching.


    The fish park was as beautiful as always; full of well-stocked ponds, tiny cascades and meandering rivulets. Three charming stone bridges crossed the water to meet at a small central island. A folly was there¡­ a quaint, ivy-draped temple to all the gods¡­ with a telescope, altar and fish-feeders.


    He''d spent a great deal of time skipping stones here, with Sandy. Knew the place well. On a lucky whim, Val crossed the nearest bridge and went to the folly, where Serrio''s rollicking theme song was only a faint, gentle tinkle.


    Here there was all sorts of manna, provided by worship, devotion and oaths. Like water to a burning, parched throat, and Val absorbed fully half of it.


    He spotted the fish globe before he saw Salem, and then only because she allowed it. The Tabaxi sat huddled up on a wide stone bench, with the goldenfish that she''d won in its mage globe, beside her.


    She did not look around when he stepped into that little, mossy stone temple, but one of her velvet-dark ears swiveled in his direction. The folly was spelled to always be private. A mob of boisterous fairgoers might be present, in fact; each a splintered half-plane away from the others.


    His presence in the Tabaxi''s folly-space meant he was welcome there. Meant, he supposed, they were friends.


    Valerian tossed a gold coin onto the altar, then came over to lean on the white marble railing near Salem. Looking out at reflected lights on rippling water, he said,


    "I have always found this to be a marvelous place for thinking, and for getting away from the crowd."


    The Tabaxi uttered a small, vexed sound, between fretful purr and soft yowl. Then, after smoothing the fur of her shoulder,


    "I wished to free my prize into the water, but the globe would not open."


    Val half-looked her way.


    "You don''t want your fish? The attendant imp said that this kind turns into a dragon, if well enough fed."


    Salem''s tail lashed and her head ducked lower into her moving soft shoulders.


    "It should be free!" she spat.


    Ah.


    "Easily accomplished," said Val, reaching across for the globe. "By your leave, Milady?"


    "Take it," she replied, informally transferring ownership.


    He held up the magical sphere for a moment, watching a filmy-tailed white-and-gold beauty swimming in circles, very much trapped.


    "Watch me," he told Salem, as he held the globe out past the railing, safely over the water. "So that next time, you may do this yourself."


    The Tabaxi hitched herself around on her stone bench, facing him squarely, pupils widening with interest.


    Val traced a simple sigil in midair, leaving a faint and glittering trail with his finger. ''Anka'' it was: "I empower". Next tapping the mage globe, he said,


    "Be free of compulsion, harm or captivity, little one, now and for all time to come."


    The globe disappeared with a pop, letting water and goldenfish drop into the pond below. It hesitated a moment, still swimming its tight, restrained circle. Then the fish shot off in a star-burst of fins; darting out under the sheltering pond weeds.


    Val bought a handful of food from the feeder, then scattered an arc for Finny and future associates. Lofted a red-and-gold mage fire high into the air, as well, to keep the Arvendahls from overmuch worry. Safe enough, as they would not be able to enter this space unless their presence was welcome.


    "So¡­ someone you love was closer that you thought?" Valerian hazarded, slightly misquoting her fortune.


    Salem growled a long, weird cacophony of shifting pitches.


    "It is no matter!" she spat. "I was a kitten, and foolish!"


    Perhaps so, but Lionel seemed to take whatever had happened quite seriously. Well, if there was one thing Val excelled at, it was changing the subject.


    "Did you¡­ see the fight?" he inquired, not entirely preening a little.


    Salem growled morosely.


    "The beginning," she said, adding, "Clan master Tristan won, of course?"


    The high-elf''s jaw dropped, momentarily. Tristan? That monster''s real name was¡­ Tristan? Then, as she was still waiting,


    "Erm¡­ naturally," lied Val gallantly; correcting his course in midstream. "He is¡­ erm¡­ a very great warrior."


    Salem sighed, nodded, then looked back over the water.


    "I am sure that you fought well, Mage-knight, but Clan Master Tristan is a thing out of legend."


    Uh-huh. A thing paid to take a dive, every three fights¡­ which didn''t make him feel any better, actually.


    Serrio had given him a big, flashing, "I bested Lionel" badge along with the prize money, but Val hadn''t donned the thing. Just, you know, put it away in a faerie pocket.


    "I look forward," he said evenly, "to a rematch, sometime soon."


    Salem''s ears rose and her whiskers spread out.


    "You are very kind," she told him, "but it were better to leave this place and him, than attempt to break mating primacy. He spared your life. That is mark of respect, enough."


    Right. Time to shut up, before he planted his boot any deeper in the piled, steaming fewmets. Fortunately¡­ thank Firelord, Oberyn and all those who loved his house¡­ a ferret turned up, clucking and chuckling like an old hen.


    Scampered up first Salem''s arm, then Val''s. Stayed there, too, perched on the high-elf''s right shoulder. Desperately glad of the out, Valerian let him stay.


    "I''ve a banquet to attend," he announced, "and a note to pen, unless¡­ Milady, you might simply order Filimar to leave Orrin be. The Arvendahl is oath-bound to obey your slightest whim. You can slice through this tangle with but a word."


    Salem''s head cocked consideringly.


    "Why would I do such a thing?" she protested. "It is more fun, the long way. What is food without hunting, or victory without stalk and pounce?"


    "Simpler, for one thing," Val grumbled, conjuring parchment and pen. "Also, less likely to result in contemplative gaol time¡­ but have it your own way, Milady. Crown game, it is."


    The ferret barked on his shoulder, bright eyes twinkling in its black-masked face.


    "Your opinion does not matter," grumped Val; folding and handing over a freshly inked note. Then, to Salem once more, "Take this to Lord Orrin''s office, or wherever you think he might soonest read it. And¡­ for courtesy''s sake¡­ show yourself to the Arvendahls. Filimar will take his own life, rather than live on, forsworn."


    Salem gave him a brief, graceful nod before flowing back to her feet. Tapping the ferret''s pink nose, she tucked Valerian''s note away safe and said,


    "I am gone."


    And, she was.


    The ferret barked again, circling Val''s neck a few times.


    "You," said the elf, scooping the transformed creature up and off, "Arrange what is required for an early start in the morning. I may have to outdrink Lord Orrin tonight, and possibly not be in best form for packing. Think light and well armed."


    The ferret chuckled and squealed as Val stooped a bit to set it onto the bench.


    "Go," he commanded.


    And, it did.


    Next, the high-elf turned back to the folly''s quartz altar. Conjuring and cupping a small flame, he used it to kindle the offerings placed there. Then, speaking into and through the blaze, he said,


    "Milord, grant me all the right words, this night, and a swift, ready blade if it comes to that. If¡­ I won that fight in the tent, I thank you. If t'' were only a mockery, my apologies. I did not know at the time that I was being made sport of."


    The fire flared in response, consuming all that had been placed on the altar; even burning those many small coins. Answer enough.


    Bowing deeply, Valerian placed clenched fist to brow.


    "I thank you," he whispered, feeling very much better.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    15


    An elf-lord in all of his glorious finery was a very rare sight, indeed. At least, this far north of Karellon. Hearing "banquet", Val had at first donned his full formal regalia: red brocade frock coat with shifting gold tracery, tight-fitting fawn breeches, polished high boots and shadow-black sash. There was a silk shirt, as well, its lace spun of fine waterfall mist. Topped with a golden-clasped half cloak and his mithral circlet of rank (lower Imperial prince, on his mother''s side) the costume was truly resplendent; glowing like a phoenix, or Firelord¡­


    ¡­and maybe too much for Lord Orrin''s dining hall. Truthfully, away from the city, Val felt pretty ridiculous wearing it.


    Ended up changing back into a fine linen shirt and breeches¡­ the second nicest he had¡­ with the half cloak and boots. No circlet. In fact, no jewelry at all, but a long cloak pin, lightly poisoned at the tip because¡­ court politics. Only a fool went completely unarmed.


    His silver-gilt hair he left loose, as both assurance and compliment. After all, no one plotting or expecting an attack would leave their hair long and unbound, to block vision or tangle in branches.


    A lone ceremonial belt knife completed the look; not long enough to be much of a weapon, but still definite noble armament. And, needless to say, no staff.


    "Better?" he asked Patches and White Dog, before leaving their rented stall. Snorts and tail-wags were all the response he got, but Val preferred an honest, grain-dripping nuzzle or excited yip to behind-the-hands whispering, any day.


    Mirielle, he mostly ignored, as the sight of her still brought on physical pain and emotional turmoil. Valerian had arranged for her supper, that night, and a warm place to curl up in another stall¡­ but that was as much as he could do. If she needed a friend, there was Gildyr or Salem¡­ the dog and the horses. Anyone else but him.


    "Mind Patches and White Dog," he said to the air. "And do not wait up. I may be quite late."


    "Yes, Lord," came a shy whisper. Then, "Be careful, please.. He¡­ they say¡­"


    They might have said anything, but Val needed out and away.


    "Thank you. I shall," he said coldly, calling on magic to make his retreat.


    Reckless misty-stepping brought him to Orrin''s graceless stone manor at the appointed time. He materialized in an icy, gated courtyard just as the westering sun touched Kronnar''s peak; its descent sending long purple shadows creeping at Snowmont, below.


    Torches and lamps sprinkled to life down there like flickering stars, nearly drowned out by the glow of Magister Serrio''s fair. As to the manse¡­


    There were servants arranged in an open semi-circle on the wide steps to greet him. Upon Val''s arrival, two half wood-elf footmen swung open the big double doors, while a small page blew a wavering fanfare. As those servants looked to have been standing in the cold for some time, Valerian cut short most of the formal guest-right ceremony.


    "I thank you," he said, accepting his welcome loaf from the chief steward, and offering a magical gift in its stead. "I seek welcome and warmth, offering peace and blessing upon this house, in return."


    Basic assurance that they''d not be sorry they''d opened their doors to a wandering stranger¡­ but also a genuine magical act, which sent a cone of good fortune and safety over the house.


    (As cold as they were, they would probably have let in Epothis, itself, as long as the loathsome snake did all its fell deeds by the fire.)


    Inside, well, some houses are bright with flame-glow and food; ringing with laughter, children and dogs. Some are grim and forbidding, brooding on glories lost, vengeance delayed and slights endured. Lord Orrin''s manor was neither of these. Just¡­ dim, with few lights burning and scant wood on the hearth fire; its high, narrow windows shuttered and curtained like blindfolded eyes.


    Orrin himself was large and broad-shouldered; more human than elf, to Val''s eye. His lordship''s hair was pale brown, his eyes a flat, darting grey; peering this way and that, missing nothing. His voice boomed as the marble head''s had done.


    "Welcome! A thousand times welcome, good traveler!" he called out, descending the hall''s main staircase with arms outflung. He wore Snowmont''s version of formal attire: a fur-trimmed green robe over white breeches and shirt, with soft velvet shoes rather than boots.


    Orrin had clearly taken great pains to scrape off his chin and side stubble, leaving his face very pink. His hair was worn so as to expose the tips of his pointed ears.


    Here was a man who''d completely rejected one half of his parentage, Val thought. But, his lordship was speaking.


    "I am Orrin Arvendahl, Lord Protector of Snowmont," announced the half-elf. "And this¡­" here he gestured behind him to a very young, very pale sylph, so great with child, she could scarcely move. "This is my lady Alfea, and my future heir. Orrin, son of Orrin, should open the womb anytime now, I''d wager."


    Valerian hid his consternation with a bow, as the fey-girl ducked her head, hugging that massive belly.


    "Your Lordship¡­ My Lady¡­ great is your hospitality to one benighted and wandering. I am Valerian, a journeyman mage on my masterwork quest for His Imperial Highness, Sherazedan the Subtle and¡­ and a great many other titles, with which I shall not bore you."


    He left off most of the old lich''s honors because that poor fey-child looked about to fall down the stairs. Val had to restrain himself from leaping over to offer his arm. Did not, because Orrin was closer, and her wedded lord, to boot.


    "Alfea, darling, you must welcome our royal guest," urged Orrin, taking the girl''s velvet-clad arm possessively.


    All obedience, she took a rabbit''s quick, shallow breath, then managed a flicker of genuine smile.


    "Welcome, Your Highness. We all¡­ this is, all of we¡­"


    "There you go again, Alfea, dearest," murmured Orrin, chuckling at her confusion. "Say it with me: All that we have¡­"


    She tried again, as everyone turned to look at her.


    "A- All that we have is at your propos¡­ disposal. Please, come to the sitting room until dinner is s- served."


    Her wide faerie eyes shifted color complexly, never the same hue for long. Eyes that should have been lit up with fey-wild laughter and song, but held only misery. Her head sprouted more feathers than hair, in varying shades of blue. Her face was heart-shaped and pixie-ish, with a very light dusting of golden freckles across the bridge of her slender nose.


    Had she been selkie-clan, Val would have turned the place upside down, helping Alfea locate her stolen seal pelt. Only, she wasn''t a captured sea-faerie. Something else bound her to Orrin.


    Val smiled back. While technically too far down the ladder to merit the title "Highness", a little extra respect might help him sort out what was happening here.


    "But, of course. If Milady will lead the way?"


    In his mind, he said, as he had to that goldenfish, back at the park: Be free of compulsion, harm or captivity, Little One, forever. Inscribed a sigil against the side of his own leg, just to be sure. ''Forax'', it was: Dragon-strength.


    Alfea''s eyes widened. She straightened a bit, looking startled. Then,


    "This way," she said, stepping away from Lord Orrin.


    His lordship resumed speaking as they crossed the main hall, describing every item along the way and proclaiming how much coin each would fetch, if sold.


    "Yes, indeed," he boasted, once they''d reached the sitting room. "My heir stands to inherit a great deal of wealth and power, both through the copper mine''s increase and through my own, not inconsiderable, trove. I am, as most would admit, a very good friend, yet a terrible foe."


    There were others present in the dim, chilly sitting room. Estate functionaries, mostly. A few upper caste servants¡­ and Solara.


    She wore sumptuous evening wear in very tight, very revealing peach silk. Her hair was a towering castle of multi-dimensional plaits, literally winding through various planes to surround her head in a gem-crowned halo of floating buns. Looked like a spider''s eyes, thought Valerian.


    Accepting a drink from the bowing chief steward, Val said,


    "I thank you, good sir," then magically enhanced the room''s struggling fire. Warmth and light filled the place¡­ or tried to. There was something sick, dark and angry here. It fought him back, hard; a sort of web, connecting most of those present to Orrin.


    Val looked at Solara, who turned resolutely away from his gaze. She wasn''t the source of that hungering dark, but she knew it was there. Knew, and did nothing. Clearly, Sherazedan''s teachings no longer guided her.


    Overhead, through the mage-trace he''d placed on her cloak, Val could sense Salem moving about, taking much longer to place a mere note than seemed strictly necessary. Probably ransacking his lordship''s great wealth. Probably going to get caught at it, too.


    There was a burst of excitement when a swift little ferret got into the room. Like furry lightning, it darted all over the chamber, then shot up Valerian''s side to perch on his shoulder.


    Orrin stopped mid-boast, his mouth a sudden, hard line. His lordship did not care for animals, it seemed, but his lady''s reaction was quite other, and utterly charming.


    "Oh!" she cried, reaching out with both hands. "Oh, please¡­ May I?"


    "Naturally," Val responded, extending an arm for Gildyr to run along. "If it pleases Milady, it is done. She has only to ask."


    The ferret ran with bunched up limbs and arched back, making little excited chuckles, then leapt into Alfea''s outstretched hands.


    "Oh, you precious thing!" she cooed, nuzzling its face. "Oh, look at that pink little nose! Those wee little eyes! Oh, Bean, if only you could see him, how you''d laugh! Oh, how cunning!"


    The ferret licked Alfea''s face like a puppy, pouring magic and blessings into her child. Meanwhile, Lord Orrin looked thunderous. ''Did not care for animals'' changed to ''hated the beasts'', in Valerian''s assessment.


    His lordship started to reach for Alfea. Fortunately, there was distraction at hand. Indicating an elaborately inlaid crown-game board, Val asked,


    "You play, Milord?"


    Instantly, Orrin''s face changed. Puffing right up, he said,


    "I do, indeed, Prince Valerian."


    Somewhere else in the room, Solara dripped icicles. With cause, actually. But, before Val could correct this top-lofty promotion, Orrin took hold of his arm.


    "We must have a match after dinner!" chortled the half-elf, giving Val''s pinioned limb a brisk shake. "I must warn you, however, that I''m quite good, and my set is unmatched in all Karandun!"


    "I am all anticipation, Milord," replied Val, who''d won a few games himself.


    Then the dining room doors creaked open, and a nervous steward quavered,


    "My lord and lady, noble guests, dinner is served. Please enter and refresh yourselves."


    "The animal," warned Orrin, glaring at Alfea''s playmate, "cannot¡­"


    "Oh," she mourned. "But a moment, Milord. I¡­ I¡­ shall be right in to eat, once I''ve found Little Flash a warm basket to wait in!"


    As Val''s attention wavered, that bubble of brightness and warmth shrank noticeably. A basket would no doubt be helpful. Orrin''s jaw muscles stood forth like boulders, but he nodded, saying,


    "Quickly, then," and turned to offer Solara his arm. "My personal mage," he announced, as though anyone there was in doubt. "Also a student of His Imperial HIghness. Only the best, for Orrin."


    ''Missed that mark by many long bow shots, then'' thought Valerian, only just not intensely enough to be picked up by She-hag the horrible. Maybe.


    At table, he found himself seated between lady and lord, thankfully far from Solara. Dinner was stingy, but Val amused himself by performing the sort of semi-flirtatious magery that any gallant young nobleman would deploy, when ladies were present. He spelled the taste of their food to change with each bite, always to something marvelous. Even Solara''s.


    Her ladyship was enchanted, rubbing her great, swollen belly and whispering,


    "Wasn''t that wonderful, Bean? Didn''t it taste just like¡­ like¡­ I cannot remember, but it''s so very good!"


    Solara just seethed, while across the long table, Orrin''s bone-thin accountant ate with wide eyes and both hands.


    "Yes, it is rather good," said the half-elf, loudly, covering his doubts with more volume. The food tasted no different to him.


    Strange things happened all night, on both sides. One of Valerian''s chair legs broke, nearly spilling him onto the floor. Then, once a replacement was brought, Solara''s wine glass cracked and tipped over, dousing her lap and her plate. A window blew suddenly open, right behind Val, pelting only the high-elf with wind-driven snow. Then one of Solara''s floating hair buns caught fire, and Orrin pronounced an end to the feasting.


    "We retire to the sitting room. Now!" Orrin boomed, tearing his guests away from their treacle pudding (which tasted like starberry trifle to Alfea, Solara and Madame Evonne). "More drinks, and a fill of the pipe, for any who wish to partake!"


    Chairs scraped and slid across the stone floor, drawn back by servants so that Orrin''s guests might rise without effort. Val smiled at the brave little fellow who struggled and puffed to drag back his heavy wood seat. He''d been a page once, himself, and he knew. Magicked the chair subtly lighter for the boy, then turned to offer his arm to Lady Alfea, who was too swollen and bulky to rise without help.


    "The seats are quite low, and the floor rather slippery," he excused her trouble. "Nearly turned an ankle, myself."


    Alfea smiled at Valerian, then half-climbed him upward, swaying a bit, once back on her feet.


    "You are very kind," she whispered, as Orrin led his straggling guests from the chamber. "Please, may I have a wish for my little one, Highness? For Bean, please? That he¡­ that¡­" she faltered, then, seeming about to cry.


    Wishing that there was more he could do, Val passed a swift hand over that velvet-draped belly, murmuring,


    "Health, safety and goodness. May you be all of your mother, and only the best of your sire."


    Solara hovered not far away, her expression unreadable¡­ but the snow-spotting and spilt wine disappeared from Val''s garments.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Upstairs, in a shadowed hallway, Salem listened with interest to the buzz and hum of all-talk conversation. These folk were practically mute, she thought, without scent, ears, tail and whiskers to help convey meaning. But their words did not concern her, that night. The mage-knight was keeping Orrin distracted, and that was all that mattered.


    Rubbing her right forearm, Salem pulled Cap''n back out of the magical ink on her flesh. The golden monkey blinked and stretched, pretending that he''d been asleep.


    "Tis late," he complained, mostly inside of her head. "I were just gettin'' comfortable."


    "No rest till the job is completed," Salem corrected severely. "I will place Mrowr''s note. You look for coin and small valuables. It may be that we can purchase the Clan-master''s release, then run like scalded tails before he knows it was us who freed him."


    The monkey made a wet raspberry noise with his tongue, then hopped out of slapping range, onto a low marble table.


    "Oooh, Tristan," he squealed. "Ye be so hairy and bulge-y, I canna resist yer charms!" Turning his back, the monkey wrapped both long arms about himself and made damp, sloppy kissing sounds.


    Salem growled, but otherwise ignored the beast, who was often more burden than gain. They made their way via dark alcoves and puddled drapery to Lord Orrin''s study. Some quick work with her picks unlocked the door, allowing Salem to push it noiselessly open.


    Inside, a low fire burned on the hearth. Books and tapestries lined the stone walls, blunting some of the mansion''s deep chill. The Tabaxi glided over to Orrin''s library. Found and pocketed three slim, rare volumes of epic verse.


    At his desk, on the palm of a carved wooden hand, she found a beautiful signet ring. Doubtless a crest he had no right to wear, so she took that, as well. Next a small, jeweled casket was relieved of its gems, which yielded to pick and file. The lock might have taken some time, so Salem just unscrewed its hinges, lifting the lid to find platinum coins and a small stack of papers. Probably important, and so into her bag they went.


    As Cap''n checked the library for book safes (found three of them, stuffed full of money) Salem turned her attention to the mantle piece. There, in a place of honor, she found an amethyst statuette. Carved with great skill, it was only a few inches high. A cresting wave topped with a wild-eyed, rearing horse, it had to be worth a small fortune. Gone, followed by a pair of gold-hilted daggers, an orichalcum cloak brooch and everything else that wasn''t red hot or nailed down. Even picked the gold thread from the tapestries, along with every third silver curtain ring, leaving just enough of them in place so the heavy dark cloth didn''t slump to the floor. In the process, Salem found a small, secret door with a magical lock.


    "Cap''n," she whispered, summoning her partner. "Is it trapped?"


    The monkey sighed, scratched its rump and then scampered over; little red vest stuffed nearly globular with stolen goods.


    "Tis not that hard ter see fer yerself," he grumped. "Not once ye''ve developed the eye."


    "Mmm¡­ why, when I have you? Now¡­ trapped, or not?"


    Muttering something that Salem chose not to hear, the monkey scrunched its small face and squinted at the doorway.


    "Aye," he said, after a moment. "There be curses, silence spells, and a swallowin'' void."


    The Tabaxi perked up, ears swinging forward, flooding the air with eager hunt-readiness. Her tail lashed behind her like a velvet-dark serpent, having almost a mind of its own.


    "Excellent," purred Salem. "With defenses so fearsome, there must be something truly wondrous inside. Treasure such as we''ve not seen since our days on the Flying Cloud."


    ¡­and all she needed to do was come up with a plan to get at it.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Gildyr, too, had been busy; waiting until the dining room doors swung shut to begin sniffing around. The scent and feeling of wrongness¡­ of darkness¡­ puzzled him. As a ferret, he explored the sitting room, checking urns and statues for signs that his person-form might miss.


    But the room grew dim, and the flames died down, as a cold and malevolent presence began to congeal there. The ferret stood up on its hind legs, sentry-like, little pink nose quivering. As an animal, Gildyr could perform little magic. Small blessings and charms, only. Barking defiantly, he tried to change back to his true form, but icy wind and crushing blackness prevented him.


    ''I see you,'' hissed something that moved like worms through his mind, smearing and twisting and pulling out terrible memories. The goblins, the giant stag, a party of elven hunters, his family back home in Lobum¡­ all of the long-suppressed past. Everything changed and corrupted and drenched in his own spurting blood. ''Your only peace is the grave,'' whispered the presence, choking the breath from his small, furry body. ''Your only escape is death. The end comes. The Mother walks free.''


    Then the doors opened, once more. Two very bright figures and several dimmer ones entered the room. A soft voice cried out, and then someone picked Gildyr up off the floor.


    "Please, no¡­" he heard, faintly. "Not you, too, Little Flash!"


    A woman''s voice, crying, while cascades of spells fought to bring back his warmth and his life.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Salem studied the door''s locking mechanism, fighting to recall what she knew about disarming traps. It was basic knowledge for pirates and thieves and the like sort of "professional acquisition specialists". There was always a trigger, she remembered, which might be sprung early¡­ possibly rousing the house¡­ or tricked into not going off, at all.


    Plan two seemed better, so the Tabaxi twisted a vial of delusion powder off of her thief''s belt. Equal parts coma, nightmare and corrosion, the stuff could freeze the senses even of magical sentries and traps. For a while, at least.


    Results, as the ship''s doctor had told her, might vary. Here and now, Salem twisted the top from the vial, whispering,


    "Stand ready, Cap''n. Once I have sprinkled the powder, you deal with the lock."


    The monkey pretended to grumble, but was really just as excited and greedy as his heart-friend, Salem.


    "I be ready," he said, cracking small knuckles. "Best lighten me load a bit first, though," he admitted reluctantly, shedding his red little, booty-stuffed vest.


    The Tabaxi waited until her partner was in position, hanging by his tail from a slit she''d made in the priceless tapestry. The, taking a big pinch of black opal powder, Salem blew it straight at the door, warning Cap''n,


    "Don''t breathe! Wait until all is absorbed!"


    The powder lofted and shimmered but didn''t just drift to the ground. Instead, it started to quest; growing tendrils that sought out Lord Orrin''s traps. First touching their mechanisms and then sinking in. Moments passed, and then all the black powder was gone, just as Doc had described. Cap''n got to work immediately, springing the lock in mere rapid heartbeats.


    "You see? Simple," purred Salem, feeling her shoulders roll and her tail lash in anticipation. Next, reaching out with a clawed hand, she seized the latch and opened that small, secret door.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    ''The end comes,'' that voice had whispered, as Gildyr found himself once more walking through a sunlit forest glade. Just a child, his hand on the flank of a mighty white stag. Then, terror and ruin; ravening jaws and the lash of a scorpion''s tail. The stag rent in half. His own right arm, burnt and still flapping, clamped in the monster''s fanged mouth.


    Then he smelt smoldering fur, felt strong, chafing hands and ill-tempered threats.


    "You are making the lady cry. Awaken at once, or I''ll have you skinned and made into a sadly inadequate hood!"


    Something warm and reviving dripped down his throat, driving away those beckoning shadows. HIs ferret-self squeaked faintly, then trembled and blinked back to consciousness.


    "Oh, thank¡­ thank¡­ beautiful¡­ great¡­ someone," cried Alfea, clasping Gildyr to her bosom. "Little Flash, I''m here! I''m right here! It''s all right, Little One, everything''s going to be fine. You won''t die, not you, too!"


    She seemed to be crying for more than just a limp ferret, and so Gildyr summoned the strength to lick the tip of Alfea''s nose.


    And then, everything went wrong, all at once.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    On the other side of the door, Salem saw two defleshed and gemmed human skulls, resting upon an altar of polished black stone. A large glass bottle stood on a sullen red sigil that someone had scribed upon the floor. Inside of the bottle, something roiled and spun, like serpent and smoke, together. Not a Djinn. Salem had seen those before, in her parents'' stronghold. This was altogether different¡­ and her curse was in clear, full effect.


    All at once, black-cat disaster struck Orrin.


    "Cap''n, come!" she whispered, backing hastily out of the threshold. Not before a suddenly loosened stone dropped from the ceiling and onto that secret dark altar, shattering one of the skulls. Worse, on the second bounce, it cracked the glass bottle, which began leaking something like smoke.


    The monkey screeched and leapt for Salem''s right shoulder. Her whole side tingled and went numb as Cap''n converted himself to a golden tattoo. But the Tabaxi had pivoted and was already running, stopping only to pick up Cap''n ''s red vest.


    There was a quick shattered window and cold night air, and then the chamber behind her just crumped out of existence.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Downstairs, Orrin and guests heard the grinding of stone and an ominous, low booming note, like someone had plucked the world''s heartstring. Val looked at Orrin, the hauled Nightshade back out of its faerie pocket, along with a chainmail shirt. Practice gear, nothing fancy.


    Orrin was pale, but calm. He, too, had armed himself.


    "Guards, to me!" he called. Then, facing the high-elf, "Prince Valerian, if you would, I may need assistance."


    "Lead on, Milord," replied Val.


    Solara pulled her staff back into existence. Stepping forward, she said,


    "Rustic, you are naught but a journeyman. Stay behind my shield, and wait for a target."


    Valerian inclined his head.


    "Let it be as you say, Lady Solara."


    Together, followed by a dozen terrified guards, Orrin, Solara and Val raced upstairs. Trying not to be obvious about it, the high-elf looked as he went for Salem. No luck. Whatever she''d been about up here, the Tabaxi was long gone, now. Val tried to hope that she wasn''t responsible for that ominous noise.


    Soon, they came to a splintered, bashed-open door. Behind it¡­


    The room, whatever it had been or contained, seemed to have just imploded. What filled that space now was a swallowing void, stretching long tendrils and pulsing with hunger. Moment by moment it swelled, growing larger with each object consumed.


    Val summoned fire, and all of the light he possessed. Solara''s staff-pearl glowed like a star. She began chanting spells, swaying snake-like in time with ancient rhythms and words.


    Orrin seized Val''s arm again, saying,


    "Highness, if I may ask this of you, please get my lady and people out of the manor and see them to safety in Snowmont. Afterward, come to help us, but Alfea¡­ my son¡­"


    "Shall be safe," Val promised, gripping hands with his lordship. "I shall make all haste to return. Courage and strength in the meanwhile, Milord."


    "Thank you, my friend," said the half-elf, turning once more to that rumbling void.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    16


    Valerian bounded downstairs like a mountain goat, rousing the house with a Tarandahl war cry. Short of sounding a horn, he could not have been any louder.


    "Out!" he shouted to each tousled head¡­ most of them female¡­ that craned round a door-frame. "The courtyard, move!"


    They moved, heeding ''I compel'' if not his somewhat royal authority. Back in the sitting room, all was in turmoil. Val found the chief steward and told the man,


    "By order of his lordship, everyone is to leave. Gather all in the mansion and lead them to Snowmont."


    "Yes, Milord," said the servant, nodding respectfully. Turning from Val, he began snapping orders.


    Someone seized Valerian''s sleeve. Lady Alfea, it was. Still cradling Gildyr-ferret, she whispered,


    "Your Highness, the poor animals! The prisoners!"


    Val bowed over her hand, pressing it to his forehead.


    "They shall be freed, Milady. My oath on it."


    And so, as Raun Steward managed the general evacuation, Val shot from place to place; freeing those trapped in cells, stalls or kennel. Even the dovecote was opened; Val''s pretty fair imitation of Sandy''s gyrfalcon driving the food birds forth in a fluttering cloud.


    With the horses he had to be gentler. A spooked, plunging beast might easily break a leg, or fall to its death on the winding trail down to Snowmont. He identified the leader¡­ Orrin''s big bay hunter¡­ and sent it off with a slap to the rump. Mares, colts and geldings followed their stallion to safety.


    The dark, slimy dungeons were more trouble, because many of Orrin''s prisoners were feeble or chained, and nobody knew where the keys had got off to. The first he could handle with healing and strength spells, resorting to potions when manna ran low.


    But the iron fetters¡­ Val hadn''t the strength or the tools to open welded manacles. Prisoners cried out for help, as stone shifted and growled, and chaos thundered, above. Then Salem appeared, flowing like smoke from the shadows.


    "See to the rest, Mage-knight," she spoke/yowled. And this time, he smelled something. He actually did. "I will break open the locks."


    "Done, Milady. Be careful."


    Next, it was off to the kennels, where terrified hounds barked and whined, lunging at metal enclosures. Valerian opened their doors, but the beasts would not run; just milled around the winded high-elf, awaiting direction.


    Well, he hadn''t spent candle-marks'' time in the Starloft kennels for nothing. As Brad Houndmaster had taught him, Val whistled a signal and pointed, causing the pack to form up and trot forth. Except for one puffing, bandy-legged small fellow, more lady''s lapdog than deer hound. In fact¡­ "Not you, too!"... he recalled Alfea crying.


    Val scooped that curly-tailed, squash-faced monstrosity up, earning a grateful face-bath. And those, but for Orrin, Solara and a few guards, were all of the manor''s inhabitants.


    Valerian would have joined those who battled, above, but he''d promised to lead Orrin''s people to safety. From outside, he could see the purple-dark swallowing void consuming woodwork and stone, breaking attempted bonds of sigil and light. Clearly, half-elf and mage could not beat it back, alone.


    Hurrying, Val caught up with the chief steward. Lady Alfea wobbled atop an inexpertly boosted litter, clutching a few precious objects, and Gildyr. She was sure to be dropped, if left that way, for the trail was winding and steep.


    A thousand rank curses, sideways and backwards, reversing the gods'' secret names! Then, double that!


    He''d vowed that she and the baby would not come to harm. Forcing a smile of light unconcern, Val took charge of Alfea. First handing over that wriggling, whimpering dog, he said,


    "By your leave, Milady?"


    ¡­and then lifted her off of the litter. The sylph scarcely noticed what he was about, for her face was pressed close to that of her adoring small dog.


    "Pudgy! Oh, Pudgy, you''re alive! Your highness, where did you find him?"


    She half-laughed, half-wept the question, her huge eyes lit up with love and relief. "Orrin said he''d run off and been eaten by wolves!"


    Trouble.


    ''Mighty flame, let me think up a really good lie.''


    "Erm¡­ he was stuck fast between hay bales, in the stables," said Val. "Must have got in there after the cats."


    (Which were vicious, clawing nightmares; half displacer-beast, every last one of them.)


    Alfea sniffled a laugh, holding both dog and ferret, now.


    "Silly Pudge," she chided. "To frighten me, so!"


    Carrying her ladyship, Valerian got the whole cavalcade moving. Meandering horses, hounds on point to the front, flanks and rear, with another one ranging ahead, they made their way down Kronnar''s loose, crumbling slope.


    Anyone watching the high-elf stride along with Alfea held in his arms might have been tempted to commend his great strength, but they needn''t have. He''d placed ''levitate'' on her ladyship, which became obvious when one of the pages slipped and plunged from the trail, down a mortal-high drop.


    Those previous curses? Repeated backward, in low orcish.


    Val left Alfea hanging in midair to hurl himself over the edge after that shrieking and plummeting boy. Just had to get close enough, hearing wind roar and rattling cloth¡­ close enough to snap ''feather fall'' on himself and the child, both.


    Got him, a scant ten feet from the boulder-strewn ground. Seized all of that downward energy, too, which would otherwise have caused an explosion of gravel and sand. One might use that free force to help power spells; a thing that he''d learnt from a human wizard called Murchison.


    A wobbling sparrow half-fell from the sky; meaning to help any way that it could. Val caught it out of the air, and then placed the small bird atop the salvaged boy''s head.


    "You," he said. "Do not move, twitch or wander. Neither of you. Remain in place, here, until the others catch up."


    If he could just get Alfea to the base of the trail, surely that would satisfy his promise. Surely then, he could rush to help fight.


    Someone¡­ four someones¡­ raced up slope, diverting their charge when they spotted Val, Sparrow-Gildyr and and the young page.


    Filimar, Sandor, Kellen and Arien surrounded their friend, moments later.


    "Milord!" cried Filno. "What has happened, up at the manor?"


    More trouble, but this time, Val had a plausible half-truth closer to hand.


    "An outburst of chaos," he told them all.


    Filimar nodded grimly.


    "Midwinter approaches," he said. "And all we can do is stamp out these eruptions as they occur." Then, "Milady Salem is¡­?"


    "Guiding another party to Snowmont." In theory, at least. Herding pickpockets, drunkards and assorted dissidents, was more like the truth¡­ but why worry Filimar?


    "Orrin and his mage face a swallowing void with only a dozen guards," Val told them, absently handing a conjured sweet to the sniffling page. "Your assistance would no doubt be most welcome, so long as¡­"


    Filimar nodded again, saying,


    "There are no feuds in a burning forest, Milord. Truce is hereby declared." Then, "An Arvendahl!"


    "An Arvendahl to the fray!" his companions roared back, as the lot of them turned and charged up the mountain.


    Val caught a few more deep breaths, absorbed some earth-spirit manna, then misty-stepped back to the trail. Alfea still sat/ reclined in midair, about arm''s height, surrounded by wondering servants and guards, dog clutched close to her bosom. Spying Val, she lifted her hand in greeting.


    "It is nearly like flying, Your Highness," she exclaimed. Only, Valerian shook his head, no. Taking her up again, he said,


    "Milady, only in the vaguest, most theoretical sense am I a prince. I am so far down the line of succession that one would require a telescope and nautical charting to find me. It would require a truly world-shaking cataclysm¡­ a second Fist of the Gods¡­ to place my posterior on the Dragon Throne. Forbid it, all powers."


    ¡­and even then, Mother and Lerendar ranked before him. Alfea just smiled, though.


    "As you will have it, Milord¡­ but Bean and I know what we know."


    Val risked turning mere gallant flirtation into an affair of the heart by squeezing her lightly, but he didn''t mean anything by it. Not really.


    As an air-sprite, she weighed very little, but her pregnancy, the little Bean that pinned her to earth, added heft. How, Valerian wondered, had Orrin succeeded in luring and trapping one such as she, who should ride the winds and sculpt clouds? And why did Alfea not recall what she truly was?


    A matter for later attention, he guessed, glancing up to where others fought a battle he very much wanted to join. But, he''d promised Lord Orrin, so¡­ onward.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    17


    In Val''s mind they''d burned an entire candle¡­ twelve of them¡­ down to mere stubs (but at most took a mark and a half). Reached the end of the trail, then had to negotiate an unstable scree-slope, before he felt able to leave Orrin''s folk.


    "Rouse the town," he told the chief steward. "And see Milady to safety."


    Raun nodded, saying,


    "Yes, Milord. By your leave and hers, war does not pass Magister Serrio''s borders. I can bring her and the children onto the fairgrounds. As for the rest of us¡­"


    Val brought forth a handful of coins.


    "You might essay the Merry Lad," he suggested. "It¡­ has a roof."


    Raun''s unshaven face twitched, but he bowed.


    "Aye, Lord," he said, before heading off. "The Lad, it is. Good luck and glad tidings, to you."


    Val tapped the town''s ley line for manna, was about to set forth again, when a small hand and a smaller voice stopped him cold. Mirielle, it was, dressed in new clothes and carrying a child-sized practice mace; her eyes huge and wild in that blue-skinned face.


    "They''re coming?" she asked him, one scarred fist clenched up on the hem of his cloak.


    ¡­and some other where¡­ someplace less than a whisper away¡­ they were. Drow slavers, there to ransack a town for captives and loot, leaving Snowmont ablaze in their wake. So close that it choked him, and her.


    Valerian shook his head fiercely, fighting the grip of that vision. Just as phantom silencing runes and torn hands tormented him, blacked eyes and a smashed nose, an arm wrenched halfway out of its socket, wracked Mirielle.


    "Not here," he told her. "Not in our plane, thanks to Serrio''s presence."


    Didn''t help much, knowing that. Val felt himself, other-where, trying hard to save Snowmont and failing. Once again, the high-elf shook his head, fighting by all the gods'' endless names to clear it.


    "Return to the stables," he snapped, more harshly than intended. "Warn Sapling of the chaos-burst, and make Patches ready to travel. I shall be back, presently."


    Her eyes asked what her voice did not: Promise?


    "My oath on it. Now, off with you. Scurry!"


    The town was roused. War bells rang, summoning aid. Warriors shouted orders and readied their weapons as helpless ones fled to Serrio''s fair or to the depths of their cellars. His task completed, Val spelled himself back up the mountainside.


    Half of the mansion was gone by the time he''d misty-stepped over to Orrin, Solara and Filimar. One of the guards was down, half of his body sliced cleanly away by a lashing black tendril. His torso lay dribbling blood and entrails onto the courtyard, while the rest of the guardsmen backed to the gate; eyes wide and halberds wavering.


    Not that there was anything they could have done.


    The swallowing void had grown. Wind screamed toward it from all directions, carrying sticks, torn leaves, sand and unlucky birds. Lightning struck repeatedly, as manna itself was drawn into that terrible emptiness. Dark tendrils crackled and whipped.


    Solara glowed in more colors than fit on a rainbow, staff held high as she fought to transport that rampaging menace to another plane. Orrin had a basic grimoire floating in front of him, trying one spell after another, barely audible over the void''s shrieking pull.


    Val started toward them, only Filimar bounded over with Arien, Sandor and Kellen.


    "Milord," the young Arvendahl shouted. "Arrow and blade do not harm it! What else can we try?"


    Solara''s transport-web snapped. Orrin''s globe of abjurement dissolved, their sigils sucked into the swallowing void, magic unraveling as the high-elves looked on.


    ''Think,'' he commanded himself. ''Arms and teleportation will not harm it. What else is there?''


    Aloud, Valerian shouted back,


    "Task two of your companions to see these men back to Snowmont. They may be able to do some good there."


    Here, they were helpless, and just in the way. Just one more concern. Raven-haired Filimar nodded, pointing out Sandor and Arien, then jerking a thumb at the gate.


    Both young elves looked stricken, clasping arms with Filno, before they obeyed. Val burnt the corpse with a firebolt, not letting it be drawn into the void; inscribing ''release'', as he did so. More to gain think-time than anything else.


    Channeled manna to Orrin and Solara¡­ knocked Kellen out of the way of a questing dark tendril, saving the Arvendahl''s leg. Nothing much useful. Nothing that mattered.


    Further forward, Solara was tiring despite Val''s infusion of power¡­ and still the thing grew. He did not hear Filimar''s spell, but saw the young nobleman''s arrows glitter with magical force as he drew and fired, again and again. Nothing. No good, at all. Only succeeded in feeding that surging and ravening sphere.


    Sphere¡­ shape¡­ boundary¡­ connection¡­ a thought struggled to form in his mind. One of Murchison''s "outside the boundaries" notions. He had moments, at best, as that screaming gale was now almost too powerful to stand up against.


    "Filimar!" Val shouted, hauling the other elf nearer. "Fall back as far as you can, but channel power; everything you and Kellen still have!"


    The young high-elf swallowed, then nodded.


    "Take care, Valno!" he yelled back. "No shame in retreat, my friend! Not against that!"


    Hadn''t come to it, yet, and hopefully wouldn''t. There was always Sherazedan, who would certainly hear and respond to the war bells¡­ but it wasn''t that bad, he assured himself.


    Bracing against the wind, dodging tendrils of nothingness, Val fought his way over to Orrin.


    "Milord," he called, seizing the half-elf''s shoulder. "Focus your power on wrapping up and collapsing it. Don''t need all the way, just smaller! Five yards across, or so!" About the breadth of his mother''s workroom.


    Managed to reach Solara and tell her the same thing. She looked rough; near hollowed out by power use and terribly high-level spells. Hair dulled and whipping, eyes like two wounds in a bloodless, wild face. She understood him enough to nod, though, and try the same strategy.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Down in Snowmont, a stunned, wounded sparrow fluttered onto the town wall, almost falling from the air onto chilly stone. As chaos thundered and raged on the mountainside, high above, the bird turned back into a shivering wood-elf. A druid whose right arm hung limp and whose legs wouldn''t hold him.


    Still, the elf forced himself up, managing somehow to raise both his arms. Calling on forest and field and bright garden¡­ on river and stone and wild rain¡­ he cried "Grow!" in a voice that shook walls and cracked windows.


    At his command, a tangle of thicket and vine burst from the ground, forming a tall hedge of wood; fanged and clawed with long thorns, patrolled by the spirits of life. Then, utterly spent, Gildyr collapsed.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Meanwhile, Solara and Orrin shifted their magics from attempted destruction to squeezing and binding; fighting the swallowing void with more than they had to spare, forcing the thing to contract.


    Next, when the sphere''s radius shrank to a size he could manage, Val tried out his notion; using non-standard sigils to bind the void''s outer surface, linking each exterior point to an opposite internal one; diverting its pull back within.


    Made sense in his head, at any rate¡­ and took many fumbling tries before something clicked; the right rune, that last burst of power. All at once, the void''s force began slurping up its own innards. Still shrieking and pulsating, it¡­ sort of ate itself.


    Popped with a thunderous crack right out of reality, leaving litter and elves to drop to the ground in sudden dead silence.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Off in the shadows, Salem sorted her loot, confident that Mrowr would do fine on his own¡­ realizing slowly that each stolen item was mage-traced.


    "Pftah!" she cursed. "Now what?"


    How was she to keep what she''d taken, when every gem, coin and trinket would scream its existence to Orrin, forever?


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Valerian lay on his back in the courtyard, arms outflung, gazing upward at Oberyn''s sign in the sky. Low. Almost setting, and chased by the serpent. Day was not far off.


    ''For Oberyn, for the dawn!'' was the Tarandahl war cry; meant to be shouted aloud with an upraised sword and rampant griffin mount¡­ not whispered hoarsely, sprawled out on cold stone. But, Val said it anyhow, marking victory for his house and his family¡­ and Solara, Orrin and Filimar, too.


    Someone came scrabbling over to drop to a slump at his side. Filimar, looking like twelve sorts of warmed-over penitence quests gone horribly wrong; face torn and bloodied by flying debris, clothing askew and sticking to flesh with fast-chilling sweat. Just like Val, less the Tarandahl''s bunched-up chain mail.


    "You are perilous company, Valno," the younger elf chuckled. "On, or off the playing field."


    Val rolled himself into a sitting position, drawing his legs up through litter and stone. Shifting back to his city persona, he joked,


    "We should go drinking together sometime."


    Rising, Valerian offered Filimar a hand up, adding,


    "Then you''d truly have something to complain of. The list of taverns from which I am barred is second only to Nalderick''s."


    Got a look and whiff at himself, then. Well, no high-elf likes to appear disheveled or, worse yet, grubby. So, Val and Filimar exchanged polite nods, then wandered apart for swift cleansing spells and a clothing change.


    All around them, Solara and the rest of the Arvendahl set were doing the same. Only Lord Orrin remained in his post-battle state, not having those spells, or fresh garments stored up on hand.


    ¡­And all that Val had ready was his rejected court formal wear, which¡­ Right. He glowed like Alaryn Firelord''s wyvern, but at least was no longer filthy.


    Solara snorted, shaking a beautifully re-styled head.


    "Yet again, you have cheated, Rustic," she hissed. "None of that magic was born of the ages or fey wilds."


    "Trying something new isn''t cheating," he shot back. "It''s¡­" How had Murchison put it? "It is being original." A thing not much valued in high-elven circles.


    The sorceress would have said something caustic, but then part of the air gaped wide in a shimmering magical gate. Not a one-off, Val noted; the sigils and runes had been there, but long unused. Light flashed, and then a tall Elven lord stepped through the opening, armed and armored for battle; drawn by the war bells of Snowmont.


    With pitch-black hair and glacial blue eyes, in green cloak and gold circlet, this could only be High Lord Arvendahl, himself, Warden of Eastermark. Filimar stepped quickly in front of Valerian, as did Kellen, jostling the Tarandahl back and away.


    "My lord," said Filimar, bowing deeply. "As you can see, there was a bit of¡­"


    "What has happened here?" Lord Arvendahl snapped, cutting Filimar off in mid-explanation. Those icy blue eyes next shifted to Orrin, standing there dirty, torn and unshaven, reeling with exhaustion.


    Orrin strove to straighten his garments and wipe at his face, which Val helped along with a muttered cleansing spell.


    "You," said the man''s lordly father. "Explain. Whence came this¡­"


    "Chaos burst," finished another harsh voice, emerging from the greater rune ''gate'' which drew itself in midair as they watched.


    Sandor and Arien came pelting back into the courtyard, panting like a pair of spent horses, wild to rejoin their young lord.


    A portal formed, and Sherazedan was suddenly present, having woven himself from the lines of that magical rune. Val studied the spellwork closely, rapid travel being rather on his mind.


    As for Lord Arvendahl, the nobleman''s face went expressionless, and he bent the knee.


    "Your Imperial Highness," he intoned.


    "Stuff and nonsense, Falco. On your feet! His Imperial Highness is my brother. I am a mere court mage."


    He''d come prepared for a fight, with a grimoire open before him, and a fully charged staff¡­ not the curlicued formal prop that Val held for the old lich at banquets¡­ in hand.


    "Something unspeakably dark was released here," the wizard continued, turning to look at the ruined mansion. "The question is, who set it free, and why was it here in the first place?"


    Sherazedan''s pale silver eyes shifted to Solara, as ranking mage. In command voice, he said,


    "Open your mind to me, child."


    A few moments passed, during which Val exchanged glances with Orrin and Filimar. Whatever had happened, there was nothing to be gained by inviting official involvement. Apparently, Solara thought so, as well.


    "Hmmph," Sherazedan grunted. "This has not the mark of a truly random occurrence. There are undertones here which bespeak a deeper and fouler purpose."


    For just an instant those ice-pale eyes stopped on Valerian. The young high-elf folded his arms across his chest defensively. Lord Arvendahl seemed to notice him for the first time, as well.


    Sherazedan sighed and shook his head.


    "If you could restrain yourself from drunkenness, brawling and stirring up mischief wherever you go¡­"


    "What, and lose all my friends?'' thought Val, feeling stubborn and surly.


    "...we might make a mage of you, yet. Aloud, then, Valerian. Relate what happened."


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Gildyr lay in an embryo-curl at the base of the wall he''d created, on the wrong side. The thunder and lightning and screaming winds had ceased above, but the druid never noticed; too plunged in private horror to see or hear anything else.


    Once again, as a young child at his proving, he strolled through a sunlit forest glade with one hand pressed to the flank of a noble white stag. Tall and kingly, its beautiful head was crowned in a glory of spreading gold antlers. A very lord of the forest, strong, proud and beautiful.


    They''d bonded and talked, wandering out of the spell-warded safe wood, where cubs might search for vision or heart-friend in peace. Completely caught up in each other, Gildyr and Karus feared nothing. Then had come the faint blare of hunting horns, too distant to trouble over. Flying hooves, as well, like the rattle of hail on a faraway window.


    His fault. All, his fault. If he hadn''t distracted Karus, the lord of the forest, his heart-bonded friend, would not have been killed. In his heart, Gildyr had never stopped weeping. Had never ceased blaming himself or reliving the past.


    Too late to flee, the young boy and stag had realized their danger. The sudden, whistling pounce, as something massive and deadly, its hide bristling with arrows, burst from the trees behind them. The strike, as that venomous scorpion tail tore through the stag, ripping its body in half. That oddly beautiful man-face plunged at Karus''s still heaving flank to drive rattling fangs deep into bloody, warm flesh.


    Then the monster flexed upward, hurling Karus''s foreparts far away into the woods. Great dragon wings spread like leathery storm clouds, blocking the sky as the beast next turned its attention to Gildyr.


    The boy backed on his hands and his bottom, kicking out with both feet, scream-panting. Howling in terror. The manticore opened its jaws, showing the prehensile, triple-row fangs of a viper. Lifting its head, it bugled a challenge to those distant hunters. Luring them onward. Then, it paced nearer, playing with choicer, more delicate prey.


    "Soft little fawn," it fluted, eyes lit with greenish-pale madness and hunger. "Little prey, do not flee."


    A needle-tipped spike flew from its lashing tail, pinning Gildyr in place through one shoulder. The best padded nearer, smiling.


    "There is no escape," it continued, dripping acid saliva in long, acrid rivulets. The stuff sizzled and steamed where it hit; blackening, burning, dissolving. "Why let a problem grow up?" The manticore mused. "Crush and devour it young, along with its playmates, one helpless fawn at a time."


    Acid mucus dripped onto the boy''s upflung right arm. With the other, still screaming, he''d flailed for rocks, sticks or pinecones. Anything at all he could throw. The beast didn''t notice, laughing instead as the clothing and flesh melted off Gildyr''s raised arm. Lunging forward, it pinned him to the ground with one massive forepaw, ripping the acid-burnt arm from its socket and eating it in front of the horrified boy.


    "Mmm¡­ forest-fresh elf, fattened on acorns and bread. Bet yonder lordlings will taste just as good."


    Shock, blood loss and stark, awful terror near-blinded Gildyr, whose breath came now in ragged, bubbling gasps. It meant to devour him utterly, one flailing limb at a time.


    Then a horn blasted. Riders thundered into the clearing, circling the monster and Gildyr. Firebolts sizzled and cracked. Bow strings sang over and over; arrows striking for eyes or mouth, the manticore''s only soft spots.


    Trumpeting defiance, it rose to its mighty hind legs, paws flailing, wings outspread and churning. A hunter was smashed from her saddle, ribs and skull crushed by the blow, dead before she hit the ground.


    Gildyr vomited, twisting in a welter of mud, blood and urine. Then someone''s hand clamped over his mouth and the bottom dropped out, plunging the wounded boy into darkness, safety and silence.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    "Pftah!" Salem cursed, for her takings were worthless, if they could not be sold on. Worse, those tracers would lead anyone looking for missing treasure right back to her, unless¡­


    Looking around from the cover of darkness, the thief spied Filimar. Perhaps there lay her solution. Waiting until a pair of new elf-lords drew everyone else''s attention, Salem drifted over to Filimar.


    "Elfling," she purred, touching his shoulder.


    Filimar jumped, but contained his mixed joy and surprise fairly well, otherwise.


    "Milady," he whispered, placing a hand over hers. "How may this most loyal heart, this love-wasted husk, serve thee?"


    Fighting to keep her ears from flattening, Salem growled,


    "I have found and collected some things that were¡­ mmm¡­ lying about. They surely belong to you, or yon high-elf lords. Please, take them."


    "Of course, Milady. An Arvendahl does not stint in service to the goddess that lights his dreams. I¡­ erm¡­"


    Well, a handful of gems, a few trinkets, he might have believed. But¡­ all this? Filimar''s face, as he struggled not to accept that this absolute vision, this angel, was simply no ruddy good, was truly pathetic. Some of those items could only have come from the Arvendahl coffers, and how in the holy well-spring had they ended up here?


    "I¡­ yes, thank you, Milady. Let me just¡­ put these away."


    Very far. Deepest faerie pocket. Well out of sight or detection, until he could think what to do. A fulminant pox on this thieving Orrin! This wretched blister of a feen!


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Valerian uncrossed his arms. Put both hands on his hips and looked downward, searching for truth and invention in equal, stiff doses. Then,


    "I came to a banquet here, at Lord Orrin''s invitation," said Val.


    High Lord Arvendahl scowled and started to speak, but Sherazedan held up a hand.


    "Let it be, Falco. We may discuss the finer points of your offspring''s rank, later." And then, to Valerian, "Continue."


    Glancing once more at the stony-faced half-elf, Val plunged further into his tale.


    "We made our repast, with entertainment," (mostly provided by wizardly curse and riposte, but still¡­ no one was bored) "and then retreated to the sitting room for gaming and drinks."


    "As one does," remarked the hooded old lich, dryly. "Pray go on."


    "Then an enormous noise of grinding stone disturbed the night''s festivities. The source turned out to be upstairs, in a room that was already far gone when we reached it."


    "My study," said Orrin, coming forward. Very brave, all things considered. "I had received a shipment of old books recently¡­ something of a collector¡­ and one of them may have contained a¡­ an¡­ um¡­"


    "Curse of some sort," finished Solara, who was in this far deeper than Val. "The twisted scrawling of some ancient, diseased mind, no doubt. That was what triggered the void. Fortunately, I was able to dispel this latest manifestation of chaos, employing the skills that you taught me, Lord Sherazedan. The, er¡­ journeyman helped. A bit."


    "Chaos grows more common as midwinter approaches," added Valerian, quoting Filimar.


    And that, more or less, was that. All he intended to say on the matter, anyhow. Val folded his arms across his chest, again, willing himself not to wonder about Salem''s involvement, where powerful others might pick up the thought.


    Sherazedan had bent his stern gaze from speaker to speaker in turn; leaning upon his battered old field staff, grimoire pages fluttering agitatedly. Clearly, not quite persuaded. Valerian, having spoken last, ended up pinned by that silvery glare for a long, awkward time.


    Finally, Sherazedan drew a circle of lightning, enclosing himself and his journeyman apprentice. Everything halted in mid-breath and mid-flutter outside, down to the wind and the snowflakes. Orrin, Filimar, Solara and the rest stood like game pieces awaiting a player''s hand.


    "Master?" asked Val, going for: not really nervous, at all.


    "There is more, is there not?" Sherazedan inquired. "What has been left unsaid, boy?"


    So very much. Val thought of all that Smythe had shown him. Of Dad''s body eaten and looted by goblins. Of his brother, pinned beneath a mortally wounded horse. Of Ilirian, overrun by murderous vermin.


    Very much, he wanted to ask for his master''s aid. Only, a small voice inside of him whispered,


    ''Would you throw away all that your grandfather fought so hard and so long to acquire? That your father just perished, defending?''


    Valerian was unaccustomed to guiding voices, tiny or not¡­ but this one made a good point. Requesting Imperial help meant inviting the Crown to take over Ilirian''s affairs; up to seizure of assets and placing of an "interim steward" upon the high seat.


    He knew. He''d seen it happen to Lindyn, Kalisandra''s badly-torn realm. Sandy was a ranger, now; a semi-outlaw in what had been her home.


    No. No outside help. Not yet, anyhow. Instead, meaning to distract Sherazedan, Val brought up another problem.


    "Master, at my vision trial, I experienced capture by drow slavers." He spoke slowly, feeling for words. Even now, cycles later, the topic was difficult.


    "I recall," said the mage. "You summoned the aid of a dryad, which some considered an unworthy shortcut to victory."


    Right. ''Some'' had a lot to say about most things he did, but Val rarely listened.


    "I mention it because the injuries to my, erm¡­ hands and throat seem to¡­ seem to be manifesting here, as well. And, not just to myself. The child from my trial vision¡­"


    Sherazedan cocked his head slightly sideways, calling up memory.


    "Ah, yes," he mused. "Young half-drow girl, rather the worse for hard use, herself."


    "That''s the one, only¡­ she is here, as well, and seems to have been fated to meet me. I get a sense that the events of the vision are happening now, in a nearby plane."


    Val hesitated a moment, seeing and feeling "help, please" scrawled by torn, shaking hands in the mud.


    "Is¡­ might there be any way to step in and aid Snowmont-there. ''Some'' could then shut up and seal, about outside help and cheating."


    Because it would not be a vision, this time. It would be danger in actual fact. A very hazardous journeyman masterwork.


    Sherazedan peered at him closely. Squinting. Considering.


    "Were I to send you there, Valerian, with your companions, you would receive no further boons or assistance. I assume that I have an analogue in that place, but if so, he is an uncommunicative, flinty and withered old lich who helps no one else, ever."


    Words that Val had spoken himself, once or twice.


    ''Well, you are,'' he wanted to say, but settled instead for,


    "Difficult to imagine such a thing, Master."


    Sherazedan actually snorted.


    "Well, boy, you shall either perish, and rid me of the worst apprentice ever to drink and fumble his way through the journeyman trials¡­ or you shall come back having learnt something useful. Humility and respect, if nothing else. Also¡­"


    The mage began making passes and sigils in the air with one hand and his staff.


    "You might consider that travel there may take you the same distance here, in a place where you are not especially hunted for."


    Surprised, Val started to ask what his master meant. Couldn''t, though, because Sherazedan had become a long, hall-of-mirrors wizard chain, some of them shades or burnt corpses.


    Light screamed. Darkness quivered, and the air around Valerian congealed into dense, slushy muck. Too thick and painful to breathe, too thin to swim his way out of. And then he was through; plunged directly into what looked and sounded like hell.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    18


    Orrin''s manse was in flames, and only by Firelord''s grace and protection did Val escape being incinerated¡­ but there was worse, outside in the courtyard. Horses, hounds, birds; all had been slaughtered or tormented for sport. The guards and servants, Lord Orrin and Lady Alfea, had been savagely abused, before being butchered.


    Utterly stunned, disbelieving, Valerian spent a solid two candle-marks burning corpses and dispatching suffering animals. A scant few he was able to save, but not her ladyship''s small dog. Poor, valiant Pudge had obviously gone down fighting to reach his pregnant young mistress. Val burned them and Orrin together, spelling release as he did so.


    Only, the cloud of phantoms would not depart. Even in the rising dawn-glow, Val could still see them. Orrin with an arm around Lady Alfea, she with a hand pressed to the gleam at her midsection, little Pudge licking her shimmering cheek.


    Behind them, a knot of servants and guardsmen, most of whom Valerian recognized from the banquet. Whose bodies he''d lately cut down from the rafters or pulled from impalement on needles of black, steaming ice. He said, feeling wretched and helpless,


    "You will have vengeance. My oath on it. So swears a Tarandahl, servant of Firelord. Rest, until blood sends you onward."


    A tremor of witnessing powers made the vow binding, but Val would have kept it, regardless. Orrin-ghost lifted a hand, stretching it forth as though offering to clasp. Physically impossible, but Val met the gesture with one of his own; fingertips just brushing Orrin''s. Alfea blew him a kiss, sending a very faint blessing. Then the sun rose, its water-pale light dispelling the dead until nightfall.


    A sudden panting and hurrying clatter caused the spooked high-elf to pivot and draw, Nightshade humming with all of his pent-up sorrow and rage. Nearly skewered Mirielle like a darting trout, as the girl came racing toward him.


    Val leapt backward in shock, dropping Nightshade to clash on cold stone.


    "No!" he cried out. "Why are you here? You are not meant to be here!"


    She still had her child-sized, ridiculous practice mace and a sack of hurriedly gathered provisions; her expression a mixture of terror and relief. Mirielle threw herself at him, only at the last moment pulling up short.


    "Lord¡­ the town! Snowmont! They¡­ they were there," the girl sobbed.


    Right.


    Valerian wasted time that he didn''t have, doing all that he knew to send the girl back. Only to find every move, sigil and charm utterly blocked. Even drew out his worthless joke of a staff, for all the good that did.


    Finally, he threw the useless thing down to the ground beside Nightshade. Raising his face to the sky, Val shouted¡­ came close to howling, actually¡­


    "She was not meant to be here!"


    Not in the midst of all this. ''Your companions'', the old lich had said. Val had supposed that he meant Gildyr and Salem. Solara, perhaps. Not a small, helpless girl-child. But wherever Sherazedan was, the mage wasn''t listening. His sigils and runes crossed the sky over and over; faint as zodiacal light, mirror-reversed and utterly binding.


    Valerian got himself back together, after a moment. Mostly. Ashamed of his failure to send the girl home, he could not meet her gaze.


    "I can be useful, Lord," Mirielle whispered. "I can¡­ I can care for a horse, gather wood, and¡­ and cook, if your lordship would trust me around his food. I can sew buttons and seams, wash clothes¡­"


    "Enough," the elf snapped. "I shall not send you away."


    Not where any survivors would spot her blue skin and see only a drow. The girl nodded, too grateful for words. Hitched up her sack of provisions, but kept the mace clutched tight, looking for all the world like a skinny, pint-sized and battered young cleric.


    Val summoned Nightshade to hand and resheathed it. As for his staff, that worthless six feet of lumber the high-elf sent back to the shadows, again. Rather surprisingly, Smythe reappeared, along with its harness and sheathe. Inanimate or not, it seemed that the sword would not leave him.


    "Come along, then," he said to the hovering lass. "If we mean to catch up with the slavers, we will need to find mounts and make best speed."


    None of Lord Orrin''s fine horses had survived the dark elves'' sick play, and Valerian had wasted enough time already. But¡­


    "Lord, eat first," Mirielle said to him, pulling a salvaged loaf from her bag.


    He''d no appetite at all. Wanted no food. Only, the girl was insistent.


    "You eat when you can, to stay alive a bit longer because, sometimes, unlooked for, things can get better, Lord."


    "Val," he said, after a moment, accepting and breaking the lump of dark bread. "I would appreciate it if you would use my name, Mirielle. You are hereby raised to the rank of page and apprentice."


    (Not that, as a mere journeyman mage, he had the right to take or train either, but the old lich was welcome to come state his objections in person, if he had any.)


    They ate the bread walking the trail down to Snowmont, Mirielle reaching out to pull half-withered berries off of their twigs and into her sack. Likewise, with anything else the girl thought they might use.


    "See!" she would softly exclaim. "Here is stim-leaf, good for when you are tired past standing, but there is still so much work left to do."


    Or,


    "A flint! Make fire with that, or a good-enough blade, with a few knocks to the edge, here."


    It seemed that years of abuse and neglect had made a quick-witted survivor of Mirielle.


    Snowmont¡­ was bad. Like the mansion, but worse. The drow had no use for very young children, the old, the sick, or females with child. The dead were piled up in heaps, warg-torn and broken. Left there for insects and birds. Long needles of black ice pierced the town walls and split buildings, just like above at the manor. The stench of ashes and blood clotted the freezing air. The town''s broken ward sigils crackled and spattered like a low, dying fire; long unmaintained.


    Time was short and he needed to go. The pain in his hands and throat drove him relentlessly, but he could not just leave them there. His other self hadn''t been able to defend them, and Val-from-afar was too late, but at least he could grant them release and clean fire.


    He was cutting down the corpse of a half-flayed, decapitated male Tabaxi when someone moved, behind a low, broken wall.


    Val burned the warrior''s body using a firebolt, keeping one hand aflame as the other drew Nightshade.


    "Behind me," he ordered Mirielle, who''d dropped the sack and swung her mace into business position. The girl was swift to nip around as he''d bade her. Not to cower there, but to stand braced and scowling, guarding his back.


    "Show yourself, or I strike," Val commanded, trying to sound like he''d manna to spare. Maybe they would not notice that his burning hand barely flickered, or that his sword arm shook with grief and exhaustion.


    Not fear. Never that. A Tarandahl was ever courageous. Firelord would accept nothing less.


    Thank cleansing flame, the skulker turned out to be the dwarven shopkeeper. Hilt, Buernar had called her. But Buernar was dead, cut to bits at the inn, along with his people.


    Valerian lowered his sword, releasing a breath he hadn''t known he''d been holding.


    "Be at ease, good dwarf," he said to her, for ''well met'' or ''good morning'' were certainly not the case. She was near-frantic with sorrow, her dark eyes awash with tears she was too proud to shed.


    "They took me second-dad and wee brother," Hilt whispered. "Dragged them off as I lay pinned ''neath a fallen beam. I tried¡­ tried ter get free an'' save mum¡­ second-dad an'' Dirk.. but I c- c- couldn''t."


    She''d burns on her face and torso, as well as a deep, ugly bruise. Behind her were a scattering of children, a few weeping old folk and one city guard with his severed leg tied off, leaning upon an improvised crutch. The wretched survivors of Snowmont.


    Val drew out his last few bottles of healing potion. Could not give the guard back his leg, nor a shaken old woman her left eye, but the elf did all that he could. Him, they let tend to them. Mirielle they spat at and cursed.


    "One o'' them," a dwarf-boy glowered, clenching fists that could work stone like clay. "O'' course they ain''t ''urt her."


    "She had nothing to do with what happened here," cut in Valerian, flowing back into a fighting stance. "Leave the girl be."


    He could feel a small hand twisting itself into the cloth of his half-cloak. Someone picked up and threw a stone, but Mirielle''s mace batted the missile aside with a sharp clang. Val drew a ward circle, using Nightshade''s tip to direct his last spurts of magic.


    "Leave off," he snapped. "We go to rescue your folk." (And his other-plane self, although Val did not say so.) "Sound the war bells to summon aid."


    Hilt hawked and spat, her effluvium striking and sizzling against the ward circle''s force.


    "We got no answer th'' first time we rung ''em," growled the dwarf. "What makes yer lordship think the ''igh ones ''d stir themselves fer Snowmont, now?"


    Because of the ancient compact, laid down by Oberyn, himself. Because¡­ After a moment, Val looked away.


    "Perhaps they will not," he admitted. "But I mean to do all that I can."


    "Why?" she demanded aggressively. "Yer lordship ain''t exactly stuck me as th'' carin'' sort, when ''ee deigned ter step into me shop."


    All at once, Valerian felt very small. Less elf-lord than jackass.


    "They ain''t from here," said a near-toothless old woman, evidently a local hedge witch. "Neither of ''em be from this plane. Ye c''n see ''ee''s got more power than ''igh-nose did, an'' the girl''s better dressed. Ye been spendin'' good coin dollin'' up yer slavey, Hilt?"


    The shop-dwarf snorted.


    "Not likely," grunted Hilt. "That girl''s been nuthin'' but trouble since she killed ''er own mum, comin'' forth. Lucky I fed an'' kept ''er, at all."


    Behind him, Val could feel Mirielle shaking. Best change the subject and leave, he decided.


    "Ring the bells," he repeated. "If any are left whole. I will set off after the captives."


    Hilt made a move to seize Val''s arm as the ward circle dropped.


    "Me m¡­ second-dad," she whispered hoarsely, switching her gesture to tug at her own, half burnt-away beard. "An'' Dirk¡­ yer lordship can''t hardly miss ''em. Red ''air like me own, an'' da''s beard be plaited with silver rings. Dirk''s beardless, yet, but ''ee were wearin'' ''is school clothes. Blue breeches an'' boots, an'' a wee red shirt. Please¡­ Just, please, bring ''em back. Bring all o'' ''em back ''ome."


    Valerian nodded.


    "Or perish in the attempt," he promised, quoting Smythe. "You''ve the word of Valerian Tarandahl ad Keldaran, servant of Firelord." Feeling the girl shift position behind him, Val added, "And Mirielle, my page."


    Which made two would-be rescuers. As for Gildyr and Salem, Val couldn''t tell whether or not they''d been brought along, too. Perhaps they''d been spared. Left safe at home, with nothing more vexing than breakfast to concern them.


    If so, the high-elf was very grateful, indeed.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    19


    There were no more horses in Snowmont. Whatever the drow hadn''t stolen, they''d slaughtered and butchered for meat, leaving no hope of rapid pursuit. Nor was that lone, harsh-toned bell quickly answered, despite all its tolling. The surviving townsfolk were on their own, it seemed.


    Unable to help himself, knowing better, Val went to the ice-shattered stable. Patches was not there, but Sapling was, with White Dog. Their remains, at any rate. From the ransacked office, Valerian took a few bruised apples and the only feed sack not tainted with hissing black ice.


    A sprinkle of earth freed the dryad''s spirit, and maybe the guard dog''s, as well. Afterward, Val took a cutting from the least ice-blasted root of the potted tree. After all, there were druids¡­ there was Gildyr¡­ and one never knew.


    Valerian and his young page set off at last on foot, not at all gloriously, with scant provisions or planning. All day, survivors had trickled in from mountain and glen, most in deep shock. They needed safety, healing, food and shelter; found little but ashes, ruin and death. Val hated to leave Snowmont defenseless, but the lost ones had no other hope of rescue.


    "Someone will come," he insisted, shortly before heading out. "The Prince-Attendant, or the Arvendahls, surely. Just hold out and stay safe till they reach you, or until we''ve come back with your people."


    Hilt nodded wearily, trying hard to believe.


    "Ain''t no more princes, but¡­ good luck, yer lordship," she told him.


    "And to you," he responded, making one last adjustment to the town''s weather ward. The manna here felt different. Less bang and more dregs, sort of. Made it much harder to top back up, especially near the black ice. "I shall return within a seven-night."


    ¡­unless something went terribly wrong. But there was no use thinking that way, so he pushed the weak notion aside, projecting confidence like a hero.


    Little tracking was necessary. Not expecting pursuit, the slavers had boldly taken the main road north, leaving a trail marked by torn corpses, warg droppings and puddles of acid meltwater.


    Val had no plan at all for what to do when he at last caught them up, but he''d always been able to improvise. He''d always been lucky and quick on his feet. Besides, his other self would be there¡­ and maybe that would be answer enough.


    Needing to hurry, Valerian set a hard pace. They were over a day behind the drow, and couldn''t afford many rest breaks. Only when Mirielle stumbled and fell did he stop for food and a small, warded fire. About third watch of the night, in a small clearing away from the road, they halted at last.


    Mirielle was so trail sore and weary that she could scarcely stay conscious, even with stim-leaf. Val berated himself, sorely. He ought to have noticed the girl''s condition. Should have guessed that she''d never ask for a break, exhausted or not. His father had once said, before Valerian''s first battle,


    "We are courageous for those who take shelter behind us, son. Not simply against those we face. Look out for your people. They are the reason we fight."


    Right.


    So, he''d dropped that ball rather badly, but¡­ While the folk who mattered were alive, there was still time to repair a mistake. You still had a chance to make everything better.


    The night was a cold one, but the fire cast comforting warmth and light. Val hauled up a few logs for seats, then made some day-brew; diluting and sweetening it, as one does for children. Then, from a particular faerie pocket, he fished out a dough-man, with golden berries for eyes and a piped-icing smile. One of the army that Tara Cookie had baked for him.


    "Here," he said, wafting the food to Mirielle. "I know of very little that cannot be cured by hot day-brew and sweets."


    The girl took her biscuit and cup with a look of mingled confusion and wonder. As the drink was still scalding, she began with the dough-man, breaking its head cleanly off, first, "so he won''t feel me bite him," she explained.


    At the other side of the blaze, half of his mind on the night and his wards, Valerian nodded.


    "I have always done so, myself," he admitted, smiling a little.


    Mirielle stared into his face for a moment, anxiously searching for mockery. For a set-up that was surely to come, leaving her in deeper trouble while others looked on and laughed. Finding none, she dared a small bite of the dough-man''s crisp leg; tasting sugar, spice bark and tropical bean.


    "It''s so good," she whispered, immediately wrapping the rest of the biscuit in a bit of clean cloth for tucking away. "Just a little bit at a time. I can eat it just when I need something good. It can last a long time, that way."


    "There are more," laughed Valerian, sensing dozens yet in the faerie pocket. "There is no reason to¡­" ''Hoard food'', he''d been about to say, but¡­


    "Milord Val¡­ do we have to go get them? The Snowmont people, I mean? They¡­ they''re not¡­ th- they hate me."


    All at once, the girl clamped both hands over her ears and began rocking back and forth on her haunches, nearly propelling herself off of the log-seat. As though unable to stop herself, she gasped,


    "Stupid, ugly, worthless, lazy¡­ killed her own mum coming forth, she did. Throw her out, let her die. A kindness, really¡­" and other, still nastier things.


    Once (many years and a few re-cycles earlier) Val had been present when the Prince-Attendant confronted Sherazedan. Standing with lowered head, clenched fists and hard eyes, Nalderick had snarled,


    "One day, old relic, I shall be the one giving orders."


    He''d expected an explosion. Instead, silvery eyebrow cocked, hand at his glimmering staff, the mage had remarked,


    "No doubt inspiring Lord Oberyn to sound his horn, at last."


    A very tense moment. Had Valerian been wiser, he would have gone to stand with Solara and the other, more politic apprentices. Instead, he and Marlie had stayed beside Naldo, come what absolutely did. Once made a friend of, Val did not waver.


    Here and now, he reacted by bunching and hurling a snowball. By hand, not with magic. Struck just the top of Mirielle''s head, mussing her curly, short hair.


    "Stop," he commanded, using the mage-voice and flame scribing ''I compel''.


    Shocked right out of her fit, the blue-skinned girl looked up at him, blinking away awful names.


    "Those are not your words," he told her, rising to come around the fire. "They are not yours and they do not describe you. Find better ones."


    Her mouth worked. She gulped. Raking her small, chapped lower lip through her teeth, Mirielle begged,


    "How? How can I stop hearing them say those things, Milord?"


    "Simple enough. You¡­ well¡­" (Think, Valerian!) "What you need is a story. Your own tale of beginnings. The true one."


    Mirielle sat up a bit. Wrapping thin arms around both up-thrust knees, she said,


    "I like stories. I''m not meant to be idle and listen¡­ not when there''s work to be done and mistress throwing things¡­ but I can listen and still do all my chores. I''m not really lazy, Milord Val. Promise, I''m not."


    Right.


    Well, having committed himself, Valerian pointed up through the fire lit branches. Up to where Oberyn''s star form shone, cold and remote and unheeding.


    "See the Strider?" he asked, seating himself on a log.


    Mirielle nodded expectantly, hitching closer on rump and her scooting feet, scattering a few soggy needles and leaves.


    "When Strider reclines on the western horizon, we shall have to move onward. For now, though, I''ll give you a new, better story to push out the other one."


    She was all eyes and horse-pricked ears as the high-elf cleared his throat and began.


    "Not long ago, as the world measures such things, among the drow¡­ erm¡­ the dark-elves, that is¡­ there lived a young prince."


    "What was his name?" the girl interrupted, taking a sip of her cooling day-brew.


    "Oh¡­ erm¡­ Drek. Drake, rather. Prince Drake of the¡­ Nighthawk clan, in the far distant Everdark Caverns."


    "Was he very handsome? Princes in stories are all supposed to be handsome," the girl prompted.


    "Oh, of course. An absolute paragon of manly beauty. Stop city traffic on a market day." As Katina Nanny had used to say, while hitching his crumpled sash around and chasing badly-strayed lace. "He had¡­ let''s see¡­ the jet-black skin of their highest nobility, and red¡­ no. Eyes like two golden coins, and hair like a river of ice. Very tall," added Val, whose childhood nickname had blighted his life, he felt sure.


    "At any rate, perhaps because he was raised by a half-elf¡­"


    "Like me!" piped up Mirielle, growing excited.


    "Almost exactly like you, in all of the ways that matter. All of the good things. Because he was raised by someone like you, our prince took no pleasure in pain or torment or slaughter."


    "He wasn''t a bad prince," whispered Mirielle. "Was he? Not like¡­"


    "Not like the others, at all," Val assured her. "He took excellent care of the family servants, even freeing those with someplace to go. The rest of his people wondered at such softness, and some even challenged him to single fight."


    "But he always won!" Mirielle shouted, grown suddenly fierce.


    "Always," agreed Valerian. "Quite the renowned duelist, our prince, and most folk feared to cross blades with him. Some did¡­"


    "Only the stupid ones!" said Mirielle, lower lip out like it wanted a fight of its own.


    "Indeed. To those with more gold than good sense, Drake was a terror. He¡­"


    "Didn''t kill them."


    "No? Whyever not? If they were stupid, then surely they deserved whatever¡­"


    But Mirielle shook her head stubbornly.


    "He taught them a lesson and made them get smarter, because that''s what princes in stories always do."


    "Ah. Indeed. Most instructive," observed Val. "So they were taught a lesson with the flat of a well-laid-on blade, and went howling off to nurse their wounds and plot revenge."


    Mirielle looked concerned, scooching a little closer and leaning forward, some.


    "But their foul machinations came to naught, because he chose to depart. Wisely, it must be said. The prince''s beloved nanny had passed on to the hall of her ancestors, leaving him friendless, down there in the cold and the dark."


    Mirielle ducked her head and sniffled. She knew friendless and cold and sleeping in drafty outbuildings.


    "What did he do next?" she begged. "Did anyone hear, and send him some help?"


    "He didn''t need help, because he made his own luck," said Valerian, adding, "finish your meal and then stretch out your bedroll. You must rest before we move on."


    The girl obeyed, but slowly. Reluctantly.


    "I can''t go to sleep," she protested. "No one can go to sleep, if they don''t know what happens next!"


    "Very well, but lie down, and don''t use your provision sack as a pillow. You''ll wake up with lines on your face, smelling of cheese."


    The young girl covered a tiny, hiccuping laugh with both hands.


    "No, because I''d eat it all, first, and there''d be nothing left to smell like!" she scoffed.


    Oberyn was still slowly wheeling, above them. Sparks rose with every pop and crackle of burning wood. The wards weren''t as strong as he would have liked, but Val put that down to sheer weariness. Said,


    "Our prince developed a great yearning to see for himself the surface world that his nanny had so often described for him, especially the sun that she''d spoken of with such fondness. So, one day, with no more reason to stay among those who hated him, he packed his provisions and climbed up away from the Everdark Caverns, searching for light. Took him two fists of days, but he did it. Reached an unguarded cave mouth. Saw, for the first time, light that did not come from mushrooms or mage-glows."


    "Oh," Mirielle gasped. "Did it burn him?"


    "Most terribly. His flesh was seared and his eyes blinded, and he dropped down senseless for candle-marks, though it was only clean moonlight. But he recovered and kept trying to bear all that brightness and open space. Having once seen it, Drake could not turn his face from the beauty of dawn."


    "I''m glad," said Mirielle, who was supposed to be lying down. "I''m glad he kept trying."


    "Well, this would be a very short tale, if he hadn''t," remarked Valerian. "At any rate, our no-longer-quite-dark-elf prince was eventually able to go forth and move about in full dayshine, though sometimes it smote him with headaches. Wielding his ebony blade, Black Ice, Drake went hither and yon, learning all that he could of the surface world, but made very few friends, because¡­"


    "Because everyone thought he was bad, and nothing but trouble," Mirielle finished, looking down at her half-eaten dough-man. "Because he looked like everything they were afraid of."


    Val tossed her the least bruised apple, after heating it up a bit.


    "But he had always been fortunate, with even the bad things tuning out in his favor. So, one day, our prince fought a very close battle to save a small human village from hungry ogres. He drove the monsters off, but was sorely injured in the struggle, nearly unto death. The villagers, even though he''d save them, feared Prince Drake, and would have left him to die¡­"


    "No! How could they?" Mirielle protested, sitting bolt upright, jangling with story and sugar and day-brew. "He saved them!"


    "Yes, but all they saw¡­"


    "...was a cursed drow. He didn''t die, did he? Please tell that he didn''t die all alone on the ground."


    Val shook his head, took a sighting of Oberyn to time himself with, and then continued the story.


    "There was a lovely village girl, the wise woman''s apprentice. She knew herbs and healings and a few basic spells, and she was good all the way through to her center. She would not let them just leave the prince there to die. If they were frightened, she was not. Made them bring him to the wise woman''s hut, where the two of them tended him. Under such care, our prince was soon healed of his wounds. But, more than that, he fell in love with the lass, whose name was Janielle."


    "Janielle," the girl repeated, eyes shining purple in the firelight. "That''s a pretty name. What about her? Was she beautiful? Did she love Prince Drake?"


    "Naturally," said Val. "They always do, in stories. Real life¡­ Well, sometimes the beautiful woman thinks you''re a good-looking idiot. Anyhow¡­ they fell in love and were blessed by the wise woman, then had to leave the village in a hurry."


    "Everyone was mad at them? Because they got married?"


    "Exactly," Val nodded. "So run off they did, fast and far, having many adventures and seeing many great sights: the sea elves'' deep city, a fallen cloud giant palace, an ancient gold dragon¡­ even a stone giant. But the most marvelous happening was when Janielle discovered that she was with child."


    "She was happy? She wanted her baby?" asked Mirielle, in a voice so quiet that only an elf would have heard it.


    "They both were. In fact," said Valerian, "I dare say that no child in Karandun was ever so longed-for and welcomed. There was no more adventure for a time, but Drake had enough put by to purchase a little estate, up in the veriest north, where the sirop-cane grows and the sun rises to the full center of the sky, and there is no winter."


    "No cold hands," Mirielle marveled, smiling shyly.


    "Indeed. In fact, it is so warm, that some of the less civilized folk run about quite bare, wearing nothing but smiles, tattoos and a necklace of teeth. Or, so I''ve been told."


    Mirielle threw herself backward, at that. It was the first time he''d heard the girl laugh. Resuming sternness, Val told her,


    "Lord Strider is nearly halfway around. You must rest, or you''ll not be able to travel."


    "No, please! Not yet! You didn''t tell about the baby! The baby has to be born!"


    Valerian thought that he heard something, but over the fire''s noise, Mirielle''s chatter and the sighing of wind through bare branches, he couldn''t be certain what. To quiet the girl, he said,


    "The child was a beautiful, healthy and strong baby girl. Exactly what Drake and Janielle wanted. She had soft wisps of brown hair, and skin like the underside of a cloud that promises rain."


    "And¡­ and her mum didn''t die?"


    "Healthy as a horse. Bounded from childbed like a mountain goat."


    Her laugh, once released, seemed to spring from the smallest things; the silliest images. Then, growing calmer once more, the girl asked,


    "But¡­ if they loved their baby, and¡­ and nobody died¡­ why did they leave her?"


    Val had an answer for that.


    "They were called away to another great battle, for things had gone ill for the world, while Drake and Janielle were prevented from having adventures. They went forth in their flying ship, Northstar, to face a monstrous evil. Away on the other side of the world, where folk walk about on their hands and speak in outlandish, odd words. So, because a perilous quest is no place for a small baby, they left her with¡­"


    "Their best friend from many adventures. The one they knew they could trust to take care of her," decided Mirielle. "A great wizard."


    "Fighter," corrected Valerian, sorting sounds with an elf''s sharp hearing.


    "Wizard," insisted Mirielle, adding, "Well, sometimes he fights, but he''s really a mage."


    "Who is telling this story?" demanded Val. Then, "Strider is close to lying down, and you should be, too. I, erm¡­ am just going to check on the wards. Back in a moment. (But he was most definitely a fighter.)"


    "Wizard," he heard from the sleepy young girl, as he stepped from that firelit circle, drawing his blade.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    20


    Beyond the wards, the fireglow dimmed to near nothing. Valerian''s vision adjusted quickly, but he relied most on his hearing. There was, in brief surges, a sound like the erratic scatter of leaves. Moving oddly, ungracefully; as though someone was using all they had left to misty-step, or shadow-walk.


    Val doubled the strength of the fire ward, willing this plane''s strange, sluggish manna to do as he bade. Meanwhile, he tracked the strange sound. Moved toward it, readying sigil and sword. Nightshade''s edges shone. Not with abjurance of evil, but anticipation; eager acceptance of battle.


    Behind him, Val could feel Mirielle pounding and clawing at the magical force that enfolded her. Could sense her screaming, not for him, but at him. Strong, but untrained, she would not break through.


    Lost track of the noise, again, hearing nothing but wind and dried leaves and ice-coated branches rubbing together. Then something burst out of a hollow tree, not six feet away.


    It collided with Valerian, who twisted aside. Mostly. Sort of. Too conditioned to catch someone falling to just let them crash to the ground, unaided. The stubs of torn claws scrabbled across his mail shirt and sword belt. In stargleam and fore-dawn, he glimpsed velvet dark fur, near shredded at the right arm, where someone had dug out and destroyed a golden tattoo. Her tail¡­ her beautiful, prehensile tail¡­ was half gone. Not chopped, but sawed at and frozen, by someone who''d meant to cause pain.


    "Salem!" he said, attempting to pin down and hold a half-maddened dust-whirl. "It''s all right. You''ve reached friends. You are safe now, Milady."


    The writhing Tabaxi produced a noise like a violin with sandpaper strings, still scraping at Val with mostly-shorn claws.


    He managed to pin her wrists, dropping Nightshade in the process. Could not let the wards down. She might have been followed, and needed concealment.


    "This way, Milady, quickly. I cannot speak to our readiness for confrontation."


    Half carried the shuddering thief, smelling bloodied fur and near panic.


    "He is fighting them!" she yowled. "He needs us! No time¡­ please, please hurry!"


    Her golden eyes were nearly all pupil, straining south toward ruined Snowmont. Val recalled Lionel''s skinned, headless body, hanging from an arch of black ice. Given release and then to clean flame, like so many dead others. His pelt and head were doubtless now in some dark-elf''s possession, meant for a trophy¡­ but Salem did not need to know that.


    Hauling her into a bracing hug, Val said,


    "Salem, he''s gone. Fought like an army, they said. Took many down with him. Just¡­ the drow overwhelmed him with numbers, like dogs on a bear, but he made them pay for it."


    The anguished sound that she made in mourning cut right to Val''s heart. Thinking of Dad, then putting that weakness and sorrow as far away as he could, he got her through the ward and to safety.


    "Your blanket," called the high-elf to Mirielle, who''d rushed to meet them as soon as a bubble appeared in the shield wall. "She is in shock, and needs warmth."


    Mirielle''s eyes widened, but she followed instructions; getting a blanket and day-brew, then searching the ground for herbs.


    "Fen-mark and heart''s ease, if you can find any," he advised her, helping the Tabaxi to a seat on the ground by the fire. She hadn''t the balance or strength to perch on a log.


    They did not move onward that night.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    21


    As for Gildyr, the druid had reappeared in the glade where he''d been attacked as a child. Where Karus the Forest Lord had been torn in half by a chaos-spawned manticore. Or, this plane''s version.


    Deeply shaken, he found himself at the base of a mighty oak. Not quite the same tree that he''d last stared at from below, seeing blood-spattered leaves and red-washed bark. Still in a fetal curl, trapped in a nightmare, the wood-elf felt small things¡­ a child''s toys, an eggshell-fine vase of fresh flowers¡­ crunching beneath him.


    Only, the raging horror of remembered pain, of (somehow) his own death, shoved all other sensation aside. He had been torn to pieces in this place, as Karus fought to reach him and high-elven hunters battled the monster with arrow and flame. The druid retreated into unconsciousness, fleeing the agony of crushed ribs and an acid-burnt limb.


    He was not to be left there in anguish and fear, though. Here, this glade was a family shrine, maintained in memory of the happy, hopeful young boy who had died by this tree, leaving his family bereft.


    First to appear was a tall, angry wood-elf paladin, bearing a sword whose curving blade still dripped clotting blood. His dark hair caught back in a half-bun, forehead slightly shaved, he looked, and was, ferocious, unyielding and utterly pitiless in the service of Hyrenn, his god. Heart like a clenched fist. Eyes that weren''t windows but flat, icy walls.


    Looking wildly around the clearing, this consummate warrior caught sight of Gildyr, lying crumpled up at the base of the tree where, so many cycles ago, a young boy had perished. Where a chaos-spawned monster had first eaten the child and then reared up to battle a mighty stag and a lot of worthless high-elves.


    The paladin sheathed his sword, which glowed with winter night cold just long enough to freeze off that slow-gelling blood. Cautiously, too numbed to cup more than a flicker of hope, the warrior approached Gildyr''s huddled body. Acorns crunched and fallen leaves crackled as he padded over and dropped to one knee.


    "Gildyr¡­ Cubby¡­ is¡­ are you¡­?"


    But something was off. The younger elf''s scent, slightly wrong. As the rest of his family began to appear, drawn by the sudden pull of their lost one''s presence, the paladin surged to his feet and then turned away. Gran, mother and father¡­ even the High Druid flashed into the clearing, gone suddenly wild with hope and longing.


    But it was not their Gildyr who lay on the ground twitching and whimpering. Just some cynical mockery; an imposter, crafted and sent to strike where his people were softest.


    "Arondyr!" Cried his father, darting forward. "You sensed him, too?"


    His mother, Shavonne, said nothing at all, merely brushing her older son''s armored shoulder as she swerved to crouch beside that false, other-Gildyr.


    And Gran! The fragile old Sidhe had torn herself out of dreams of the past to collapse on the ground beside the imposter, howling with joy, stroking his wavy brown hair.


    Let her. Let all of them. Not his business to shatter their hope¡­ but he also did not have to stay. The apparition itself intended no malice, and looked enough like his lost little brother, somehow alive and grown up, that the paladin had to withdraw.


    Arondyr growled softly, low in his throat. Let the others rejoice in what they believed they''d been given. Arondyr knew better. As the winter''s frost brought starvation and death to all but the strong, so inevitable disappointment would end all their laughter and love.


    His little brother had been murdered here; one tiny lost life, unnoticed by the victorious hunters. Their two children, a boy and a girl, had been perfectly safe, perched on the saddles in front of their lordships Keldaran and Lerendar.


    Arondyr spat the foul taste of those names from his mouth, then strode away from the joyous group in the clearing. Better the truth than false joy. Better the bleak scythe of winter than weakness and famine. In the end, death came to all, from proud elf-lord to innocent cub. Hyrenn would not be denied, and Arondyr could wait.


    But, not alone. Never unwitnessed.


    Off in the forest, something lurched to its feet and staggered after him. Head down, half-starved and panting; shadowing the paladin''s movements. His trial and his shame, and the only thing that he''d not yet offered to Hyrenn. The only way in which he''d dared to defy his pitiless god.


    Laughter and babbling voices faded and blurred behind him as Arondyr slunk off. His forest senses attuned once again, making conversation, his own name being called, nothing but meaningless noise.


    Out here, he communicated through glance, head-tilt, scent and soft growls. Here there was no love or compassion. Only reproduction. Only survival of species and pack.


    He moved almost soundlessly, testing each step, sifting the cold, gusty wind for information. One drow already he''d run down and slain, here in his people''s territory. A fleeing, terrified youth who hadn''t lived long enough to beg for his worthless life. Dead now. Beheaded; bounding head trailing blood, saliva and tears. Still angered by that false Gildyr, the paladin actually hoped to track down more dark-elves, whatever their age or their gender.


    Stopping now and again to pluck certain leaves, dig up roots, the warrior moved further away from the wood-elf settlement. It wasn''t a peaceful walk.


    Having tasted blood only once that day, his sword wanted more. The quivering drow had not been nearly enough. Arondyr growl-whined reprovingly, bidding it wait. Too much haste led to foolish rushes and lost prey. Too much of that meant starvation. Meant that winter''s crippling bite would sink deep; weakening, chilling, draining.


    He altered his path a bit, drawing closer to the beast that moved when he moved, dropped to a pained crouch whenever he paused. Sensing his approach, the creature settled to the leaf-littered ground with a long, weary groan. There, by a small stand of birch trees he found her. Wolf in actual form, where he was so only in spirit.


    But, a wreck of a form. Ribs standing out, hair dulled and patchy, eyes filmed with illness and hate. He could sense her eyeing his throat, planning the rush, spring and bite she was far too weak to make happen.


    His mind shifted back from hunter to wood-elf, then, as Arondyr reached into a faerie pocket for a fresh haunch of deer. Still warm. Still dripping. His share of what he''d brought down for the family, earlier.


    "Astrea," he called to his withered and sick noble beast, this former queen of the forest. "Eat."


    He did not simply toss the meat at the rumbling she-wolf. With no one around to see, no judge but his hungering sword, Arondyr built a small fire, conjured fresh water and set the meat before the other half of his soul.


    "Eat," he repeated, adding, "please."


    After a moment, her yellow eyes ceased drilling into his. She dropped her head and began tearing into the venison, making the haunch jerk and kick in a last parody of the flight he''d cut short.


    The sword at his back grew colder, sensing the she-wolf''s distraction and weakness.


    End her, it keened. Cut the last tie and be Hyrenn''s, forever more.


    So simple a thing as that. Slaughter the beast he''d bonded to at his proving. The ball of grey fluff and blue eyes that he''d played with, cuddled in sleep, learned to hunt with. Side by side they''d run the forest, all the future before them. Then¡­


    Then, Gildyr had died, horribly. Torn apart at his own proving by something twisted, evil, chaotic. A manticore, where none should have been.


    The hunting party had driven that thing into Lobum, he was sure of it! They''d pushed it into the Trial Wood, where cubs, fawns and young elves were meant to be sheltered and safe. Their horses'' hooves had trampled his baby brother''s corpse into the ground as those uncaring hunters surrounded and battled their quarry.


    Arondyr had helped his father, Gilcrest, find and pick up what was left of poor Cubby. Had helped Gilcrest bury the remains, giving the boy back to earth, roots and life. In the following days, he''d watched his mother harden. Seen his father plunge into useless diplomacy, seeking mercy from high-elves who had none. Worse, he''d watched Gran¡­ loving, gentle, kind Gran¡­ turn away into dreams of the past, where Gildyr, their Cubby, still scampered and played.


    The heart-torn Forest Lord had departed. Maybe forever. And Arondyr¡­?


    One night soon afterward, Arondyr had given himself to the chill and long darkness of winter, which always won in the end. He''d sworn vengeance, asking Hyrenn to grant him the strength and power he needed to battle chaos and defend his people. His pack.


    That Astrea, his soul-friend and companion, would be part of the god''s awful price, he hadn''t realized and couldn''t accept. And so, she withered, driven almost out of Arondyr''s mind and heart by the one he''d sworn to serve. Undying, she starved. Unable to leave him, she suffered. Remembering love, she now hated him.


    One sword stroke was all it would take. Her head would be shorn from that pitiful waste of a body. Their bond would be severed, and Arondyr would belong to Hyrenn, utterly and forever.


    Only¡­ he couldn''t do it. Here and now, with no one watching, he drew closer to Astrea. Squatted down by her side. The sword demanded her life, longing to feed upon magical blood. That was the price of their further attunement, but Arondyr wouldn''t pay.


    Unable to help himself, the paladin stripped a gauntlet and reached forth his hand. Wanting¡­ needing to caress that once noble head. Fondle those back-pointed ears.


    Almost succeeded in touching her, then jerked his hand back, scant hair''s breadth away from Astrea''s snapping teeth.


    "Leave me," he whispered hoarsely. "Find someone else."


    Only, she couldn''t. He knew that, and inside, he died of it.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    22


    Elsewhere, Val got Salem arranged by the fire. With half of his mind he attended to the wards, strengthening ''silence'', ''darkness'' and ''absence'' particularly.


    Mirielle scrambled back over with a handful of cold-withered leaves and bent stems: heart''s ease, clear breath and, yes, fen-mark. Together with the stim-leaf she''d found for them earlier, steeped in the sugary day brew, the herbs made a healing drink.


    Val held the Tabaxi against his chest, keeping her upright enough so that Mirielle''s spoon-dribbled tea would stay and be swallowed. Salem jerked awake, fighting to rise. Kept repeating the plea to find and help Lionel. Val held her down, murmuring words of comfort he''d learnt from Katina.


    Provided what emergency healing he could; preventing infection in sawed-short tail and the shredded hide of her arm. Someone had done their level best to destroy her tattoo, cutting near bone in some places. There were still a few sparkles of gold there. Still just a flutter of magic.


    Valerian could not focus entirely on the task, however. Something was out there. Had pushed past the first of his alert lines. Two¡­ no, three¡­ of them. Moving slowly, pausing often, seeming to snuff at the ground. Hunting.


    Wargs, their presence making his hands and throat burn where other-Val had been silenced. Drawing his cloak over Salem, Val pulled Mirielle closer, as well, signaling: quiet.


    Brushing minds hot and fierce with blood-lust, he sent: ''There is no light, but moon-glow. There is no sound but the wind. No scent, but pinestraw and the picked-over flesh of a deer. Nothing and no one is here.''


    Unconsciously put his free hand in the fire, clutching at embers; drawing strength and power. Not courage, though. A Tarandahl never lacked that.


    The huge beasts snuffled and shifted nearby, talking to one another in short growls and whines, their shadowy forms like icy, fanged holes in the night.


    ''There is nothing here,'' Val repeated, trying to suggest, not command, which would surely give them away.


    Mirielle huddled close beside him, her breath coming fast. He could feel her heart fluttering as she grasped his cloak and her mace. Salem rumbled a cat-growl, causing three dirty blots in the night to pause and look over.


    Then, away northward, something howled loudly. Not a warg. Rather, the worst imitation of a wolf''s cry he''d ever heard. Literally could have done better, himself, spelling and hurling a bait-stone.


    The wargs alerted, lifting ugly, saw-toothed heads. Then, keeping low to the ground, they split up; moving to surround the source of that quavering howl.


    Trouble¡­ for somebody else. And, for almost a breath, Val let it remain so. Then, as quietly as possible, the elf shifted Salem and rose to his feet. This was a matter for stealth and speed and striking from darkness. Mail shirt and sword would be useless. Instead, Val took up his bow, keeping the quiver a half-hair away in its faerie pocket, rather than slinging it.


    Mirielle lifted her mace, making as if to join him, but Val shook his head, no.


    "Salem needs care," he whispered. "Without it, she will die. Stay and tend to her."


    The girl did not know how to wish for another''s safe return. Had no way to express "be careful" or "come back", but her entire heart was in those upturned wide eyes.


    Valerian took a moment he didn''t really have to trace a sigil of protection on her forehead. She grasped at his hand, whispering urgently,


    "Show me what you did. Show me how!"


    Somewhere out there, some brave, stupid fool was still gurgling, trying to lead off the wargs. But Val showed Mirielle how to scribe Rayna: I protect. The girl then reached up with both arms, half climbing, half hauling him down to scrawl the sigil on his own forehead, shoulders and arms.


    "Leave off," he protested, stifling a laugh. "You''ll have me glow like a torch, for all of the forest to wonder at."


    But it was well done, and it mattered, just the same. On his way out through the ward, he looked back at the girl and said, "Fighter."


    Wasn''t swift enough to escape her answering,


    "Wizard!" though.


    Outside, the forest seemed withdrawn and uneasy; fouled by the things that paced through it, hunting. Very faintly, dawn-glow was rising, along with a bit more wind, but no birds sang and no creature dared leave its hiding place. Except for one foolish elf.


    Val nocked arrow to bow, moving as he so often had with Kalisandra; silent and swift. The first time, they''d snuck off to catch a manticore, and nearly gotten themselves killed. Later, the prey had been orcs. Now, by himself, three savage wargs.


    From the sound of things, that persistent howler was trying to climb up a tree. Badly. Val slipped through the woods, tracking the wargs and a scrabbling, cursing howler. The first shot was easy.


    A hairy, boulder-like haunch presented a mark that he couldn''t have missed from a hundred feet, with a deflated court-ball. Breathe, draw, release¡­ and the arrow hissed off. Struck warty hide and sank right on down to the fletching. Better than that, the steel arrowhead cast Sandy''s gift, Moonlight.


    The injured warg screamed, twisted and bit at its own back leg, but the arrow could not be dislodged. It ate at the warg from inside out. Staying out of its sight, Val paused to listen, then moved after one of its packmates.


    ''Frost Maiden,'' he thought, ''these creatures defile your clean forest. Grant me stealth, Milady, that I may remove them.''


    Must have worked, because he got the drop on the second warg, too. That beast came rushing over to investigate its thrashing, shriveling fellow. Practically gift wrapped and tied with a ribbon.


    Val nocked a fresh arrow, its point also shining with pale, icy light. Lined up a shot, drew and released. Vesendorin''s bow sang once again, sending the arrow straight at the unheeding beast. Good shot, cleaving heart and lungs cleanly, ending the creature''s life between one breath and the other, but¡­


    Valerian backed as it crashed to the ground beside its companion, both of them burning with cold, consuming white light. But, where was the other?


    He''d lost track of the third warg over the noise of thrashing limbs and gutteral howls. Then, like a hairy black landslide, something exploded out of the wood to his right, almost too close to react to.


    He pivoted, just ducking past huge, snapping jaws and breath like a public privy, on fire. Brought his bow up and around, but hadn''t an arrow to hand. Half leapt, half scrambled backward, reaching into the faerie pocket, this time getting a nearly useless, unfletched fishing arrow.


    The warg turned on its haunches, forepaws raised, knocking acorns and leaves out of the trees as it altered, flowed and stood erect. Right. A were-warg. Why not?


    Val nocked, drew and fired the arrow, aiming for anything, anywhere at all on that rumbling mountain of chaos. He struck its nose, but the angle was bad. The fishing arrow drew blood, then bounced, to skitter off into the trees.


    "My¡­ meat¡­" growled the were-thing, in a voice like a tornado. "Pelt, eyes and entrails, to me. Ears for the master."


    Sure. So¡­


    He reflexively blasted a firebolt, nailing it square on the face. From the other side, as someone thudded up panting and shouting, an axe struck its neck. Fire flared from both of Val''s hands at once, straight down that gaping maw. Blasted out the beast''s eyes, nose and ears. At the same time, the axe blade bit cleanly through mangy dark hide, slicing gristle and bone; half-cleaving the were-thing''s neck.


    Roasted and nearly decapitated, the monster collapsed with a cratering THUD, right at Valerian''s feet. He stood there a moment, wide-eyed and gasping. Then, as Hilt trundled over, bandy legs churning, Val got himself back together.


    "A Tarandahl," he informed her, "is never afraid."


    Planting a foot on the carcass, she jerked her axe out of the warg. Then, coming over to squint up at Val, the shop-dwarf grunted,


    "And a good thing it is, too. Otherwise, we might''ve ''ad trouble."


    Something chattered and bounced through the branches above them, scattering pinecones and beech nuts. A good sign, thought the elf.


    "That," he said, "was the worst imitation of a warg''s howl I''ve ever heard." Then, "I thank you, good dwarf, for drawing them off, but¡­ how did you know where we were?"


    He''d thought that his wards were quite good, but if any backwater merchant could see through them¡­


    "Well, um¡­ as t'' that," Hilt dithered, looking uncomfortable. "That hardtack I gave ye fer ''alf price, before ye set off¡­"


    Val put his bow away.


    "What of it?" he asked.


    "Well, y'' see¡­ it do get stolen a lot, by them as finger me merchandise an'' then bolt from the store. So, um¡­"


    Valerian put the pieces together. Arrived at,


    "You placed a thief-trace on the provisions?" he asked. "You thought that I would take the supplies that you sold me, and not go after your folk?"


    "Aye, well¡­ these be dangerous times, Milord, and it came out fer th'' best, din''t it? Allowed me ter find ye in time t'' help out."


    A thief trace. As though she''d doubted his word; taken him for a common pickpocket. As though he would have accepted her wretched supplies in the first place, were the need not desperate. But,


    "Yer Lordship," said Hilt, lifting a placating hand. "I b''ain''t tryin'' ter start nuthin''. If me doin''s ''re rude an'' me speech ''s rough, I apologize. I b''ain''t quality, but I come ''ere ter ''elp. Din''t mean no offense. Please, let it go."


    Almost exactly as a young man of Starshire had once pleaded with Lerendar. Val surprised the worried merchant with a half-bow.


    "You shame me, good dwarf," he said. "I am the one whose behavior is rough and ill-considered. Your help is most welcome."


    She studied the elf for a long moment. Then, returning his courtesy, said,


    "Let it all be forgot, then. I''m guessin'' you''ve a fire and bit o'' cheer, somewheres about?"


    "This way," he told her, setting out through the dawn-lightened forest. Thought to retrieve his arrows, which Kalisandra''s blessing and plain good luck had preserved. Cleansed of warg-blood, they went right back into their faerie pocket.


    Mirielle was waiting anxiously when he opened the wards for himself and Hilt.


    "Peace," he said to the girl, whose rush and embrace nearly bowled him over. "All is well."


    As instructed, the child had looked after Salem; keeping her covered and warm, dosing her often with healing brew. The sight of Hilt spooked her into ducking behind Valerian, who let her stay hidden.


    Glancing at a circle of glowing pink, tree-bordered sky, he said,


    "In a candle-mark''s time, we must leave. I shall attempt to heal Milady. In the meanwhile, I suggest that you get such rest as you can. It has been a very long night."


    "Aye, that it ''as, Yer Lordship," agreed Hilt.


    Very shortly, the shop dwarf was flat on her back with a provision sack for a pillow, snoring like summer thunder.


    "She''s going to wake up with lines on ''er face, smelling of cheese," observed Mirielle, with genuine satisfaction.


    "Less rudeness to an ally," Val admonished his young page, mussing her curly short hair with one hand. Then, pushing aside weariness and phantom injuries, he set out to do what he could for Salem.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Elsewhere, and just a bit earlier, Gildyr healed inside and out. Inside, because he was surrounded by well loved family and friends, even if not quite his own. Outside, because Gran dosed him with every steeped bark, shredded herb, stewed root and beetle''s wing potion she knew of. Even the ones against bad breath and clumsiness.


    There in his old room, at nearly the top of the family elm tree¡­ in his small, cozy bed by the round window¡­ Gildyr rested, letting nightmare fade like an early frost.


    But, more than his skinny, weather-tanned hide, his heart and soul were repaired by the presence of someone he''d not looked to see again, this side of Oberyn''s call. Late that same evening, Karus arrived, stepping from shadow into the family clearing.


    Head lifted, wide golden antlers casting back splinters of firelight, nostrils quivering, the Lord of the Forest moved like a shining white ghost. Gildyr felt his coming. Fell-climbed-scrambled-ran stumbling out of his sick bed and room, out of the home elm, across the wide yard and straight to his soul friend. Straight to the noble beast that, here, had not been able to save his small boy.


    Gildyr flung his arms around that powerful neck, sobbing incoherently. Karus snuffed him and lipped at his hair; drinking in the scent and presence of one so very like his own lost companion.


    They grew stronger just being together. The fit was not perfect, but near enough to heal wounds that had bled for a lifetime.


    Watching from outside the torch-glow, out in the forest, Arondyr felt his hackles rise at the scent and feel of powerful, other-plane magic. Someone had sent that mockery here, careless of how it would torment and befool everyone but him. Some high-elvish mage who would very much, very terribly pay.


    Shaking his head, the paladin turned away and stalked off, trailed by a tottering, half-starved shadow.


    Everyone else gathered close. There were many cycles of name-day presents to be opened at one great feast, here and now. Most were child-sized and silly. Toys, joke potions, fairings and the like. The last, though, was a man''s bow and quiver of hunting arrows, quite the finest he''d ever seen.


    Placing a hand on his youngest son''s shoulder, Gilcrest said,


    "Tis high-elf work, but blessed and cleansed by the Old Oak, himself."


    Shavonne, his mother, said little. She''d never been much given to chatter, being more often her forest self. Her pack self.


    She''d a gift of her own, one intended for a young boy¡­ now man¡­ who''d won through his proving. A very fine dagger, it was, with a volcano glass blade whose keen edge would have split drifting spider silk, lengthwise.


    Gildyr''s green eyes widened.


    "But, I''m not¡­ I¡­" he fumbled, searching for words.


    Shavonne met his gaze, folding his hands over the gift with both of her own.


    "Take, please, what would have been his. Allow me to see what I have only been able to dream of," she said, in a low and long-disused voice. Beautiful, dark-haired and distant, slim as a reed, she was his mother¡­ almost. As he was the ghost of her murdered son.


    "Thank you, life-giver," Gildyr replied, in the pack''s formal way. "For him, for your lost one, I will accept your gifts and your love."


    She leaned forward, then, and for just a moment, Shavonne''s smooth cheek brushed his own. Then she withdrew; once more a thing of the wood and the gloaming, half-glimpsed by starlight.


    Gilcrest changed the subject with a bluff, hearty joke, while Gran pushed a bowl heaped up with stew at him. Squirrel, his favorite. With acorn bread, cheese, fresh butter and apples, there was no finer meal in the world.


    Gildyr ate on the ground, leaning back against Karus''s muscular flank. Strider was high overhead. The night was breezy and cool, and the young druid was filled with something too big and too wondrous for words.


    Then, just out of fire-glow range, he sensed something move. Saw the brief eye-shine of somebody out there, watching him eat. Hurriedly (but missing not one drop of gravy, tender meat or crisp vegetables) Gildyr finished his stew. Wiped the clay bowl clean with a hank of bread, then finished an apple in three rapid bites. The golden cheese he put away in a faerie pocket to save for later, or share with a friend.


    Karus rose gracefully, first front legs, then back ones, nudging Gildyr up off the ground with his great, antlered head.


    "I know," said the druid. "I see him, and I''ll try, but¡­ well¡­ he is and he isn''t my Arondyr."


    The stag snorted, then fell to nibbling at Gildyr''s shirt collar, his breath warm and sweet. And, again, there were no words for love returned, against all hope. For the regrowth of something dug out and slain, all those long years ago.


    Gildyr hugged Karus tightly, letting their minds and their hearts flow together. Caressed long, mobile ears and a velvety muzzle. Fed the stag conjured greens and more bread. Then,


    "I''ll try," he repeated. "For both of them."


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 Chapter two

    Almost by accident, Valerian discovered that burning off chunks of black ice released manna. Grainy and weak, but still usable. The forest was pocked and scarred with the slow-melting stuff, some of it less than fifteen feet from his warded clearing.


    He burnt it in a fit of bad temper, receiving the twin surprises of lessened pain and more magic. He''d been out after herbs, Mirielle having stripped all that grew in their sheltered circle. One outcrop of dark, thrusting ice had torn through a patch of heart''s ease, shriveling nearly all of it. Angry, worried for Salem and impatient to be gone, Val first kicked at the pillar of ice, then leveled a firebolt at it. Stood there blinking, completely surprised, when its destruction spurted free manna.


    "Hunh. Wouldn''t feed the stuff to Sherazedan at the end of a shovel¡­ but anyone''s hall in a blizzard, I suppose," Valerian muttered, cautiously blasting another one.


    (That the author of those increasingly frequent ice-crags could sense their destruction, never occurred to him... but such was the limited view of a journeyman.)


    Having gathered his herbs, Val returned to the fire. Hilt tossed about in her sleep, snoring uneasily, trapped in some dream that he batted away from her mind with a peace spell. The dwarf''s snores altered timber and pitch for a moment, then resumed full force.


    Giving Mirielle instructions for their preparation, the high-elf handed the child his gleanings, then went over to Salem. Could have begun anywhere, but a lucky notion led him to start with her nearly-flayed arm. Wasn''t good enough to just hold the edges together and say, "feel better". This wanted total repair. A return to what had been, before all the damage.


    He could sense something magical drifting around very nearby, fighting like mad to reach Salem. Cap''n, possibly, but kept away how? By what? Not just a scraped off tattoo or deep wound, surely.


    Working carefully, Val took off the bandage, stopping blood flow with a scatter of shredded, steeped herbs and a healing sigil. Before, in a hurry, surrounded by hunting wargs, he hadn''t explored the wound very thoroughly. Now, in the rising daylight, he examined the Tabaxi''s arm. Saw what he hadn''t noticed before.


    A dark, knotted cord bound the limb, cutting deeply into her puffy and ice-darkened flesh. Braided of corpse hair, the thing was intended to block magical manifestation.


    So, they''d bound Cap''n''s tattoo with the cord, he thought¡­ most likely while Salem was chained or unconscious. Then they''d done their best to destroy him and temporarily cripple her. There was a nasty ride-along spell on the death-cord, rigged to stop her heart if it was cut the wrong way.


    Val studied those ugly, roiling sigils for a moment, seeing in his mind''s eye the hand that had crafted all this.


    In Karellon, most of the permanent magics one saw carried echoes of Sherazedan, Murchison or (very anciently) Trevoir. Everything else was transitory, the work of warlock and hedge witch. Sometimes, his aunt Meliara.


    This, though¡­ staring at hideous, green flaring sigils, Val saw blood-red eyes gazing back from a dead white face. Broke contact immediately, scribing protection from evil before using his clasp-knife to cut that foul cord through its extra-dimensional knot. Pallid energy flared from both ends, spurting like severed arteries.


    Valerian picked the thing off and flung it to the ground, where it twisted and writhed like a questing dark serpent. Mirielle took up her mace, ready to pound the cord flat, but Val pushed her behind him. Such creations were evil and terribly dangerous. Sherazedan would doubtless have bottled the corpse-rope for later study, but his apprentice was unwilling to try. Wouldn''t sully Firelord''s gift with it, either.


    Just snapped off a cantrip of banishment, sending the thing to a magically warded bin at the root of Mt. Sharys (eternal home of every failed apprenticeship project, ever). Just ''Pop'', and it vanished entirely. The day looked and felt cleaner, without it.


    Next checked on Salem, who''d begun to breathe easier. On her injured arm, those last few gold flecks stirred the Tabaxi''s remaining dark hair. A good sign, he thought.


    Closing his eyes, Val next visualized Salem as he''d first seen her; healthy, sprightly and whole; the worst thief in all Karandum, with Cap''n at her shoulder. That was the true form. What Order and Nature meant Salem to be. Chaos had marred her original state. It was up to him and the noble beast to set her to rights.


    "Cap''n," he said to that impatiently swirling half-presence, "your heart-friend lies sorely injured, near unto death. She has need of you now."


    To help matters along, Valerian swept a hand over and through the fire, catching dozens of bright, drifting sparks.


    "By your leave, My Lord," he said, calling those sparkling motes to dance on the palm of his hand. Beautiful to look at, and maybe enough to eke out a golden tattoo.


    "Connection," he ordered. "Like unto like."


    Next, Val breathed gently on the sparks, causing them to flare up and spin a bit faster. That done, he made a pouring motion, tipping his hand to let the bright specks trickle downward.


    "Back to what was," he commanded, using the language of Fey-wild and dawn. "Back to the truth."


    Salem jerked violently. Those sparks and bright flecks joined up in midair over her arm, together tracing the outline of a golden-furred monkey. The figure rotated, flattened and shrank, drifting down like a leaf onto Salem''s right shoulder.


    Now things started to happen. Hair grew out, full and velvety-dark. Flesh mended, without any scars. A sawed and burnt tail became whole and banded with gold again¡­ and Salem opened her eyes, ending the peace with an alley-fight screech.


    The Tabaxi yowled, hissed and spat something in her own language, then leapt to her feet, looking wildly this way and that. Cap''n popped out of tattoo form to perch on her head. There he began grooming his partner, searching her pelt for tasty fresh bugs.


    Salem reached up to capture the busy creature, taking a moment to whisper something that only he heard. Then, shifting her focus to Val, she growl-panted,


    "What¡­ has¡­ happened? Where is Clan master Tristan?"


    So, he had to tell her again, and the job didn''t get any better the second time. By now, Hilt was awake and scratching herself. Mirielle held the edge of Valerian''s cloak with one hand, clutching mace and herb pouch with her other.


    "Milady," said Val, "I cannot explain quite why, but we are not in our own plane. What happened here is real¡­ but it is not your reality. Lionel¡­ Tristan¡­ is dead in this place, but yours is alive and bored out of his mind, performing a nightly show for Magister Serrio, in the safest place he could possibly be."


    Salem reached out to seize Valerian''s shoulder, her restored claws snagging the cloth of his half-cloak and shirt.


    "Swear it!" she snarled. "Swear upon life-bond that Tristan still lives!"


    "Unless he''s done something incredibly rash, yes," Val replied, pressing his own hand to hers. "War does not pass Serrio''s borders, Lady Salem."


    Cap''n screeched and capered, leaping from person to person; stopping at last to make hideous faces from the top of Mirielle''s head. The girl was enchanted. Hilt reached for more day brew, muttering lurid and colorful curses under her morning breath.


    Salem must have been listening to the newly recovered monkey. At any rate, her pupils shrank down again, and she released the elf''s shoulder.


    "How are we here?" she demanded. "How did we get to this unchanged-litter-sand place?!"


    Right. Another situation where the literal truth... that he''d carelessly brought them all here, without asking permission... would only upset and anger his fellow exiles.


    "Oh¡­ erm¡­" Inspiration struck, and Val went with it, saying, "The swallowing void, when it imploded, must have produced a secondary chaos burst. I conjecture that this second wave pushed us to a nearby plane, where the three of us have analogues that are dead, or in serious trouble. Just a particularly vicious eruption of chaos, Milady."


    He''d expected her to probe further. Instead, the Tabaxi''s ears flattened sideways. She broke eye-contact for the first time since waking, while Cap''n busied himself industriously searching Mirielle''s hair. Not suspicious behavior, at all.


    "You¡­ wouldn''t know anything about how the void was released in the first place, would you?" asked the high-elf, going for casual. Just, you know¡­ wondering.


    The Cap''n chattered aloud, launching himself from Mirielle''s head to Val''s shoulder. Pulled first a coin, then a flower out of his pointed left ear; bowing and grinning at his audience, miming applause.


    The Tabaxi shrugged, then began smoothing the fur of her beautiful tail, purring,


    "How late it has grown! Surely you mean to free the other captives, Mrowr. Why waste time in idle chatter? There is vengeance and havoc to wreak!"


    Right. Val was beginning to piece a few things together. Found himself worrying over Gildyr as they broke camp and set off, once more.


    How was the gentle druid faring in this awful place, the elf wondered? Had Gildyr been captured by the drow or their vile, death-pale mage? And how could that orc-mating whoreson be stopped?


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    23


    Giving Karus a gentle caress, Gildyr took another long look at his almost-pack before slipping out of the fireglow. Being a druid, he could move unseen and arrive unlooked for; part of the magic of stealth, fang and paw.


    Arondyr-almost was out there, someplace; watching the feast, though he hadn''t deigned to participate. Nearly his brother, but choking on anger and black, frozen hate. A wiser kid sibling would have stayed with the others. Gildyr went forward, instead; driven to heal and to mend.


    The forest around him was wholesome and life-bringing, even in winter. Acorn mast cracked underfoot. Wet pine straw gave off its spicy perfume with each step, lending Gildyr a sense of who''d been here, how long ago, and which way they''d gone; laying a trail through the air as well as on ground.


    Stars burned cold and clear overhead, peeping through gaps in the cover. Gildyr listened and scent-tracked, but it wasn''t Arondyr he came upon, first. Rather, huddled near death on a bare patch of ground, he saw the wreck of a beautiful she-wolf. Skeletal, mangy and sick; her yellow eyes filmed with sorrow and pain.


    "Astrea!" Gildyr cried out. Jarred from his hunting trance, the druid rushed forward. "How¡­? What¡­?"


    The wolf raised her head at the sound of his voice. Struggled to rise, tail thumping once on the ground, whimpering hopefully.


    Gildyr had that lump of cheese out of its faerie pocket in less than a wink. Closed the small gap between them. Was reaching out to stoke the wolf''s head when¡­


    "Get away from her!" snarled Arondyr, bursting out of the shadows to his left. Collided with Gildyr like a boulder, smashing the druid away from Astrea. "Liar! Thief! Don''t touch her!"


    Gildyr sailed through the air as though struck by a club. Skidded into a tree, with Arondyr leaping to follow.


    "No!" Gildyr protested, trying to scrabble back upright. "Arondyr, no! I wasn''t¡­"


    But the furious paladin wasn''t listening.


    "You don''t belong here! You''re not him! You''re a dagger thrust straight to the heart, and when you''re withdrawn, we''ll do nothing but bleed!"


    Seized Gildyr bodily, lifted the druid over his head and then hurled him into a thicket of twisted thorns.


    Gildyr struck hard, knocking the wind straight out of his lungs and scraping him raw. Reflexively changed to his wolven-form; lowering belly to ground, whimpering a placating friend-note, a family-note, as Arondyr stalked forward.


    Then Karus was there, with Gilcryst, Shavonne and poor, heart-stricken Gran.


    "Stop!" the old lady pled. "Please, Forest Lord, stop them! Old oak, old oak, bring peace," she chanted, weeping and pushing between them. But,


    "He''s an imposter! Some wraith of the dark fells! Some chaos-spawned shadow," howled Arondyr, almost in tears.


    Then Shavonne came forward, graceful and swift. Brushing lightly against her eldest son, she nudged him away from Gildyr. The auburn furred wolf was still sneezing and licking his own muzzle, but seemed more frightened than hurt. As Gilcrest, Karus and Gran saw to their visitor, Shavonne said very quietly,


    "Am I a child, in your eyes? A cub, fit to hunt nothing but lace flies and mice? Is Karus a fool? If not, youngling, leave off your bluster and listen to sense." More speech than he''d heard from his mother in years.


    "Not all is winter and darkness," she added, pacing slowly around the stiff paladin. "...and there is far more to life than mere survival."


    Shavonne glanced at Gildyr, who''d picked himself up and was back in elf-form. Not just Gilcrest, Karus and Gran, but now Astrea, too, had joined the young druid. Returning her gaze to Arondyr, his mother went on saying things that were too hard, too painful to hear.


    "He is a visitor, drawn here by some great and terrible need¡­ yet bringing us comfort. Sometimes, Swift-foot, the Great Tree sends us balm unlooked-for. Sometimes it senses the pleas of a shattered and sorrowing heart."


    Arondyr stared hard at the ground. Still seething, but starting to listen.


    "Now," said Shavonne. "If you would truly have him gone, help Gildyr resolve whatever trouble has drawn him here. The war bells have sounded from Snowmont; perhaps it is that which called and detained him. Win that battle, and the planes will adjust, the branches will separate, and your brother will once more be nothing but memory. Choose well, Swift-foot."


    Light eyes flicking to Astrea, Shavonne added,


    "There is more than just your fate at stake."


    With that, his mother turned and went back to Cubby, leaving Arondyr to watch from the shadows.


    But, early next morning, using the paths of the forest, druid and paladin, she-wolf and stag, made their way south.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Elsewhere, under cover of dust cloud and mist, a file of chained captives staffered off northward. Any who fell were beaten back upright or, if unable to rise, cut loose and left for the wargs.


    A mounted drow slaver rode back and forth along that slow-moving line, inspecting his haul. The day-walker settlement had yielded several fine specimens. He stood to make a tremendous profit, could he but get them to market, below. However, the distance was great, there had been an escape, and¡­


    He drew up his horse with a hard, sawing jerk at the reins, looking back to the south. He was being pursued. One approach sensor after another had been destroyed as the hunter¡­ evidently a mage¡­ drew on that frozen, stored manna.


    No doubt riding at the head of some pitchfork and torch wielding rabble, this unknown wizard was a possible threat. Had doubtless been hired by sniveling relatives to rescue one of his higher-caste prisoners.


    Well¡­ thought the slaver, beginning to smile¡­ there was more than one way to slow down a soft-hearted day-walker.


    To the attentive, cringing head of his troop, the slaver made a brief signal. The half-elf fighter bowed low, earning the lash from his master for not bowing lower. Toying with a necklace of dried, pointed ears, the slaver said,


    "Fetch forth one of the Snowmont slaves. A female, I think. I will have sport, and then give our persistent shadow something to think about."


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    24


    And the way became suddenly very much harder. Before, the worst had been warg-torn corpses and scattered body parts. Val had had to call halt after brief, bitter halt to burn the remains and release any lingering spirits.


    Now¡­ as though they''d guessed they were being pursued¡­ the slavers began leaving deliberate victims. Most still alive and horribly injured, with the drow mage''s sigil cut into their flesh like a signature. Now the halts became longer, while they pulled living people off of impaling black ice, or dug them out of the boggy ground into which they''d been staked¡­ or worse.


    At first, Valerian had done most of the healing. Soon, though, he had to leave that to Mirielle and Hilt. The high-elf was too choked with rage and hatred to soothe or mend or repair. Saw that cursed sigil wherever he turned, written in blood and entrails, or carved onto foreheads. He couldn''t have healed so much as a splinter. Worse, each injured victim was one more mouth. One more fate, one more worry.


    The last poor soul, broken-backed, trying to haul himself off of the road, was the pebble that tipped the landslide. Not just anyone. Sandor, one of Filimar''s set, whom he''d fought alongside in another place and time.


    Half-blinded, hair matted with blood from a missing ear, Sandor could not see him. He recognized Valerian''s voice, though, and reached out in his friend''s direction.


    As Salem pulled Mirielle aside, distracting the girl with a search for more useless herbs, Val took the last thing he had¡­ and the most powerful¡­ out of a faerie pocket. Just a small, glassy vial, topped in plain mithril, it had come from the Fey-wild through Aunt Meliara.


    "Life essence," he told Hilt, as she cradled poor Sandor. "Use it to heal him, then save the rest for your family, once they are found." He had meant to use it on Lerendar and his own other self, whose mind and injuries kept seeping over. "This must end. I will finish it."


    "Be careful, yer lordship," said Hilt, taking the vial. "They''re doin'' this on purpose, meanin'' ter make ye too wrathful ter think."


    "I have a plan," replied Val, trying not to be chained up and shuffling. Trying to stay in his own, unsilenced head. "But I''ll have to transform myself. In the meantime, good dwarf, give me the image of your folk, so I''ll know who to free first, and defend."


    Hilt reached out a hand, gazing directly into Val''s eyes. Through her, he saw an older, grey-bearded dwarf woman along with a half-grown, chuckling lad. Good enough.


    This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    To Sandor, he said,


    "Rest. Be healed, my friend."


    "Filno¡­" the young nobleman gasped, reaching blindly for Val''s hand; clasping tight.


    "Will be here, momentarily. We escaped together, but headed in different directions to foil pursuit. You must be up and ready to greet him," Val commanded, adding, "An Arvendahl¡­"


    Which Sandor finished,


    "...an Arvendahl to the fray."


    And then Valerian stalked off to make ready, far from loss and ruin and pain.


    The transformation he worked took privacy, a few recycles and actual study, because changing his shape didn''t come easily. But, from expanding Mirielle''s story, he had an image in mind. That of a dark elf prince; ebon-skinned, ice-haired and golden eyed; armored in dusky plate. Armed with a blood drinking sword.


    He needed more than that though. Needed Smythe, and he knew it. Was just about to call the sword''s name three times when Mirelle came pelting up, Salem bounding behind her.


    The girl skidded to a pine straw scattering halt, confused. Salem drew her borrowed dagger, yowling a warning cry. The disguise, of course.


    Val backed a step, raising one hand, but¡­


    "It''s the prince," said Mirielle, purple eyes wide. "Prince Drake, from my story!"


    "It is actually me," Valerian corrected, allowing his own voice to surface. "I can get closer to the one who will soon die, if he does not at once know who faces him. But," he turned to the still growling Tabaxi, "Milady, I will require your aid."


    "And me," piped up Mirielle, stuffing herbs away into her belt pouch. "I can help, Milord Valerian. You need a fighter¡­"


    "I am a fighter," he said, missing lighter days very badly. "You must remain here to defend Hilt and the injured." Of which there were far too many.


    The look on his young page''s face was just shy of open rebellion, so Val dipped into another faerie pocket, pulling forth a pair of silly carnival joke bracelets. They''d been won many years previous, at Serrio''s fair. He and Kalisandra had used up nearly every last charge, playing stupid tricks on each other, but¡­


    "See, here is how you may help, if it comes to that," he explained, squatting down to her eye level. "I wear one bracelet, like so¡­ while you don the other. What they do is, for fun, when either of us taps a bracelet and says ''together'', within a certain range, one bracelet will draw the other and whoever is wearing it. So, either I will be drawn back to you, and to safety¡­"


    "Or I''ll come to you, and help fight," crowed the girl.


    Which¡­ yes. Something like that. Val settled for a nod and slight smile.


    "But, how will I know that you need me?" pled the little one, taking her job very seriously, indeed.


    "Erm¡­ wait for a red-and-gold mage fire, blasted up into the sky." A signal he''d used before.


    The bracelets were cheaply made and colorful, tied with brightly dyed thongs. How often he''d summoned Kalisandra¡­ right over the water. Or she, him, above a pile of raked mess in the stables. The foolishness seemed terribly long ago, but still brought a smile.


    "The beautiful woman?" Mirielle guessed. "The one who thinks you''re an idiot?"


    Val stood up once again, putting everything out of his heart except battle readiness. This was no time for soft memory¡­ and Sandy was perfectly safe, somewhere else.


    "Watch for my signal," he ordered Mirielle. "Help Hilt treat and protect the injured."


    Next, turning to face the suspicious Tabaxi, the high-elf said,


    "I plan to misty step to the slave train, then create a distraction by demanding some of the captives. Possibly starting a fight, if all goes well. Your part, Milady, will be to sneak about, releasing as many others as you can. You were able to escape¡­"


    Salem uttered a low and guttural sound.


    "I chewed rope, unseen. Killed a guard with tooth and stone, then fled through shadow, as they did not think to silence me. I mourn those left in chains, Mrowr, as I mourn Clan Master Tristan. I will help you."


    Val touched her shoulder, briefly, then nodded in promise.


    "For Oberyn, for the dawn, they will have blood. Tell me all that you know of the enemy. How many, how armed, how organized."


    The Tabaxi hugged herself. Cap''n had emerged once again, dividing his time between Salem and Mirielle. Though it hurt very much to push past the clouds of fever and grief, Salem growled,


    "The slave master dominates. He is dark-elf stock with¡­ you will not wish to hear this, Mrowr, but I think¡­ with light-elf blood mixed. He wears full armor and bears a long sword. His magic is strong, and the others fear him."


    "How many others," probed Valerian.


    "I could not see the whole of the company," said the Tabaxi, "but four guards appeared many times, striding the line with lashes and clubs. Two others I saw only once, and another I slew¡­ but I was fevered, Mrowr. My recollection may not be reliable."


    "And the wargs? Hilt and I accounted for three, out in the woods, and there was the one on the road yesterday. Well, half of one."


    "To my count, the slave master began with eight beasts," Salem replied, sneezing at the remembered stench of corrupted flesh.


    "Then he is down to four," said Val, spying a glimmer of hope. "If his men are entirely cowed by him, they will await his word to act, which gives us a bit of advantage. In any case, we cannot delay any longer. People are dying."


    Salem inclined her head.


    "I am prepared, Lord Mage-Knight," she told him.


    "Red and gold sky flare, if you need me," reminded Mirielle, catching the edge of Valerian''s cloak. "I''ll be watching the whole time. I promise."


    "Then there is nothing to fear, and no possible outcome but good," said Val, touching the girl''s head. She''d been favoring her left arm, he noticed, and her nose appeared to be swollen. Like himself, she felt the near presence of her injured analogue. Also like him, she hid it.


    Next came something that Val had put off as long as he could. Reaching up and back, he clasped the hilt of his family''s ancestral weapon. Cleared his throat. Salem, of course, had seen it before. Not Mirielle, though.


    "This may prove unpleasant," he cautioned the girl, before saying, "Vesendorin, Vesendorin, Vesendorin."


    There was a bright, perfectly silent explosion and flare of clean light. The hilt grew warm in Valerian''s hand. Startled, he pulled the blade free of its sheath in one smooth, easy motion; wielding that four feet of steel like it weighed no more than a reed and had no inertia at all.


    Smythe¡­ Vesendorin¡­ hummed along its length and glowed at its edges; that plain hilt and cross guard worked now with griffins and gems.


    ''At last'', shrilled the blade. ''To battle, young Tarandahl! To honorable combat and unending fame!''


    "Erm¡­" Val hedged, trying not to look as confused as he felt. Bathed in warm sword-glow, he plunged onward, saying, "Right. Unending fame. Could you¡­ disguise yourself? We need to¡­ infiltrate the enemy position, so that we may face their leader, a dark-elf who hides behind captives and underlings."


    The sword''s hum grew louder, more tooth-grating.


    ''I have faced such trash in both life and guardian state,'' replied Smythe. ''Behold.''


    And it began to change form, going from the blade of the Tarandahls to a glowering, saw-toothed black scimitar, banded in frost.


    Salem was doing complex things with her ears and whiskers. There was a scent of chase and pounce, of struggling prey, pinned by a clawed, heavy paw.


    Ready as he was ever going to be, showing nothing but confidence for Salem and Mirielle, Val said,


    "Onward, then. Let us put paid to a monster."


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    25


    It fell out like this: Valerian arrived at the fore of the slaver''s grim line, disguised as a dark-elf prince. Salem, he knew, had shadow walked over her own way. She would approach from the flanks and rear, but would need sufficient distraction before she could free any captives.


    It was early afternoon, with a pale and wintery sun as high in the sky as it was going to hoist itself. The dark elf slaver had shielded his party and merchandise behind swirling grey dust, but dark vision and clear sight made the cloud no more than drifting smoke to Val''s eyes.


    The day was chilly, unsettled, and no wind blew, except that which lofted the slave master''s cloud. A boulder-sized Warg padded forward, rumbling low in its throat; muscles shifting and bunching beneath mangy hide. That was one, but he needed the remaining three, as well.


    Two half-orc guards tramped over, saw Val and then froze. One of them alarm-squealed, then thudded to its knees, dragging its fellow down with it. Further down the line, a pair of low-caste drow warriors turned to peer at the source of all the commotion.


    At his back, Valerian could feel and hear Smythe producing a certain very irritating vibration, meant to reach into weak minds and strike abject terror.


    The warg licked its muzzle, whimpered and began to back off. The half-orcs rose into a crouch, ready to flee or attack. One of the drow headed over. The other darted off, presumably after their leader.


    Meanwhile, the captives halted their shambling march, settling numbly in place on the road. A mounted figure came thundering up on a horse that blew foam and blood as it ran.


    Very confusingly, Val saw all of this from two perspectives. Here, at the head of the column and again from one side and behind, over somebody''s scarred, quaking shoulder.


    The horseman pulled up short, sawing at his mount''s torn mouth with savage jerks to the reins. Val-in-disguise did not flinch but stepped smoothly forward, radiating haughty disdain. Disgust for a casteless mixed-blood.


    Distraction, he thought, using lightning, not fire, to slaughter the nearest warg.


    The horseman''s thin, dead-white face hardened. Cautious, clearly suspicious, he slid from the saddle and dropped to one knee.


    "My Lord," he grunted, speaking a tongue that was anciently accented, long-vowel Fey. "How may this worthless one serve?"


    Val did his best to match tone and inflection, saying,


    "I will examine your wares, dealer-in-flesh. My slaves are all eaten. I will have more."


    The voice that he''d chosen was cultured and clipped, hinting at casual malice. From a drow perspective, the statement made perfect sense, and the trader was not averse to an early sale¡­ but the sudden appearance of royalty, afoot and unattended, seemed¡­ curious.


    Bowing his head very slightly, the slaver said,


    "As my Lord wills. Which of these boot-scrapings will My Lord deign to consider?"


    An insult. Not a very subtle one, either, as the ''Prince'' had indicated interest in food-slaves. It could not go undealt with.


    Lighting flared from Valerian''s hand, this time burning one of the slow-edging drow who''d been trying to slip around behind him. Showy and effective, though not the young high-elf''s natural magic.


    Made his head hurt and drained him much faster than fire. Sherazedan had insisted that they not lean on comfort, however. That they learn to wield more than one element.


    A lump of split, roasted flesh was all that remained of the sneaking guard, along with some bits of charred metal. Behind Val, Smythe keened approval. As if nothing had happened, Val strolled forward, levitating slightly, disdaining contact with mere filthy ground.


    The slaver''s dark armor was dirty and battered. Made to live and ride in, not just for show. A necklace of severed ears, one still bloody, hung at the drow''s neck. His eyes burned with frustrated hate, their natural red shading over to magma.


    Twisting the blade, Val took the reins of the slaver''s blown, tired beast as he glided past.


    "I require a mount. Your nag will suffice."


    Not Patches. A stone-grey mare with wild eyes and the slave master''s sigil carved onto her face. A rattling council of shriveled heads bounced and swung from her bridle. No one he knew.


    Oddly enough, he had no need to look behind him, as the Valerian-captive could see all, and was sharing. The line of prisoners trembled and cringed, most attempting to shrink from his gaze as Val stalked down the road.


    From time to time he flicked a finger, indicating this dwarf and that one¡­ a certain young Arvendahl lordling, then another¡­ a shrinking half-drow girl child, who''d tried to shield herself with a bucket. Then, dizzy with shifting perspective, his other self, whose torn throat and maimed hands tormented Val, as well.


    One of the guards scuttled along in his wake, freeing and banding the indicated captives. Val tapped a fingertip to each slave band in succession, accepting ownership and binding their will to his.


    Wound up freeing seven before noise from the end of the line halted trade. Someone had put up a fight and was messily dying, back there. Val and the slaver looked southward, for a moment, then turned to each other. The drow-mix spoke first, hissing,


    "A prince royal out in full dayshine, alone? I think not. Show yourself, day-walker. I like to see what I''ve stepped in."


    A few things happened at once, as Val briefly slowed time. He dropped his transformation, causing the drow to stop moving forward and stare. In that moment''s confusion, Valerian drew Smythe, then stepped in front of the captives, ordering, "Defend yourselves."


    Filimar, Val-other and Hilt''s mum took up rocks; the dwarf woman with also a stick she''d been hiding and working to sharpen, each stop.


    "Here to fight, little day-walker?" the slaver mocked. "Sent forth to rescue one of my captives, by those with more coin than courage? Or, is one of these vermin a relative? The mage who fought like a kitten, perhaps? Had a good bit of sport, with that one."


    Sparks rose up around Val. Ripples of heat made the air dance and shimmer, as flame lit up metal and ice all around.


    "I would have called you an orc-mating whoreson," said the high-elf, "were that not a promotion in caste. I deliver a message from Lord Orrin, Lady Alfea and all the lost people of Snowmont, dirt-crawler." And then, he released all the rage and the flame trapped inside of him, driving the dark-elf to stumble backward and hurriedly shield.


    The slave-taker snorted. Drawing a blade of his own, he paced forward, dragging its tip through the ground. Black frost radiated in lightning jags from its path as the drow said,


    "Fighting alone, then? Soft as pudding, weak as well water. No more threat than a slave shackled out on the banqueting table. I am Kaazin Kylarion, the impure one. Reaver of day. Shedder of¡­"


    Right. Blah, blah, blah.


    Valerian kept himself between that small knot of freed slaves and Kaazin, who had nearly completed a frost circle. Flame-wheel cut the forming sigil in half, shredding its magic.


    "I care not what you call yourself, Worm, son of midden. I am Valerian Tarandahl ad Keldaran. Of Ilirian, Silmerana. Warden of the north."


    Smythe flared with fire and light in response to his words, its scream rising to storm-like intensity. Kaazin backed a pace, grinning; more skull face than humor.


    "I shall dine well this night, one royal morsel at a time. But high-elves taste best when hung for a while. Brings out their flavor. So maybe I''ll begin with those you valued enough to pick out for me, day-fly. Perhaps your¡­ brother."


    They struck simultaneously, fighting with magic and blades. Darkness flared. Black ice erupted in great, jagged shards from the stony ground, melted by gouts of flame.


    Smythe and the saw-toothed blade crashed together, scraping along their length with a scream of stressed metal and blossoming steam. Fire exploded from Val, searing the dark-elf''s right arm. Cheating, but this was no courtly duel, and Valerian was far beyond playing fair. He kept moving, keeping Smythe between himself and the drow, while shielding the wounded people behind him.


    Kaazin took full advantage of that, firing ice bolts at captives too injured or slow to escape. Val fought to shield them, as well, while those he''d released dove for weapons dropped by their fleeing guards.


    A crackling fire bolt and spinning twist to one side opened Kaazin''s stance a bit, giving the high-elf room for a thrust. Smythe bit through armor and flesh; burning and piercing, together.


    Kaazin leapt backward, seeming not to feel pain.


    "Let''s make this more interesting, firefly," he suggested, inscribing green sigils between them.


    Val was just quick enough to change one or two, marring duration, if not their intent. A bubble of black, icy magic washed over and through him.


    "No shields and no healing, day-walker. Whatever shall you do, now?"


    He felt the change instantly; the blockage preventing shield force or healing. No blood would clot. No wound would cease spurting. If struck, he would bleed till he died.


    More and more ice crystals burst from the ground, boxing him in. But Val was a natural athlete, honed by many seasons of court-ball. Avoiding attack while driving to score had become second nature.


    Firebolt, burning hands, misty step and a loose, rapid fighting style¡­ together with the sheer length of his sword¡­ kept Kaazin back. But the drow had a strategy, too.


    Every time that Valerian gained an advantage, started to press him, Kaazin would target a captive, forcing Val to drop his attack and defend the slave-taker''s victim. Without shield magic, he could only block ice bolts by raising earth or deflecting with Smythe¡­ and both moves left him unguarded.


    A shrieking woman lost part of her leg to black ice. Valerian succeeded in reflecting most of the spell''s force back at Kaazin, at the cost of a wound. He was slashed straight through his armor, which parted like cloth beneath hissing dark steel


    A thin line of frostbite appeared from shoulder to hip, on his left side. Numbness began to take hold, kept from spreading by Firelord''s protective grace. On the other hand, fully half of the drow''s face had frozen solid.


    Filimar and other-Val had been busy, slipping around behind Kaazin, unnoticed by anyone else but Valerian. The high-elf''s perspective kept shifting from one view to another, seeing Kaazin before and behind; himself armored, armed and half-naked, clutching a rock.


    His other self lifted a bent, twisted hand, silently calling for something better to fight with. Val summoned and threw his dagger, gashing Kaazin''s face and arming Filimar, who caught the blade in midair. Next sent Nightshade hurtling, hilt first, not at Kaazin, but into the other Val''s reach. Nearly dropped Smythe, reflexively matching his analogue''s clumsy grab.


    As the drow backed, wiping blood from his eyes, Valerian threw the last of his manna into raising earth behind his cursing enemy. The slave-taker stumbled, tripped by a knee-high wall of crumbling dirt.


    Other Val and Filimar rushed at the drow from behind, stabbing and slashing wherever they could. A sudden magical gesture sent the two wounded elves flying backward, riddled with needles of ice. Through the link with his analogue, Val felt hundreds of punctures and fast spreading cold.


    He was likely going to die, Dad unavenged and Lerendar left to his fate, but it was the girl, the young half-drow whose water had saved him, that Val couldn''t leave. Dodging another swing of that hissing black sword, cutting at Kaazin''s spell-hand, the high-elf got his bracelet off and jammed it onto the terrified girl. Managed to tap and gasp "Together", knowing that the last time he''d used it, the bracelet''s joke magic had brought Kalisandra to him.


    This time, the trinket worked in reverse. It vanished from sight, taking a startled youngster to safety.


    Kaazin had ceased posturing. Padding forward with lion''s eyes and a steady blade, he fired another ice-blast at this plane''s Valerian, watching Val react as though he were the one being struck.


    "Interesting," mused the slaver, casting darkness and cold. "Not just a relative, then. Some mirror form of yourself. Let''s find out if the effect works both ways, shall we?"


    The high-elf had lurched back into a ready stance, Smythe in position. Kaazin went for a vicious neck-slash, meaning to cleave the elf''s head from his body. Smythe cut upward as Val leapt aside. Rather than take off his head, the black sword flicked at his throat, cutting armor like bread, opening the great artery that pulsed below.


    He''d got his death wound and knew it, but had to keep going. Burning hand to the cut didn''t heal it, but fried the gash closed long enough for Val to ready his last magic, that final curse or boon which could not be altered or blocked.


    Blurrily indicating all those who''d sheltered behind him, Val grunted, "Safety," and then made ready to die. Only¡­


    ''Young Tarandahl, I have failed you,'' said Smythe. ''Take my life, Silmerana. Rise and fight on.''


    The blade''s light went out like a doused torch. All at once merely four feet of ungainly steel, the Blade of the Tarandahls struck ground, point first.


    But its magical animation, the enchantment which had kept Vesendorin''s soul in that weapon for thousands of years, flowed into Valerian. Wounds healed as if they had never been. Life-stealing cold vanished. Strength returned to both of the Vals.


    The emptied blade was a mockery; clumsy, awkward and useless without animation. Val should have let the cursed thing go, but found that he couldn''t.


    Swung Smythe up and around through main force, grunting,


    "For Oberyn, for the dawn," as he brought the sword down in a wild, slashing arc. Took off Kaazin''s helmet, one eye and part of his skull, spraying blood, bone and green manna everywhere.


    Healed now and burning with rage, armed with Nightshade, his other self struck from behind. Drilled Kaazin straight through the entrails and both sides of his armor. Then a call split the air, eerie and wild, sounding like the fighting cry of a bull elk in rut.


    Kaazin snarled a cantrip to stem the blood flow. His remaining eye gone suddenly corpse-light green, he laughed in two voices. One was his own. The other was cold and ancient and whisper-beckoning; calling to all that was lost and alone in Valerian.


    Then Salem lunged through a gap in the ice to join Val, her claws and teeth streaming gore. Somewhere nearby, a wolf howled. Kaazin''s terrified horse reared and plunged, trapped by pillars of steaming black ice.


    For just an instant, the bond between Val and his analogue worked in their favor, allowing two views, two sword thrusts, two shrieking fire-bolts. Intense light and furious heat enveloped Kaazin, who should have fried like a wisp of dry grass. Only something¡­ some sickly green shield¡­ preserved him.


    The dark-elf mage rose from the ground, leaking manna and blood, glowing with corpse-fire. Turning his gaze to Val, he hissed,


    "My meat. Never fear, Sunbeam. We shall dine together, you and I. Soon. Mother does so enjoy guests."


    An axe shot through the air, hurtling haft over head to bury itself in Kaazin''s face. Ought to have finished him. Didn''t.


    Instead of falling, the slaver turned flat, then sideways, then vanished from sight. Just¡­ gone. Pulled far away by something darkly powerful. Val stood there a long, numb moment, leaning upon a dead sword.


    He saw Gildyr running forward, alive and uninjured, dodging black ice and smoldering corpses. A great white stag leapt at his side. There was also a tall, armored wood-elf and some pitiful, starveling wolf.


    Hilt pounded up, uttering a cry that was part vented grief and fear and heart-bursting joy. Mirielle trailed her, crying something that Val scarcely heard.


    He released a pent breath. He was dirty and bloodstained, without so much as an ember of manna remaining¡­ but alive. Unexpectedly whole and still breathing, both of him.


    Lacking animation, Smythe was too long and awkward to back sheath, but Val wouldn''t let the sword go. Kept blade in hand as he started for Gildyr. Just glad that the druid was present; that he''d won through, somehow.


    Did not see or sense Arondyr lift up his own sword, or heed Salem''s frenzied warning-cry. Just raced right into a blow that whipped his head around and caved in his helmet, cracking the skull underneath.


    Valerian dropped to the ground atop Smythe, dead or insensible. His analogue likewise collapsed, both of them felled with one strike.


    Hilt turned from hugging and shaking her rescued people to roaring a dwarven battle-cry. Leapt completely over the elf''s fallen body to plant herself, unarmed, between Val and Arondyr. Filimar wasn''t as quick, but he got there; limping and gasping, half-frozen by spreading black ice.


    Mirielle charged forward, swinging a very light mace. She skidded to a halt to stand with the others. Salem uttered the wild, savage scream of a panther, in her mind seeing more than one fight; more than one fallen friend. Dagger in each clawed hand, she stalked forth to meet Arondyr.


    "Out of my way," snarled the paladin, sword raised for a killing blow, its voice urging murder loud in his head. Barely saw Salem as he clubbed the leaping Tabaxi aside with an armored fist.


    "Take them," hissed River of Death, his hungering weapon. "Slaughter the high-elves and drowling, together with any that dare to stand in our way. Your god demands blood."


    Gildyr hauled at the paladin''s arm, somehow seeming to root himself into the ground.


    "Stop!" he begged. "Arondyr, please listen! He wasn''t attacking! He''s a friend!"


    But his brother was beyond reason. A long, silvery note sounded, filling the air with its crystal pure song. Still distant, but coming their way. A high-elf hunting horn, just like the ones that had sounded the day that Gildyr-of-this-plane had died.


    "Life for a life," growled Arondyr, uprooting Gildyr and bashing him into a pillar of ice; knocking his not-brother senseless. The stag he blocked with a rage-hardened shield spell, adding, "We lost ours. Let them mourn theirs!"


    The paladin lunged forward then, feinting at Val, but shifting direction at the last moment, plunging his blade into the fallen Valerian-analogue.


    "One down," he gloated, turning back to the armored one. Only, more folk had come between them. Freed captives and¡­ utter, confusing betrayal¡­ his own noble beast, Astrea.


    The poor, half-starved shadow slunk to place herself between defenders, unconscious elf and Arondyr. Head low, tail curving under, she whispered,


    "Heart-friend¡­ soul of my soul¡­ do not do this."


    "Out of my way!" raged Arondyr, hearing hoofbeats and hunting horns. "Out of my way, or¡­"


    "Or you will kill me, as well? Send my death faster? Do so, then, Swift-foot. You are no more the boy that I loved."


    "Do it," hissed River''s voice in his head. "Slaughter the cur. Bring yourself whole and unbound to your lord. He expects nothing less."


    Arondyr took a pace forward, trying to edge around Astrea, but his wolf wouldn''t let him. Her golden eyes met his and, for just an instant, Arondyr was a small boy again, tumbling through leaf piles with a joyous wolf cub licking his face. Heart to heart, soul to soul, bonded forever.


    His sword rose, lifted higher, catching sunlight. And¡­ he threw it, up and away. At the peak of its flight, the weapon just vanished, along with his holy symbols and armor.


    But Arondyr had crashed to his knees, weeping a hundred years of pent tears. Astrea leapt, paws on his chest, bowling him over, licking his face. There were no words.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 Chapter 3

    26


    He crouched, huddled and bleeding, wracked with pain that exploded afresh with each twitch or scrabbling shift in position. His cell was a bubble that drifted and flexed; seeming to grind through the stony bowels of a mountain, one of the nearer Talons, probably. Its near-constant motion made rest, lying down, all but impossible.


    Sometimes his wandering prison intersected another one, growing briefly larger as some withered corpse or dusty skeleton shared his confinement a while. There was a reliable pattern to these meetings, he discovered; allowing him to predict when he would next see Tendons, Bony and Legless, or glimpse the sliver of lighted corridor through which he wasn''t quick enough to crawl.


    They always drifted apart again, but once Lerendar had been able to seize the hilt of a broken dagger. Its blade had been snapped short diagonally, leaving a thin splinter of metal projecting like a stylus or thief''s tool. Useful¡­ were he the sort to profit from broken locks and opened chests.


    Someone else had possibly used the dagger in just that way, and so Lerendar made up his mind that his fellow prisoner¡­ former prisoner¡­ had succeeded. That he''d left this blade-key behind to aid the next wretched captive.


    In a situation like this, one had to believe something; that the dried meat, greyish bread and barely alcoholic spittle-wine would keep coming. That every so often the magic would ebb, causing his cell to pause its drift for a few candlemark''s time. That, somehow, he''d find a way out of this.


    A newly-gained knife should be properly blooded. If taken in battle, on the corpse of a worthy foe. If purchased or found, at its intended task.


    Well, there was no fresh meat here to carve. No foemen to slash, and no prey to gut, but blood there was in plenty. Mostly Raya''s and his own, from that shattered, projecting bone.


    Raya¡­ his horse¡­ he''d had to kill her, slashing the mare''s throat with a final, desperate dagger-thrust, before they could eat her alive. Then, Dad''s last magic had exploded away from Keldaran''s body, because¡­ sometimes¡­ love was stronger than hate.


    The spell had reverberated outward, placing a blessing and shield over Lerendar that could not be pierced or removed. And they''d tried. The vermin had made it their work, all that terrible, freezing long day.


    He could no longer walk, and was no threat at all. Soiled, bloodied and broken by Raya''s weight and her flailing limbs, Lerendar ob Keldaran would fight no more, this battle. Maybe not ever, again. But still, he presented a problem. Less hostage than pain in the mangy fundament.


    Shielded by last-magic, Lerendar was safe from further attack. Their snapping teeth could not reach him. Their arrows and blades turned aside or fell short.


    The frustrated goblins might have just left him to die there of blood loss and shock, only¡­ Something else, something other had scuttled up; its cry a hideous alien chuckle. Its eyes glowing corpse-fire green.


    No warrior, but a necrotic mage, and no goblin, at all. Gnoll, he''d thought. Hulking and hairy, dressed in patched, mismatched hides and shriveled bits of its fallen enemies, dad''s head bound atop its flat skull like a helmet.


    Lerendar should have called out a challenge, should have attempted to battle the cackling warlock. Instead, he''d vomited blood and lost consciousness, thinking last of his woman and child.


    And now, sometime later, here he found himself. Imprisoned, because they couldn''t quite kill him. Too crippled to fight, too clumsy and slow to escape, having not earned the family sword. Yet, all was not totally spiked.


    He had felt Shorty''s vow. And, while his little brother was no warrior, Val was a Tarandahl, still. He was coming for Lerendar, the vow as firm as a handclasp across the long distance between them.


    "I will meet you halfway or die like a man, Short-stuff," he vowed in return. Just needed a chance. A trick. Something extra to go his way.


    But, as Reston Horsemaster would put it, sometimes a man makes his own luck.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    A squadron of wood-elf archers was on its way, Gildyr knew, but the high-elves would get there, first; finding two Valerians wounded, a lot of milling captives and only Arondyr to blame, for the drow mage had vanished.


    Though not swift to anger (usually) high-elves were prideful. Dangerous, implacable foes who would spit their last breath and heart''s blood as a curse, and never, ever, let go of a slight. As that silvery hunting horn sounded once more, Gildyr seized his near-brother''s arm.


    "We must go, Arondyr," he urged. "Until my comrade is back on his feet and able to explain things to his people."


    Arondyr, paladin no longer, was still seated on the cold ground, embracing his restored heart-friend.


    "Not much to explain," he mused. "I meant to kill both of him, and may just have done it."


    Although Hilt and Mirielle were hard at work with tincture, essence and herbs, the puddled blood beneath Val kept on spreading. Gildyr inscribed a hasty sigil, whispering,


    "Life of the forest¡­ of leaf and reed¡­ of furred, feathered and scaled ones¡­ lend strength and breath. Hold off the darkness, I pray thee. Take my word, please, that this one has earned one more chance."


    Then, unable to wait any longer, (for a circle of horse-mounted elves was quite able to nullify any escape magics) Gildyr took firmer hold of Arondyr and then said, "Away."


    He and his almost brother vanished like two flakes of snow on hot stone, leaving a swirl of leaves in their wake. Karus and Astrea popped out of existence, as well, drawn to the Homewood like scraps of paper to polished amber.


    Lord Galadin''s party charged up a half-heartbeat later; horn blaring, hooves thudding, mounts screaming; the Tarandahl griffin banner unfurled above them, borne on a magical wind.


    This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.


    Galadin vaulted from the saddle, landing lightly on pocked and frost-covered ground. Sensed the only-just-vanished druid, and uttered a curse. Then,


    "Healer!" he snapped, linking the fates of victims and surgeon with a harsh spell. "To your work."


    She bowed deeply in reply, but High Lord Tarandahl had already moved on. Rounding upon Hilt and the half-drow child, one gauntleted hand at the hilt of his family''s blade, the tall, white haired elf snapped,


    "Explain."


    The dwarf stood away from her erstwhile patient; feet braced apart, holding an emptied bottle of life essence, gazing stonily up at Lord Tarandahl. Clearing her throat, she said,


    "We be few and scattered now, Milord. Tolerated at the fringes, where once we was mighty¡­ but we acknowledge a noble deed done, and honor its doer. ''Is Lordship answered the war bells when no one else would, rangin'' from far off ter do so. ''Ee come ter the aid o'' Snowmont with naught but this ''ere girl, meself and the cat. I name him friend o'' the stone-folk, now an'' forever more, and I look forward someday ter toastin'' his health under a proper cave roof. That be th'' long and short of it, Yer Lordship. As ter why there be two of ''em¡­ I can''t say fer sure, but I expect that ''ee''ll tell yer hisself, once he''s been ''ealed."


    To Hilt''s tremendous surprise, Lord Galadin inclined his head in a very slight bow.


    "Well spoken, Good Dwarf. Go, take your people and settle them. My folk will bring food and comfort, anon. As you say, once the boys have awakened, all will be made clear."


    Hilt felt much of the tension run out of her small, stocky body. Felt mum''s hand on her shoulder, and Dirk brushing close. Found. Saved. Both of them. Unashamed of herself, she buried her face in her hands and started to cry.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Gildyr spent some time rooted, allowing his magically grafted dryad limb¡­ bull spruce, as it happened¡­ to link with the forest. Gran came by every day, pouring water and murmuring charms, using kitchen scraps as fertilizer.


    It was always so peaceful to take root and just be; facing the wind and sun at one end, sinking deep into loamy soil at the other. Losing all but the thinnest pale thread of himself to being a tree. His thoughts slowed beyond candle-marks, to the eternal cycle of seasons and years.


    In this way he rested, but also gained news. War bells meant nothing at all to a forest, but the passing of armies shook the ground in which roots quested and burrowed. Here, there was bark-worm. There, a lightning-struck fire released many seeds. Further south, a great felling of trees and planting of crops disrupted the natural cycle.


    Gildyr-tree spread himself, driving roots downward and west, until one probing tendril blundered into a very familiar place. A good and safe one. Having reached this below-ground other home, the druid retracted the rest of himself, converting to elf-form at the end of that root.


    Dropped into a smallish, roughly-hewn chamber, furnished with wood and carved stone. Unlike most goblin dwellings, this one did not drift. Just rotated slowly in place, its lone window flashing night sky or sunshine, every few candle-marks.


    A woven rug covered part of the stony ground. There was a wooden bench pushed up against one curving wall. On it, looking startled, sat Grey Fang. Or, at least, this plane''s version of the old goblin wizard.


    "What''s this?" cried Grey Fang, whose vision and hearing had faded somewhat, at the advanced age of sixty-two years. "Who''s there? Pretty One, let''s ''ave some more light!"


    His three-year-old granddaughter pattered up from the workroom, looking harassed. Just like Gildyr''s version, this Pretty had a fawn-spotted brown mane and eyes that bulged only slightly, their shade changing with mood¡­ but normally red. Where Grey Fang was paunchy and bow-legged, Pretty was¡­ well¡­ less so.


    "Grampaw," she fretted, "them mushrooms ''ll never get sorted if ye don''t let me¡­ ''Ere, what''s this? ''Oo ''re you?"


    Gildyr held up a blessing hand, palm outward.


    "Peace," he intoned. "Joy to this house, and all those who¡­"


    "Yeah, right. Stuff yer peace up yer bunghole, druid. What''re ye doin'' in Grampaw''s room? Murder an'' theft, most like!"


    Even in this place, no goblin trusted an elf. Her brothers, Twitchy and Snaggle, came tumbling in moments later, manifestly not pretty at all.


    "What''s that?" snapped Grey Fang, squinting at his dimly perceived visitor. "Why''s everyone mumblin'' and skulkin'' in shadow? Come out where I c''n see you better, if yer errand be peaceful."


    Gildyr sighed. Of course, they did not know him. In this plane, his analogue had died in that glade. There had been no one for Grey Fang to rescue. Still, there was some task to perform, some quest to resolve here, before he could find his way home. Shavonne had told him so.


    Obediently, the druid approached that elderly goblin, who was almost a second father, elsewhere. The ceiling was low, so Gildyr was already bowing, but he added a flourish and pulled back his antlered hood in respect.


    "Honored Grey Fang, chief mage of the deeps, I am¡­"


    "Eh? Speak up! What d''ya want ter mutter fer? Youth, these days. No respect an'' no lungs on ''em. Back in my day, we knew how ter bellow!" barked the old goblin, shaking a staff carved of yew and topped with a rat skull. It clattered and chimed when he brandished it, being hung all about with charms and bits of badly-gnawed bone. This Grey Fang seemed older, more frail, than his own, Gildyr noticed. Wisps of white head-hair waved like antennae as Grey Fang peered at his guest.


    "Oh. An elfling, is it? After a mating charm? Got plenty o'' those, guaranteed ter produce a full, squallin'' litter o'' kitts. Yer tree ''ll be burstin'' with young ''uns in no time."


    Gildyr stifled a laugh, planting his bottom on the sawn tree-ring that Twitchy hauled out for him.


    "Thank you," he said, accepting candied batwing and a clay cup of mouf wien from Pretty. "I''m not in the market for mating charms, right now, but I will gladly accept one for later use. Is three silver enough?"


    (Because Grey Fang always softened up after making a sale.)


    "Meh," sniffed the old goblin. "We had real custom, back in the old days. A mage could grow fat an'' sleek, sellin'' mate-charms, alone."


    He bit at the coins to test their purity. Then, satisfied, dropped them tinkling into his mole-skin pouch.


    "What else c''n I do ye fer, Elfling," he asked.


    Gildyr spread his hands. He''d had some idea of reviewing the plan. Of sharing his thoughts about Lord Valerian, but there was no battle twixt high-elves and goblins, here. There was no one he needed to seize and convince.


    "I, um¡­ just stopped in for some glow-wort and knot-weed. I am told that your stock is the best," he said. "Also, heal moss and heart''s ease. You can''t be too careful, these days."


    (And he might still have to heal Val.)


    Twitchy and Snaggle stared at him, clearly fascinated by the wood-elf''s size and strange magic. They were younger than Pretty One, but goblins lived very short lives in any case, especially the males.


    "Do ye run about in th'' day all th'' time?" Snaggle asked him, prodded by his whispering brother. "Do not th'' ''awks an'' th'' ''ounds try ter snatch ye?"


    "Out in the dayshine, bold as you please," Gildyr assured them, smiling. "Out there as everyone can be, once peace is declared, and Lord Valerian brought around to the truth. I am sure, once he has his brother back, that his lordship will perceive the rightness of our cause."


    "Eh, what?" demanded Grey Fang, bulging one eye and squinting the other. "Valerian? Ya mean Sparks? All ''ee concerns ''imself with is dicin'' an'' cards. Yer better off dealin'' with Grim Beard," warned Grey Fang. "Short temper, but mostly decent. An'' mark ye stir yer diggins'' well away from Butcher. Whatever yer wantin'', ye''ll not get from ''im. More likely a firebolt up the rear ''atch, with plenty o'' lightning ter follow."


    By this time, Pretty had bundled and wrapped Gildyr''s purchase. From courtesy, and because it felt good to be among friends (even near-planar ones) Gildyr stayed long enough to finish his batwing and mouf wien. Even had seconds.


    Then it was time to go. Events were still wheeling along, somewhere else, and he couldn''t guarantee that the gnolls wouldn''t find some way to finish off Lerendar.


    Peace. Worth whatever the cost, even if it meant lying to Val, or allowing the high-elf''s wounded brother to remain in captivity, just a bit longer. There was a plan in place. It was good. It would work. Gildyr sensed it. Would not let anything shake his belief.


    "Old oak, Old oak," whispered the druid, as Gran had done. "Stop them from fighting. Bring peace."


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 Chapter four

    27


    Val coughed. Gave a sudden great shudder, then startled awake, having been truly unconscious for the first time in his life. Felt like someone who''d had most of his blood replaced with fey ichor¡­ which wasn''t that far from the truth, actually.


    He was in bed, a bit fuzzy on recent happenings. Alive, at any rate. Looking around, he saw a colorful noble pavilion that rattled and snapped in the wind, its hangings swaying with each gusty surge. There were rugs on the floor and a mage fire crackling away in a tall golden brazier. The center pole was gilded; carved with capering griffins and dragons. Soft tones filled the air; less music than occasional, very pure, soothing notes.


    Someplace elvish and safe. Someplace that his other self, the Val he''d (hopefully) rescued, considered familiar. All very good, very pretty, but also confusing. There were too many memories in his head, seen from two separate angles. Following both as far as they''d take him, Valerian recalled what had happened, and who had put him into this bed, in the first place.


    "Struck me," the high-elf whispered, voice growing rougher as he went on. "That son of an overused whore and a half-wit father struck me from behind."


    ¡­with Gildyr right there, looking on. Maybe laughing.


    Val leapt from his bed, spied the camp healer and got his temper back under control. Found himself wearing not very much, but enough to conceal the essentials. A folded stack of fine clothing lay close at hand on a low garnet table.


    "My apologies," he said to the healer, his voice still a bit surly. "I did not mean to rage unchecked before others. It''s just¡­ the son of a wall-eyed tavern wench attacked me!"


    The healer looked, then dropped her gaze to the carpeted floor. Said,


    "It was an unworthy blow, and we are most fortunate that My Lord has recovered."


    "He shall not hold himself fortunate," grumped Valerian, signaling impatiently for her help with dressing. (Yes, he could do it himself, with magic. No, he did not, as a general rule. Not with a servant about.) "That makes two that I have to track down and fight¡­ although maybe not kill the Tabaxi. He seems a good enough fellow, once you''ve got past the strong smell and bad manners¡­ also, Lady Salem is rather attached to him¡­ Wait, no¡­ three, rather," he amended with a scowl, recalling Kaazin. "But the last one may already be dead."


    At least, it was difficult to imagine the drow prancing about with much energy, after major burns, stab wounds and an axe to the head.


    The healer''s warm eyes brushed his gaze and then drifted back to the red and gold carpet.


    "It appears that My Lord will be kept very busy," she remarked, stooping to lace up the booted foot that he placed on a stool before her.


    "Your lord would far rather be out in the countryside, fishing¡­ but matters have contrived themselves otherwise," he sighed, losing most of his anger, like a becalmed ship with suddenly drooping sails.


    Smythe lay by the bed on a cloth of red silk, he noticed; still utterly dark and inanimate. Dead.


    Said the healer, whose hair was pale brown streaked very lightly with gold,


    "Will¡­ will My Lord have anything else?"


    Val considered a moment, tugging at his stiffly embroidered new garments. Very fine, but a little uncomfortable, having not yet adapted to their wearer''s size and activity.


    "Yes, please," he asked. "Day-brew, if there''s aught to be had¡­ and any breakfast at all except dried meat, hard tack or apples."


    Which he now despised, right down to their final few lint-covered crumbs in the sack.


    "Of course. My Lord has but to speak his pleasure."


    She arranged a meal, hovering nearby, busying herself with her simples and herbs until the food and drink tray arrived. Directed servants in setting up a table and chair for his lordship''s repast, then sent them away.


    Custom said he should wait to be formally summoned to meat¡­ but Valerian was too hungry for custom. He sat himself down and began tucking in, pointing to a nearby chair.


    "Sit, if you please, and talk. Start anywhere, discuss anything at all of interest. I am a stranger here, and dread to make a fool of myself before others of rank. Your conversation will help me to learn."


    The healer hesitated momentarily, then took the indicated seat, as well as the cup and sweet roll that magically wafted her way.


    "I¡­ yes. Well, then, Milord¡­ there is some confusion as to why there appear to be two of you," she began, red-faced and clearly not wishing to pry.


    Val paused in his barely-polite tearing of food. This seemed to be one of those situations where the truth required a certain amount of massaging. Of elasticity. Maybe best not to mention that Sherazedan had sent him here at his own request, the high-elf reflected.


    "A puzzle, indeed. Strong magic involved, no doubt. I recommend further study. But, erm¡­ what of yourself? How came you to the position of healer in the Tarandahl court?"


    She said, looking down at her half-nibbled pastry,


    "I could expect nothing better, My Lord. I am an elf¡­ but my parents are both of them half-elves. I have thus neither clan, nor rank amongst the true people."


    Oh. Like his guard friend Londo''s woman; the one who had designed and crafted his formal wear, back in Karellon. Sometimes such pairings resulted in half-elves. Sometimes in lost and unmoored elves. Other times, to the sorrow of all who would far outlive their child, in a full-blooded human. Val nodded.


    "And your parents are still¡­"


    "Alive, yes, thank you, Milord. In service with High Lord Arvendahl. It was deemed best that I leave, so my folk scraped up coin to pay for training in heal-craft¡­ and then your grandfather, Lord Galadin, had an opening after the last healer perished of not saving a patient. Fate-linkage is a definite spur to good work, but a harsh one. Not that¡­ I meant no disrespect to His Lordship," she said in a rush, sounding alarmed.


    But Valerian wasn''t offended. He''d spent too much time among the servants, growing up. Her concerns were very familiar.


    "I would have gone into something less hazardous," he mused. "Horses or hounds, I think. Or groundskeeping. One might spend a whole lifetime taking care of the gardens and stocking the ponds," Val remarked, tossing the healer a plum and some cherries. Then, changing the subject,


    "I have not learnt your name, although you know mine."


    She raised her face again, glowing with something very like happiness.


    "I am called Sylvia, My Lord¡­ and I would never presume to use your name." Think it, yes. Sing it a hundred times inside herself, absolutely. But never speak it aloud, like the irrational, unending secret name of a god.


    "Well, it seems handier than ''my lord'' all the time," said Valerian, starting on a last slice of buttered toast. "This was good. Five or six more such meals, and I might begin feeling myself, once again."


    Then, getting back to the point,


    "What of the household? These are clearly Tarandahl colors and ensigns. I find myself at home. Almost. But, before I commit some irretrievable blunder, I would know how matters stand with the family, Sylvia."


    As he magically topped up her day-brew, Valerian glanced all around at the luxurious private pavilion.


    "Is all of this here for just me?" he wondered aloud.


    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    "Of course, My Lord. You are a son of the House," the healer replied, seeming puzzled.


    Val got to his feet. Stretched and turned a full circle, looking around at all of that sumptuous space. Then he said,


    "It''s just¡­ at the sorcerer''s keep, back in Karellon, I inhabit a cramped cell by the raven loft. With magic, I''ve linked a few points¡­ campsites, mostly¡­ so it''s become larger¡­ but still just an unheated stone garrett. At home, as I visit so rarely, they have never yet moved me out of the nursery, and¡­ and you''re laughing at me," finished Valerian, coloring slightly.


    "No," protested Sylvia. "I would never laugh¡­ nor presume to say that I find My Lord most charming. So very different from¡­"


    "From the one you desire," he concluded, finally getting it. "My life''s history, written in brief."


    Val was saved from this terribly awkward situation by the arrival of a servant, who rang the tone, outside. He went to the shielded portal himself, leaving the healer time to regain her composure.


    It was a half-elf in Tarandahl colors, one of the family footmen, back-lit by shimmering sigils of honesty and defense. To be trusted implicitly, in other words.


    "My Lord," said the Feen, bowing respectfully. "Milord and Milady request the honor of your presence at mid-meal, if¡­ I was bidden to say¡­ if Your Lordship feels well enough."


    Val knew the young man; had diced and practiced at arms with him, back home¡­ but none of that seemed to have happened, here.


    "I thank you for bearing the message, Anton. Kindly relay my acceptance. I shall be there, with greatest pleasure."


    The Feen startled a bit at the use of his name, then recovered enough to reply, saying,


    "I shall so inform them, My Lord. Good day, and glad tidings."


    "To you and to yours, as well," replied Valerian, nodding politely.


    Anton Footman Feen Tarandahl backed the prescribed three paces from Val, bowed and then left, his face no longer a rigid mask. And so word began spreading, throughout the back camp, that something had changed.


    The young healer was gone when Val reentered his pavilion (which had partitions and actual separate chambers). The foodstuffs and dishes had vanished, as well. He would have packed the whole business up and stuffed it away for never, only something yet lay on the garnet table. A small gift box, wrapped in shining paper of Arvendahl green.


    Val could have ignored it and been on about his activities. He could have opened the box then and there, or taken it up and put it away in a warded faerie pocket.


    He did not belong here and could not long stay. His actions would reflect good or ill on the Valerian of this place. He had no business fanning a spark¡­ but picked up the gift and tucked it into his formal day-coat''s heart pocket, where one normally kept a talisman of health and protection. What better shield was there than love? Even if unrequited.


    There was time before mid-meal, so Val went over to Smythe. Gently picked up the great, clumsy weapon and brought it across the main room to a pillow-strewn couch.


    (Seriously¡­ all of this space, just for him?)


    Sat down, with the blade laid on his lap, then conjured oil, rags and a whetstone. Set to work, because doing things kept him from thinking of all that had happened.


    "I realize," said Valerian, as he labored to grind a fine edge, "that we got off to a very rough start. Admittedly, I was unworthy, and only the worst of possible circumstances reduced you to seeking me out¡­ but I would do my best to repair all my shortcomings, if you might see your way clear to returning. No need to reply now. Think it over. In the meantime, I shall practice, striving with all my might for betterment at arms."


    "That is not how it works," said a new voice, one he''d last heard as a young boy, and thought never to hear again, short of Oberyn''s call. "The sword chose you, and thought you worthy to die for," said Galadin, stepping fully into his near-grandson''s pavilion. He was unarmoured, now. Dressed in casual clothing, white hair unbound.


    Valerian hastened to rise, levitating sword, oil flask, whetstone and rags as he did so.


    "My Lord," he said, bowing deeply with hand at his heart. "I apologize. I had not expected¡­"


    "I did not announce," Lord Tarandahl cut him off. "You may keep at your work, boy. I would not interrupt you, but¡­" here his voice dropped to a weary sigh. "I find formal meals tedious, and no way at all to actually talk. It is your grandmother who delights in such foolishness."


    Val, as the host, summoned a chair and then spoke an order for food and drink to the listening air. Moments later, both appeared.


    "My Lord, please be seated and join me at table," Valerian formally requested, adding, "It is¡­ more than I can express, to see you. I¡­ Grandmother is here, too?"


    It had been so very long.


    "Yes," said Galadin, around a big mouthful of bread and cheese. As Val had remembered, he liked a plain, filling meal. "She is here, preparing prodigies of food craft and host arts for mid-meal. It seemed safest to stay out of her way."


    Val looked aside, lest he grin disrespectfully. He and Granddad had been close, before the end.


    "The female of the species¡­" he began.


    "...is a subtle and dangerous creature," his grandfather concluded, feelingly. Draining a third cup of wine, Galadin said,


    "About the sword, though¡­ Vesendorin has gone, his task here completed. He is now with our fathers, awaiting the call."


    "Then I''ve killed him," said Val, barely whispering.


    "No. Better to say, you''ve released him," corrected Galadin. "He deemed you worth dying to save, as Oberyn''s sword saved him, thousand-years past. This great, clumsy thing is a relic of knightly service to the Strider, going all the way back to Arrival. Vesendorin had all but fallen in battle when the spirit of Oberyn which animated the weapon saved him from death."


    "Then how¡­ My Lord, how was Vesendorin able to bring back its life?" asked Val.


    "By becoming that life. With continual use in battle, despite its ungainly length and weight, Vesendorin altered and woke the blade. Not so much attuning the weapon as making it his. More wine!" Galadin snapped at the air. "And roast lamb with gravy and vegetables. Copious gravy." Muttering, "Done with finger food," as a wrap-up.


    "Then¡­ I am going to end up haunting the sword of the Tarandahls?" Val wondered aloud.


    "Afraid so," replied his grandfather, making a handmeal of bread, cheese and just-arrived lamb. "On the other hand, there are worse afterlives. I believe that your cousin Eldaran is still serving time as one of Titania''s meddlesome cats. Suits him. Besides, it isn''t permanent. You''ll be in service until¡­"


    "... Some other idiot winds up in trouble."


    But Granddad shook his head. Swallowed a bit of his gravy-dunked sandwich, washed it down with more wine and said,


    "Not just any idiot. One whose gallantry and courage earns them a second chance."


    Val looked down at the empty sword. His future home, so it seemed.


    "I am¡­ not certain whether to wish for amazing descendants or utter catastrophes," he mused.


    Galadin snorted, reaching across the food-laden table to mage-punch his shoulder.


    "Perhaps a bit of both," said High Lord Tarandahl, just as grandmother, Lady Alyanara, appeared.


    There was beauty. There was loveliness, bird song, flowers and spring bursting through snow¡­ and there was Alyanara bin Tarandahl, handmaid of the Dawn.


    Val and Lord Galadin both stood and bowed, in the presence of one to be worshiped, and not merely loved.


    Alyanara stepped forward, her feet gracing the carpets with the barest of touch. Her footprints glowed on the cloth, as the sheen of the fey-wilds lit her like sunshine.


    "Val," she said, smiling and reaching for this second form of her grandson. Then, searching closer, her pure violet eyes probing his face, she whispered, "but you are bereft, have lost nearly everyone¡­ Oh, no¡­ oh, Little Love¡­"


    And then she brushed food, table and sword gear aside with a magical gesture, leaving them to drift like the bits in a snow-globe as she rushed to embrace Valerian.


    He hugged her right back, feeling the sudden release of something pent for so long that he''d almost forgotten it. But the last, final stroke, the thing that unmanned Valerian, was the whirlwind, yapping arrival of Skipper, his grandfather''s black and white dog.


    Barking excitedly, Skipper leapt at everyone in the pavilion, winding up in Val''s arms. Skipper, who''d perished at sea in his own plane, along with Lord Galadin. Val could do nothing but bury his face in dog hair and cry.


    Galadin cleared his throat once or twice, then went off to examine the pavilion''s furnishings, half-eaten sandwich in hand. Alyanara held her lost grandson until he''d managed to pull himself together. Cleansed him with a spell, at which point Lord Tarandahl came over once more.


    "So," said the tall elf, "you are not truly ours¡­"


    "But we can be yours," cut in Grandmother, placing a hand on her lord-husband''s wrist. "What do you require of us, Little Love, to help set things right, in your plane?"


    For, of course, she''d already guessed nearly everything. Straightforward enough, only, like he''d been faced with an unusually benevolent djinn, Val hardly knew what to ask for.


    "I would not speak of ill fortune in this fair place," he hedged, setting Skipper back onto the ground. Granddad''s last magic, in his own world, had gone toward keeping as many of his crew above stormy water as possible, but Skipper wouldn''t stay on the mage-raft. He''d jumped back in after Galadin.


    "Here, everyone is well and alive and still happy. Elsewhere, not so. I suppose¡­ supplies, mounts and safe-passage, in order that I might reach Starloft here and then cross back over to Starloft there. At least, if I''ve understood the old li¡­ Sherazedan''s hint correctly."


    Galadin frowned slightly, moving as though to speak and then stilling himself. It was Ayanara who broke the ensuing silence with,


    "Your plane is quite different. Sorrowfully so. Provisions and horses are but the smallest of matters. You shall need assistance in this other realm, Little Love. Gone to the fey-wilds, has she? Well, there is a time when grief becomes mere self-indulgence. It has been long enough, if I read matters correctly, and she is ignoring genuine need. Perhaps I shall go have a word with my malingering other self."


    Valerian inclined his head, knowing she meant what she''d said, for Lady Alyanara was a powerful sorceress. Beside and slightly before her, Galadin''s face underwent a series of swift expression changes, smoothing over completely when his lady wife placed a hand on his arm.


    "By your leave, Milord?" she petitioned the stoic elf lord.


    "Naturally," he said in reply. "And I shall ward the last row, whilst the Matriarch travels." He was a great player of the Crown Game, and had gifted Val his first child''s set.


    It was just then that a large contingent of wood-elves arrived. Archers, mostly, with a unit of spearmen and slingers along to balance things out. The high-elf encampment soon rang with horn blasts and marshaling cries, as children, servants and the Snowmont folk were all brought into the warded camp circle.


    Galadin armored up with a spell, looking grimly pleased. At a flick of his lordship''s gauntleted hand, Valerian found himself dressed for war, in armor he''d have been on bread and thin soup for ten cycles to pay for. As for weapons, he had Nightshade, and Granddad helped him to sheathe and buckle on Smythe, his once and future sword.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 Chapter Five

    28


    The cell almost never stopped moving, and its path pretty much never changed. So regular that Lerendar was able to time that steady and rumbling circuit. Could anticipate its short pauses, and knew to the instant when his bubble would merge with those of Tendons, Bony or Legless.


    (Good fellows all, and his comrades-in-arms, if a bit quiet. But then, he was their leader. The one who meant to escape.)


    He''d awakened in savage, tooth-grinding pain, being shoved along by the rear wall of his prison, which had been spelled to contain him. Not dead, because Dad''s last-magic blessing prevented it, but almost too crippled to move. The first few days had been rough. Burning with fever and nightmare, he''d been swept along like a fallen tree in the path of a landslide. Reliving the death and defeat of his father, over and over again.


    Twice a circuit, at the intersection with Torchlit Corridor and Bottomless Pit, there was a cloth-wrapped package of food and a flask of weak, faintly bubbling wine. Awful stuff. Turned his stomach, and still he ate everything but the meat, which could have been dried, seasoned anyone. Goblins weren''t picky, while gnolls took their flesh mostly raw and still struggling. He thought of mom. Of Bea, Zara and Val. Of what they were facing, without him.


    ¡­and he had to get free. Had to warn Starloft. That meant patching himself up and then sneaking off through a scribble of shifting rat-tunnels¡­ somehow.


    Time passed, bringing a bit of strength and a spark of hope, for a Tarandahl never gave up and never let fear back him down.


    He''d managed to scrounge a few things, as his enclosure rolled through the mountain. Nothing but trash to the old Lerendar, future Silmerana; valuable treasure to this one.


    Besides his snapped dagger, he now boasted a cracked, buzzing amulet, an old tinderbox, one mostly full bottle of healing elixir and somebody''s final message. A spell-scroll, really, so nothing but siren-scratch to Lerendar, except that its last owner had scrawled a map and a few dirty jokes on the back.


    The map wasn''t immediately useful, but the jokes were funny, especially the one about the half-orc wench and the pine tree. You had to respect a man who, facing the end, had chosen to go down laughing.


    Anyhow, by dragging himself to the cell''s leading edge, Lerendar could rest for nearly a candle mark, before the back wall caught up and shoved him along like a massive broom.


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    Staying forward with kicks, shoves and scrabbles allowed him to spot things lying on the floor of intersecting tunnels, corners or shafts. All of his useful items had come to him, thus. But, the surprises weren''t always good.


    One time, a dribble of acid slime streamed through the gap, filling his prison with acrid, throat-searing fog. He burnt it with fire, using flint and steel from his tinderbox and somebody''s torn-off, leathery arm.


    A few circuits later, he''d been attacked by wolf-sized, eyeless white spiders. Four of them. A fifth had been squashed in half when his cell rolled all the way past their crevice. One down, spraying foul liquid all over the chamber, but then the survivors moved in. Stalked him with raised forelegs and wide-spreading tusks; leaping from floor to ceiling and skittering up on the walls to strike from behind.


    They couldn''t kill him. No venemous bite or sucking mouthparts got through Dad''s blessing, but their webbing could smother and trap, if he let it. Scooting backward on both hands and his rump, using his good leg to kick with, Lerendar smashed one of the spiders into Bony''s cell and away. That was two of them out of the fight.


    Slashed at a third with Snap, when the monster dropped down on him from the rumbling stone ceiling. The broken blade tore through a spiracle and into the spider''s hairy abdomen, releasing gouts of rank fluid. It flipped upside-down off of Lerendar, curling and straightening all eight jointed legs like a clenching fist. Three.


    The last two he pelted with stones and debris, waiting until his prison rolled over the Bottomless Pit to lure them into a fatal jump. Didn''t time it properly. Instead of slotting in neatly, one of the spiders got scissored in half between the moving floor and well''s edge¡­ the other fell in; both of them gone, just the same.


    Once, a shade oozed in, black as a starless night. Lerendar frankly expected to die, for he hadn''t the magic to deal with such hungering wanderers. But it never attacked him. Merely hovered there; for all the world as though staring. Then it puddled away, stretching like pine gum to pour through a sudden flicker of tunnel.


    Worst, though, he''d had to splint his own shattered leg, using spider web, elixir, bits of found leather and the spines of some long-perished beast. Lerendar waited until his cell came to its daily halt. Once the vibration and rumbling ceased, once all those pebbles and sand stopped their bouncing, the wounded elf set to work.


    Fainted three times in the process and nearly bit through his lip while pushing that bone into place and wrenching his leg back around with both shaking hands. Elixir helped a little. So did controlled breathing, lurid curses and prayer.


    "Dad," he gasped, leaning forward to press down a jagged raw splinter of bone. "Dad, they can''t kill me and I can''t¡­ I can''t die, unless I give up¡­ and let go. But, see¡­ Short-stuff is coming here¡­ doesn''t know what he''s getting¡­ into. Gnolls, not just goblins. They''ll¡­ they''ll eat him alive. Eat Bea and Zara and Mom. Have to get out. Have to warn Val. Please¡­ please¡­ Dad¡­ Mom¡­ please help me to do this."


    Yeah, so¡­ worst splinting job, ever. He would never get work as a healer, anywhere¡­ but he did it. Maybe Dad''s final blessing, maybe just dumb, stubborn Tarandahl pride, but he managed to patch himself up.


    Ended up shaking and bloody, nearly in shock from the pain. Lay there sprawled on the cell floor. Prayed to the dawn, if it could hear him so far below ground, that his cell wouldn''t start moving again. Not yet.


    Please, please¡­ not yet.

 Chapter Six

    29


    The day was chilly and grey, with brief, knifing gusts of sharp wind. Galadin met the wood-elf contingent in full, resplendent battle array; a high elven lord in all of his glory and power. Mounted on bright bay Traveler, with Reston, Val and Filimar also a-horse and slightly behind him, Galadin watched the first assembly''s approach. Most were on foot, though the woodling''s high druid stalked ahead of the rest as a wolf. Beneath Lord Tarandahl''s horse, Skipper growled softly, but stayed in place.


    A murder of ravens cawed and wheeled overhead, ready for battle themselves. Would doubtless have scouted the camp from above, only Alyanara''s ward sphere prevented it; knocking them out of the air every time they attempted skullduggery. Her silvery runes formed a dome overhead, knife-sharp and beautiful.


    The wood-elf main party came to a rattling halt about a furlong away from the high-elf encampment. Fairly disciplined, weapons to hand but not drawn.


    The wolf was a warg-sized silvery brute crackling with magical energy, looking every bit as much like a normal beast as Galadin looked like a shop-clerk. It padded into the truce zone between the two armies, head lowered, eyes glowing. Galadin clucked to Traveler, riding forward, himself.


    Valerian started to do the same, but two things¡­ a gesture and head-shake from Reston, and the jarring, bouncing sense of himself somehow hurrying up through the ranks¡­ kept Val from moving. Then he was very much in two places at once, seeing himself tall in the saddle, mounted on Dusty¡­ and down on the hoof-churned ground, reaching up for the reins.


    He thought¡­ was fairly certain¡­ he got off the horse. At any rate, found himself standing with most of his conscious mind as Val-who-was-late-for-the-confrontation. His other self cut a rather splendid figure, thought Valerian, as he backed away through massed horses, archers and spearmen, trying not to disrupt their formation.


    So, he wasn''t wanted up front. Not really. Lerendar would have scoffed that a mage belonged at the rear, where his tender hide would less likely be trampled or pierced. Where he could mumble and gesture in relative safety, letting warriors handle the actual fight.


    And he was no longer dressed in fine armor. Just average elven stuff. What his other self or¡­ he? What one of them had struggled into while rushing to reach the front ranks.


    Well, there were the pickets and families in possible need of defense, Valerian reasoned. Perhaps he''d be of some use, over there. Could anyhow still sense what was happening up front, thanks to those nauseating shifts in perspective.


    Moving at a lope, he inscribed and loaded a shield spell, then sent it to other-Val in case someone was unwise¡­ suicidal¡­ enough to loose an arrow at Granddad. Overhead, the Tarandahl griffin banner circled and fluttered, along with a few screeching hawks. Down below, the central green teemed with servants, camp-followers and the warriors'' families. Anxious wives and young husbands shouted at children who ran about as though freed from the classroom. The youngest of fighters were here; pages and wards lugging swords and bows almost taller than they were.


    Spying Valerian, their skinny, red-haired young officer rushed over, looking deeply relieved.


    "My Lord," exclaimed the group leader, "All is in order, here, except for the children. They want to go forward to see what is happening, but it just isn''t safe!"


    A simple enough matter. With a quickly-tailored spell, Val seized the hot little mind of a circling hawk, then projected its view onto the green''s young inhabitants. The children were still for a moment. Then they began racing around in circles, arms spread out as though flying; whooping and shrieking with laughter. A quarter candle mark would keep them entertained, Valerian figured.


    He had other concerns, looking around through the crowd for Salem, Hilt and Mirielle.


    "The Snowmont folk," he asked. "Where are they quartered?"


    The young officer nudged a free-wheeling lass onto a safer flight path, then said,


    "The common refugees are out back with the pickets and cook tents, Milord, in temporary confinement. Shall I assign an escort?"


    Val shook his head, no.


    "I thank you, but it is better to keep your war-band here and together, Group Leader. I can find my own way."


    She bowed low, hand at her heart.


    "Safe path and good hunting, Milord."


    "If it comes to that¡­ but I think that they are here to treat, not give battle." Or maybe to answer the war bells. At any rate, saying,


    "Good hunting, Group Leader," Valerian left the packed, noisy green.


    Other-Val''s knowledge led him through many rows of pavilions and tents, until he came to the service encampment and horse pickets. There, he found the Snowmont folk, together with Salem and Mirielle. No Gildyr, though, and no sneaking, treacherous wood-elf paladin.


    The Tabaxi was restless, her velvet fur standing on end, her tail a lashing dark, gold-banded whip. She was unarmed and rumbling with tension, Val noticed. Near her stood Mirielle, while Hilt came stomping over a few moments later.


    Salem sprang forward and bumped her head against Valerian''s shoulder, rubbing herself along the elf''s right side.


    "You have recovered," she observed, smelling medicinal. "There was some doubt." Then, "We should leave this place of arrogant bare-hides, Mrowr. They reek, and they do your species no credit."


    Cap''n popped out of tattoo form to land on Val''s shoulder, screeching and capering, taking hold of his hair as though it were horse-reins. Gently freeing himself, the high-elf said,


    "We depart shortly, and our hosts do not reek. Some of them are family." Well, in a manner of extra-plane speaking.


    He next turned to Hilt, greeting the dwarf with a handclasp.


    "Well, yer no worse," she observed morosely, looking the elf up and down.


    "And you are no taller, but here we are," replied Val, adding, "I thank you both, for lending your aid. And for yours," he added, turning to Mirielle. But the half-drow girl wouldn''t look at him.


    "You lied," she whispered. "You said ''together''."


    Valerian hesitated a moment, sorting through likely excuses. Then,


    "I lied," he admitted, touching a hand to the girl''s lowered head. "And I arranged that trick with the bracelet fully intending to deceive, meaning to spare you and save¡­ save¡­"


    Who?


    For just a heartbeat or so, Val had trouble remembering just who he''d placed the other joke bracelet on. Mirielle, he noticed, wore both of them.


    But¡­ there had been another young girl, her nose broken where Mirielle''s merely seemed swollen. Her arm badly wrenched, where this girl''s only hung limp.


    She''d saved his life with an extra ladle of water, though. She''d been with the Snowmont captives¡­ hadn''t she? Val struggled to make two sets of conflicting memories fit in his head, when one of the people he thought he remembered was gone.


    "I thought¡­ what I did made sense at the time, but I was wrong, Mirielle, and I am sorry. I submit myself to your judgment." No light matter, and witnessed by all those who stood near. The other child, if she had ever existed at all, did not seem to be missed by anyone else, including Hilt, her former mistress.


    Mirielle finally looked up at him, crying without any sound. Apparently feeling betrayed.


    "Don''t lie to me, please, Milord. And don''t keep me from danger, when I could help you."


    Taking off one of the trick bracelets, she offered it back to Valerian, who accepted and donned it.


    Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    "Your conditions are just. Never again shall I attempt to deceive you, Mirielle."


    She threw herself at him, wrapping a skinny arm tight about Val''s armored form. The other arm would only rise halfway, but a touch and a spell soon set her shoulder aright.


    Somehow, that made his disorientation worse. As though taking away the differences between the two girls had made them more firmly one person. There were two Vals here, as well. Two increasingly similar minds and fast-blending memories. He could feel himself in both places at once, beginning to not be two people.


    "We must depart," said both of him at the same time. "Good dwarf, they are close to an agreement, out front. The wood-elves will march to the relief of Snowmont. They shall provide you an escort of safety. I must go north."


    Now. At once.


    While he still could, and remembered the reason.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Gildyr with Karus, Arondyr with Astrea, were nearly oblivious to anything else but the joy of their bonded heart-friends. Yes, the druid had plans that needed attention, but not in this place, where goblin and high-elf were never at war.


    Absolutely, Arondyr was forsworn and no longer a paladin, with no great quest or main weapon, at all.


    ¡­but these facts did not register, weighed against the recovery of love so deep and so lasting that nothing else could hope to compete. Nightmare and sorrow were shoved away to the furthest corner of both elves'' minds. The future was unexamined in the midst of a childlike, wondering now, spent with a lordly white elk and great wolf.


    They were happy. They healed. What more needs to be said? Allow them their heaven, just a bit longer.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Only, some things could not be hurried along. The former captives came up to thank and greet Val. Most notably Hilt''s mother, Tang, who offered him a stick. Scrub pine, he thought, sharpened at one end through patient rubbing on stone.


    "Take it," she grunted, causing the rings in her grey-streaked beard to rattle and chime. Some were missing, torn out by the slavers, but enough remained to make music whenever she spoke.


    "Might not look like much, but she were meant ter stab the very next guard as came within reach (or yer lordship, when we thought you was drow). Wood-fang, I calls ''er; blooded and forged by a Black Anvil dwarf. No matter the substance we work with, what we make ''ll strike true. She''ll not fail ye, Milord."


    Indeed, had already come between him and the wood-elf paladin.


    Valerian received the stick gravely, standing with helmet tucked in the crook of one arm.


    "My thanks, good smith. I shall keep her to hand. Dwarven-forged arms have been known to turn the course of battles, when all other hope seemed lost."


    Hilt''s mum surprised him by smiling.


    "Y''ve done us a good turn, Milord, and we never ferget a friend. Strike ''er point down in the ground, at need. We''ll ''ear, and we''ll come. A Black Anvil swears it, and so it shall be."


    A ripple of truth spread out and away from the older dwarf-woman, encompassing all who stood by; Snowmonters, high-elves and woodlings, out to the gods, themselves.


    Into a belt loop went Wood-fang, after which Valerian met Hilt''s younger brother. Dirk, he was named, beardless and shy, still dressed in the scraps of his school clothes over donated breeches and shirt. Nearly as broad as he was tall, Dirk was still shaken by raid and captivity.


    "We''re goin'' ''ome?" he pled, gazing up at the high-elf.


    "That you are, with an entire company of wood-elf archers and spearmen for escort. They will keep any footpads you meet quite respectful," said Val.


    The boy sniffled, but managed the ghost of a smile.


    "We''ll be safe all the way ''ome," murmured Dirk, hugging himself tightly. "No one ''ll try nuthin''. Not with an escort along."


    Val considered a moment, then said,


    "A Tarandahl is never afraid¡­ and it helps to remind myself of that fact, periodically. I am certain that a Black Anvil dwarf, likewise, never knows fear."


    Or, at least, like Valerian, did his level best not to show it. Not where others looked to find strength and resolve.


    There were more rescued captives, and the high-elf met all of them. Though torn with impatience (as well as his other self''s distaste for commoners) he spoke politely to all who would greet him, accepting their offers and thanks.


    Then the staccato call of a gyrfalcon stitched at the air, quite distinct from the hawks of the high-elves. Val looked up to see a large white raptor wheeling across the cloudy afternoon sky.


    "Snowbird?!" he blurted, both of him.


    Other-Val was still busy with formal diplomacy, alongside Granddad, Reston and Filimar. Not so, what Valerian still mostly thought of as himself.


    With a hurried word of excuse, the elf stepped away from the crowd and looked upward. This place was well north of a snowy gyrfalcon''s normal range, he thought. So¡­ possibly?


    Anyhow, the white bird appeared to be looking for someone. Somehow spotted and recognized Val. Shrieking her stuttering call, Snowbird rode the winds and the thermals like a dragon. Circled once more, then folded her wings and dove down to land on his upraised forearm. She was a large, heavy bird and struck like a feathery thunderbolt, but Val was ready and braced.


    Her talons sank deep in his leather gauntlet as her back-beating wings kept the gyrfalcon from pitching head-forward over his arm.


    "Hello, Drumstick," he greeted her, complexly glad, apprehensive and shy. "Where''s your mum, then?"


    Brought his arm down so that he might look the great bird in her fierce golden eyes.


    ''Kree-kree-kree'', she screeched again, all of her hot mind focused on meat, torn fresh from the bone.


    "No rabbit," he apologized. "But I''ve some emergency brook-trout preserved in a faerie pocket, if you''d like."


    She did, indeed, like. Was tearing with beak and talon at fish, when her mistress rode up with a party of rangers. Kalisandra Geldaherys, his long-time betrothed. Or, she of this place. Kalisandra pulled her steed to a prancing halt, then slid from the saddle, calling out insults (which he fully expected) and love words (which he absolutely did not).


    Snowbird took to the air once more as her mistress rushed over to Val. Her helmet off, dark hair braided in one fuzzy plait, expression intense and serious, Sandy first reached up to seize his shoulders, then drew Val toward her, causing their armor to clash.


    "Fisher," she said, huskily. "We heard the war bells, but could not leave Lindyn entirely undefended. I came with what Counselor Garrod would spare. Are you well, Stupid Northerner? Have we come in time, Love?"


    She studied his face, started to lean further in, as if for a kiss, then drew back, frowning slightly. Sensing something wrong, something different, Kalisandra demanded,


    "What is it? What has happened, Fisher?"


    She had one blue eye and one brown one, both now narrowed in bleak suspicion. Valerian cleared his throat, stepping away just a bit. Possibly the hardest thing he''d ever done, to that point.


    "I am not the one you believe me to be, Milady," said Val. "I am from a plane very similar to this one, sent here to¡­" (to not make himself look bad, either of him. No one had needed help, or been knocked unconscious by a miserable wood-elf.) "...to bypass enemy-held territory in my own realm."


    Not entirely untrue, just incomplete. Kalisandra looked suddenly very interested. Problem solved, but¡­


    He was suddenly back at the front lines, seated a-horse and once more in what might have been his own body. Could feel his other self embracing the woman he seemed to have fallen in love with, somewhere over those long hundred years.


    Disoriented by the sudden change, Valerian tensed, pulling in on the reins and causing Dusty to back a few paces, snorting.


    "My Lord?" ventured Reston, turning a bit in the saddle. Filimar put forth a hand as if to seize Dusty''s bridle.


    Val shook his head, too sick at heart, too confused to know what was real, any longer. Still in the truce zone, Galadin lifted a hand, palm outward, signaling the conclusion of dealings.


    The high druid was now back in elf form. A tall fellow, as dark-haired and green-eyed as most of his people. He bowed before Galadin, then swung around and returned to his massed, waiting folk. Still keeping place below Granddad''s horse, Skipper barked an ''and stay out!'' dismissal.


    Lord Tarandahl paused a moment longer, then turned his horse. Rejoined the high-elf contingent moments later, without so much as a backward glance.


    Once comfortably surrounded by his own people, the elf-lord said,


    "Kitten play. They have agreed to escort the refugees to Snowmont, remaining in place until the town is rebuilt. Young Filimar¡­"


    "My Lord?" replied the Arvendahl seedling, electric with sudden interest and hope.


    "I am quite certain that the high lord, your uncle Falcoridan, will have wishes of his own in this matter. Nevertheless, we are the ones who heard and responded, and so it falls to us to make necessary arrangements. It seems to me that Snowmont will require a capable interim ruler. Perhaps you would accompany the woodlings and captives back to town, and therein take charge of rebuilding."


    "Yes, My Lord," said Filimar, sitting tall and erect in the saddle, a green ribbon fluttering from his borrowed armor. "You do me great honor, and I shall not fail in my task."


    With Galadin''s leave, the young Arvendahl set off to collect his healed friends and make preparations; shining with plans and excitement. Here was an opportunity to prove himself as warlord and civic leader, a gift from the gods and High Lord Tarandahl. Val rode along for a bit to make his farewells and promises, offering a handclasp before rejoining Reston at Galadin''s side.


    "That worked out rather well," remarked his grandfather, a tough smugly. "Not only are the tree-lovers kept busy¡­ with young Filimar along to prevent them turning Snowmont back into wilderness¡­ but I''ve managed to dodge the wife''s formal banquet." Then, "Reston, take charge of defenses. I shall be in the central pavilion, contacting Falco and planning strategy. Busy for the foreseeable future. Disturb me for naught but direst need."


    "Yes, My Lord," Reston said to his father, who was already riding away, Skipper trotting alongside like a furry, black-and-white shadow.


    Valerian watched them go, then turned to look at his half-elven uncle, whose unshaven face was an iron-hard mask.


    ¡­and elsewhere, his other self had been drawn aside by Kalisandra, her fingers entwined with his and pressing a rhythmic pattern, the one they''d used when required to hold hands at state functions. ''I will never, EVER, (extra hard squeeze) marry you!'' Which here had come to mean something quite other.


    Needing escape from somebody else''s flooding emotions, Val said,


    "If you''ve no special need of me, Uncle, I would take up my bow and go fishing, a while."


    Reston Feen Tarandahl inclined his head.


    "As you will, Lord Valerian. Perhaps later, you will stop by my fire and sit for a time. We can drink and speak of what drove you here."


    For there were now two youngest Tarandahl lords, and they were not much alike, beyond their appearance. Val nodded in reply. Even managed a smile, saying,


    "I should like that. I shall bring you whatever I catch, and we can roast it over the embers."


    Just like they''d done in times past and planes other. The two elves struck palms in agreement, then Val rode away, heading for a line of low trees near a dragon-backed ridge that hinted at fast, flowing water.


    By hand-measure, there were yet several candle marks left before sunset. Plenty of time to get lost and to not think, at all.

 Chapter Seven

    Edited!


    30


    Salem could sense the continual shift in Valerian. Knew when her friend was pushed out and away by the mind of his second self.


    On the one hand, this was upsetting. On the other, it backed his claim that they''d come to another plane; that the Tristan she''d last seen cornered and fighting for his life was not, in fact, hers.


    She had to be certain, though. Had to find out for sure, and that was not possible, trapped in this awful place.


    Unarmed and closely watched by at least three elven bowmen, the Tabaxi was not foolish enough to steal, or attempt an escape. Not while the sun was still up and those archers attentive, anyhow.


    But darkness would come, in which inky black fur was an asset. Watchers would tire, lose focus and then¡­ Well, an enterprising and clever young thief could safely add to her fortune, whilst finding things out.


    "Cap''n," she called to her monkey. The small noble beast had been wandering about the containment circle with Kitten, looking foolish and idle while testing the wards that now confined only them.


    "Aye," he responded alertly, scampering over. "What be yer will, oh least gifted an'' able o'' thieves?"


    Salem growled but held her peace. Mostly.


    "I will a distraction, and information. Have you found any breaks in the ward circle?" she inquired, scratching the monkey''s harsh golden fur. Being covered in stiff, shiny bristles, he enjoyed a good scratch as much as Salem did.


    "Nay¡­" he replied with half-shut eyes and a satisfied grunt. "No breaks, as such¡­ but I think, if we was t'' put on a show, we might lure someone into scuffin'' the mage line a bit from outside, while th'' lass collects coin."


    Unlike the wards that Mrowr¡­ off someplace, instead of doing anyone any good¡­ had set up in the forest, this circle was meant to contain, not repel. Backed by the magic of cursed high-elves, that glittering line in the dust formed an impassable, one-directional barrier. But there were ways around anything, given ambition, talent and perseverance. And Salem had plenty of each.


    "Saucy dance, or comic?" she wondered aloud, scratching Cap''n ''s back.


    "Eyaaar¡­. This lot seem a bit stuffy. Disinclined, as it were, t'' throw coins at an honest night''s sultry gyrations. P''raps we''d be best off goin'' comic, with Kitt f''r th'' straight man. We c''n try th'' Trodden Tail an'' Circle Chase routine. Guaranteed t'' bring down th'' house."


    Stolen novel; please report.


    "Whilst we rob them naked and blind, then make good our escape. Only¡­ what of Mrowr? My curse has singled him out, and I cannot stray until all is resolved."


    She had been forced to leave home, departing family and Distant Sands Oasis, by the strength of that curse and its prophecy; learning the hard way to listen, and go whence directed.


    Cap''n stretched, then moved off to pick through his fur with busy, searching small fingers.


    "Eyaaar¡­" mused the monkey, eating something he''d found in his armpit. " ''Ee be a good lad, if disputatious an'' simple. Bound t'' show up around mealtime, I''d wager. ''Ee ''ll be wantin'' t'' check on ye an'' the lass."


    Salem rumbled a short, intense fret noise. She and Cap''n were stuck here for no reason at all. Mirielle-Kitten because she wouldn''t go back with the villagers and the elves did not trust a half-drow.


    Pain and captivity were too near a thing for Salem to rest easy in even the kindest, most open of prisons. She wanted out.


    "If Mrowr comes soon, he can break the ward circle and free us, himself. If not, Trod-Upon Tail, it is."


    The Snowmonters were already gone, having been shifted into the care of Filimar, who seemed not to know her well, here. Beyond a raised eyebrow and speculative smile, the dark-haired young noble had made no attempt to communicate. Nor had he freed her¡­ wretched, milk-nosed hairball that he was.


    No, she did not resemble anyone else in this loathsome bare-hide encampment. Yes, she''d been found in possession of a number of small, portable, easily concealed and valuable items.


    ¡­but that was no reason at all to confine her, when everyone else but the half-drow girl had been freed and sent home with a gift.


    At any rate, there was now ample room by the pickets and cook-tent for the show that would breach their magical cell. Carefully, little by bit, she, Cap''n and Mirielle set about gathering props and rehearsing their dance.


    Chair, broom, bucket and folding table¡­ food tray with pie¡­ even a live, pecking hen they lured over with bread. There were several dogs in the high-elven camp, but these did not trust the Tabaxi.


    Well, she''d be quit of them all, soon enough, Salem reasoned. All the plan needed was darkness, an audience and better than usual luck.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Years earlier, in a sideways, other-plane past: Gildyr had lain unconscious and raving for many long candle marks, as Grey Fang the goblin battled to heal him. The boy had lost a tremendous amount of blood and one arm, all of which had to be magically replaced. He should have died. Very nearly had.


    Only, Grey Fang called upon the hidden life of the forest, itself. Of those things which grew in the darkness and burrowed unseen. Tree roots and fungus. Earthworms and moles.


    Grey Fang drew on their power to first stabilize Gildyr, then graft and integrate a dryadic limb-bud. A difficult process, helped along by the lingering blessing of Karus, the boy''s slaughtered noble beast.


    Together with Squinty and Dog-bait, he''d hauled the boy away from the chaos of thundering hooves, screaming manticore and whistle-shriek-CRUMP of fire bolts. Hauled him down into their tunnel and off of the battlefield.


    See, to the lordly high-elves, goblins were nothing but vermin; fit only for extermination. But the woodlings¡­ aye, now. Those might listen. Might find something of mercy, deep in their hearts.


    So Grey Fang had seen his chance and he''d taken it, snatching a horribly injured boy from certain death; setting him back on the path to recovery, then sneaking him home to his sorrowning folk, along with a note.


    ''Help, please,'' he''d written, in powdered oak-gall and spit. ''Our people are dying. Our lands are near gone. Please, please help us.''


    Gildyr still had that carefully folded up note; worn in the faerie pocket nearest his heart. Had vowed to answer that plea and win peace for elf and goblin, alike.

 Chapter Eight

    31


    There was a river, flowing rapid and cold, with scattered deep pools and tall rocks from which one might strike. Val shed war like a snake skin. No armor. No weapons but dagger and bow and his own elven-keen senses, with Dusty turned loose to browse.


    The ridge to his west cast deep purple shadows. Willow and alder whispered and sighed in the rising wind of day''s end, losing their leaves a spiraling red-golden few at a time. The water chuckled and raced, here and there foaming.


    Insects and assemblers buzzed. Frogs and serpents plopped. A few elder bears nosed about, mostly minding their own business; sometimes rising to squint and sway on hind feet, looking him over. He greeted each towering bruin courteously, murmuring,


    "Grandfather," then backing away. As well fight a mountain, and there were plenty of fish.


    Gold-stripe and trout, mostly, though he also shot a rock-flicker, before it leapt backward in time. Explained the sudden presence and weight in his cold-pocket, Val guessed, retrieving the arrow.


    Moved along, keeping his shadow off of the water, attention focused on lazy, overfed fish. Spotted a big one. Blue-gill, as long as his forearm, half hidden in tree roots.


    Lined up the shot, aiming low and then lower than that. Drew carefully. Quietly.


    ¡­and then blinked in surprise as another bow sang, sending an arrow hissing from the opposite bank to skewer his prize. Val straightened, looked around, mentally rotating faerie pockets to bring his war gear back into first reach.


    Only, there on the far bank was¡­ himself. Almost. Dressed a bit differently, with a bow meant for sport, but still Valerian.


    At eye-contact, the other Val hand-signed, ''Peace'', adding, ''May I approach?''


    Valerian lowered his bow and put it away, signing back,


    ''Well met,'' and ''Come safely.''


    Only, his perspective kept changing. Sometimes he stood, wary and bleak, on the west bank. Sometimes he hopped rocks across murmuring water, lithe as a cat or an otter.


    Anyhow, soon both of them stood on the western bank, wondering what to do next. Finally, other-Val cleared his throat and half-bowed, saying,


    "I owe you a debt of thanks for coming to my aid. I¡­"


    Val snorted.


    "Thank you, Me, for saving me," he cut in.


    Second-Val grinned at him, looking relieved.


    "All right¡­ put that way, it does seem a little ridiculous."


    Valerian held up one hand, forefinger and thumb spaced very slightly apart.


    "Nevertheless," continued his other self, "I am alive and free, and Kalisandra saw me not in chains and silenced, thanks to your aid. I am grateful, and I wonder¡­ What can I do, in return? What seek you, here?"


    Only, it was becoming very difficult to tell which him was him, as their memories blended, nudging both Vals closer to being one person.


    "Oh," said the one who belonged to this place. "Oh, I see. I am¡­ so very sorry. I envy your magic, but not the hard fate that has brought you here."


    The wanderer shrugged.


    "I must find and save Lerendar," he said, clinging to shreds of himself like a drowning man clutching at sail cloth and ship''s timbers. "As for magic, you are too old to be fostered by Sherazedan, but¡­"


    "Sherazedan who?" interrupted his alternate, rudely. "There is no Sherazedan here. The last person to bear that name was the emperor''s brother."


    "Exactly," said Valerian, deeming his point fully made.


    "The first and last emperor, over five hundred cycles ago," other-Val told him. "But he perished in battle with an ancient copper dragon. Not that it killed him, mind. He just disappeared in mid-fight, and never was heard from again. Why do you speak of¡­ how do you remember¡­ the very long dead? I can see him in our mind, but it makes no sense. Sherazedan the Subtle is not even history. He has long since fallen to legend."


    Right. Well¡­


    "Perhaps time flows differently, in this place," mused Valerian, the sentence spoken by both, in alternate back and forth words.


    Changing the subject, Val-who-belonged probed,


    "Kalisandra is not¡­? Does she not care for us, where you come from?"


    "She goes her own way," replied alien-Val. "She is a ranger."


    "As is mine," interrupted one of him; a terribly ill-mannered, impatient fellow. "You must be straightforward, perfectly clear with the lass. Explain our feelings in simple terms that even a female can fathom."


    Val-who-was-other shook his blond head. Conjured cute, tiny images of himself and Kalisandra, saying,


    "Allow me to set the scene for you. Here cometh Valerian, full of romantic ardor, burning with manly passion."


    The mini Val took small Sandy''s hand, chirping,


    "Fear not, Sweetling, for we''ve already done it, in another plane."


    At which wee Kalisandra scowled and shoved him, squeaking,


    "That is the most pathetic bed-line I''ve ever heard, Stupid Northerner!"


    The images popped like soap-bubbles, leaving here-Val shaking his head sympathetically.


    "You do have a problem," he admitted, pulling a flask of mead from a faerie pocket and tossing it over.


    Valerian had the brief sensation of having both thrown and caught his own bottle, before their minds and forms pulled apart once again.


    Unscrewing the cap, he took a long pull at sweet, faintly alcoholic honey-wine. Then he capped it once more and lofted it back.


    "Returning to the subject of magic, you might go to the City and study with Murchison. He is a human wizard¡­ a future lich or necromancer, according to Sherazedan¡­"


    "Who doesn''t exist," corrected one of him. The stupid, discourteous one.


    "As you will have it. Anyhow, go to the City. You can stay with Aunt Meliara and work with Murchison. He is a good enough sort for a human, and quite powerful."


    Added, after thinking a moment,


    "Your talent is there. It is real, and can help you. And¡­ not having magic to call upon, kills."


    Mere weapons and firebolts hadn''t saved Dad, or kept Lerendar free. Nor saved Snowmont from raiding drow.


    Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.


    They looked at each other. Were each other for several stuttering heartbeats. Then,


    "I have to go," said what was left of the wanderer. "I have to ride north. Send¡­ if you would¡­ send the Tabaxi and Mirielle after me, and go speak with Reston. Explain my absence, please."


    Here-Val scowled, momentarily offended at the thought of explaining himself to a mere half-elven Feen. Then, as Valerian''s memories of home intermingled, he said,


    "I shall do so. I cannot promise to change all at once, but I will learn magic and work on getting to know those we used to¡­"


    "Still."


    "...love. As you love¡­"


    "Endure."


    "...Kalisandra. Speak with her, idiot. She is proud. She will not move first. Trust me."


    Once or twice there was only one of him, talking to air, as the invaded plane sought to paper over the alien. Then, he stumbled off, calling to Dusty. The beautiful, dapple-grey stallion, son of the north wind, came at once. Valerian made it into the saddle; foot in the stirrup, swinging over and up while simultaneously watching himself do so.


    It was a very near thing, and ragged pieces of both minds were left in each Val. Just barely parting in time, heading as fast and as far as they could, the youngest Tarandahl lords broke mostly free of each other.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Sometime earlier, in Karellon''s walled Imperial Quarter, the situation was growing tense; their sense of long waiting, interminable. Having concerns of his own, Nalderick Valinor ob Korvin ob Aldarion¡­ the Prince Attendant¡­ requested an audience. He then waited nearly a fortnight to speak with His Imperial Majesty, the Emperor. A serious step, and not one he''d taken lightly.


    He was troubled and angry. Needed to do something positive rather than waste his time at court or the workroom, brewing foul potions and performing moldy old rites that no one but Sherazedan cared about.


    Thus, he''d worked his way through the smothering protocol web and called for a royal audience, which was granted. Eventually.


    Not even his own grandson could push his way past guards, attendants, seneschals and¡­ most rigid of all¡­ Sherazedan, to address the Emperor. It wasn''t done, and trying could get one exiled or killed. Nor did one simply stroll into the Presence without a good reason. Especially now.


    His Imperial Majesty was not in the crystalline throne room, the council chamber or his own lofty quarters. Nor in the formal gardens, where Derrick had encountered him last, many years previous. Rather, Aldarion-the-First Valinor, Sword Arm of the Strider, Uniter of Tribes, Tamer of Dragons, Wielder of Heavenly Fire, was down below Karellon Palace. Once again, he''d descended to the lair, and meeting him there took some doing.


    Nalderick was handed off from suspicious attendants to harried functionaries seven whole times. Questioned at each stop. Searched for poison, weapons or hovering death-spells. (Would have been swifter to walk in naked, perhaps, but not very courteous. His Imperial Majesty had to be shielded from harm for the good of the realm. Everyone knew this, and Nalderick didn''t complain or attempt to pull rank. Much. Very often.)


    He was finally ushered into a series of deep-buried lava tubes, and thence to a vast basalt cavern glowing with magical light. A distant glimmer indicated the cliffside perch and sun-basking ledge, but it had been a very long time since Vernax used either.


    The final cadre of guards represented every high elven family but the Tarandahls, Valinors and the nearly extinct Geldaheryns. Val had been meant to join after completing his journeyman quest, though. Young Kesteros, once he was strong enough to lift a spear without falling over. Nalderick himself was the last missing piece. Like his friend Valerian, not yet through with his wretched apprenticeship.


    Here and now, the Emperor''s honor guard was three people short, and harder driven because of it. They checked him for weapons yet again, took and recorded his Five Oaths of Loyalty, and then finally let the young prince through a warded door and into the lair.


    The first thing one saw upon entering was Vernax the Golden; a crouching mountain of corrosion-flecked scales with the tapering, backswept horns of a desert antelope, a very long neck and drooping, sprawled wings. The Imperial Mount''s four mighty legs were beneath its body, thrust deep in its bedding of treasure, stone chips and bone.


    Not much more than a transparent husk, now, Vernax contained within its huge body a single, perfectly spherical egg. This it was that pulsed and flared with internal light. This it was that kept His Imperial Majesty down in the lair.


    The dragon was very close to rebirth. To that singular moment when so mighty a creature could be impressed and befriended. The emperor dared not leave, nor allow another close contact. Not since the affair, ages back, when a serving maid with her drink tray had become¡­ very briefly¡­ Tamer of Dragons. Sad story. Short. Very instructive.


    Half-dead or not, Vernax dwarfed the figure who stood before him, talking of times past and adventures long settled. The Emperor''s voice was cracked from long use, but vital. His stance weary, but still capable. Here and now, he was meant to be the dragon''s protector, neatly reversing their usual roles.


    Nalderick squared his broad shoulders, mentally rehearsing all that he''d come here to ask. There were still five court-lengths between himself and Aldarion, and he had to stop, bow and declaim another of His Imperial Majesty''s many titles every ten yards. Fortunately, the distance was clearly marked, and Derrick was reasonably patient.


    The Prince Attendant made his gradual way past treasures beyond price, weaving through blank, silent "false eggs" and massive, up-thrusting crystals of gold-threaded quartz. One wall of the cavern was pocked with tall alcoves in which stood realistic statues of past heroes and rulers. Nalderick bowed respectfully in their direction, then approached His Imperial Majesty.


    Taller than Sherazedan, his long, dark hair unbound and liberally streaked with silver, the Emperor looked harassed, suspicious and utterly drained. There were purple-dark shadows beneath his green eyes, and his expression did not soften or warm at the sight of his grandson.


    Nalderick dropped to one knee. He had dressed very carefully. Was unarmed, but partially armored in dark, unpolished chain mail. Wearing no bright colors that might lure the gaze of an innocent, newly-burst hatchling, his own dark hair caught back in a simple plait. No circlet, no jewelry, no flashy, swift moving cloak. (And, needless to say, no shiny drink tray, ever again.)


    The Emperor grunted. Signaled permission to rise, after the requisite sixty-one heartbeats of worshipful silence.


    "Be welcome, Nalderick, son of my son," he said, very quietly, so as not to disturb that developing egg with another''s name or identity. The top of His Majesty''s head scarcely reached the jagged line of Vernax''s long bottom teeth, as he leaned for support on the dragon''s muzzle.


    Vernax opened one eye, sending a sudden dart of soft light through the chamber. Part of it brushed across Derrick, who felt instantly bolder, more confident. So, too, with Aldarion, who turned to face the much younger elf with something like his usual briskness.


    "I will waste no time in further formality," said the Emperor. "It is late, and the egg will soon absorb that which was Vernax, my battle companion and mount. I would be alone when it does. What is your request, boy?"


    Nalderick put away flowery language and courtly doublespeak. Bowed very deeply, saying,


    "Your Mightiness¡­ Grandfather¡­ a friend of mine has gone suddenly missing. First through escape spell, then flight northward on horseback, which I comprehend and was able to sense." (Best to leave out any mention of that ill-omened Tarandahl sword, Derrick reasoned. No sense having an army dispatched to Ilirian to ''help the succession pass smoothly''.) "But, since then, he has vanished utterly, gone from my scrying or ken, which I grasp not at all."


    "You speak of young Tarandahl, your fellow apprentice," said the Emperor, briefly combing through Nalderick''s thoughts. Not a comfortable feeling.


    "Yes, Your Mightiness. He has been a good friend and companion to me, and this sudden desertion is¡­"


    "Enough," snapped the Emperor, turning his gaze back to Vernax, whose soft rumbles shook the cave floor. Who very soon would forget his old comrade, entirely. "Speak to me not of emotion or friendship. What came you to seek, boy? Be quick."


    Nalderick''s gut very slowly unclenched. It was a very dangerous thing to anger the Emperor, especially at such a critical time.


    "I¡­ yes, Your Majesty," he blurted, adding, "I seek permission to take a few comrades and ride in search of Valno¡­ of Valerian, that is. He shall most likely have headed north to his family''s estate, but something has clearly gone wrong."


    The Emperor''s hard green eyes met Nalderick''s momentarily.


    "You and your sister are the future and hope of the realm, boy," he said. "What if you are killed, riding off on this hare-brained quest to locate a border-lord''s worthless second offspring?"


    Nalderick shifted position, then ceased moving, not wishing to seem as though he wanted the egg''s attention.


    "I shall do my best¡­ give solemn oath as a Valinor Prince¡­ not to perish on Valno''s behalf, and to keep a sharp watch for ogres, Your Mightiness. But¡­ Grandfather¡­ the hope of our realm is you, with Vernax the Golden once more reborn at your side."


    The Emperor closed his eyes, leaning his pale forehead against the dragon''s thrumming-hot lower jaw. Many hard things and long hours stood between him and that longed-for stability, including preventing a newly hatched monster from bursting forth in a rampage of blood-crazed hunger.


    "Keep your flattery, boy. I may just be strong enough to impress and command him, again¡­ but that belongs to the gods, who speak very little, these days." Then, "You have my leave to depart the capital and seek out your errant compatriot. See him placed on his family''s seat, returning hale and safe within a month''s time. Otherwise, you shall be blocked from the hall of your ancestors, doomed to wander till Oberyn''s call."


    So¡­ mixed results, but at least he could go¡­ and Valerian had some explaining to do. Why hadn''t the stubborn idiot asked for help? Called for his friends and his teammates, at need? Did they mean nothing at all?


    Bowing low, Nalderick murmured,


    "I thank you for hearing my¡­"


    Or, he started to.


    "Out. Waste no more of our time with your foolishness," growled the Emperor, the dragon-light flaring inside him and Vernax both, as the egg gave another great heave. "If it came to that, I would kill you myself, rather than have another weak and incapable impressor allow Vernax to slaughter, unchecked. Leave us."


    "Yes, Mightiness."


    Nalderick backed away and hurriedly saw himself out. He was gone from the capital that very day, riding north with all of his set but one.

 Chapter Nine

    32


    As for the show, back at the high-elf encampment, that began well enough. Once the sky had faded from turquoise to violet and gold, once cookfires and torches lit up throughout camp like cheerful red stars, Cap''n pulled a reed pipe from his vest. Next, with an ear-piercing screech, the monkey raced up a glow-pole to perch at its top. Made a great show of bowing in every direction before playing the short, four-note fanfare with which any show started, anywhere in Karandun.


    From hinterland puppetry to Karellon masked drama, one had only to hear ''Dah-dah-dun-DAH'' to know that entertainment was offered. Hearing that fanfare, one felt in one''s pockets or purse for a coin, looking about for wagons, show-tent or stage.


    ¡­And high-elves were no less susceptible than anyone else to the lure of escape and excitement (if very rigid about what they''d accept). So Cap''n blew the fanfare, causing folk to first look, then drift over. Once a small crowd had gathered, he shifted into an off-kilter but sprightly tune: Drunk Dance. Everyone knew it, and nearly everyone smiled. Half-elven children clapped along, shouting "Oh, my head!" at the appropriate points in the melody.


    Everyone laughed when Salem came reeling out of a prop door, over which they had hung a hand-lettered tavern sign. ''The Speckled Sow'', it read, over the sketch of a drunken, hiccuping pig. That in itself set the tone, as the Speckled Sow was famously the starting point of every comic, impossible, bound-to-go-wrong quest tale, ever.


    Using what bits and bobs the elves hadn''t confiscated, Salem had transformed herself into the Sultry Wench. Her dance was a thing of hilarious beauty, as she seemed always about to fall on her face or reel into the growing crowd, teetering along to the tune''s bouncy rhythm.


    Tremendously athletic and graceful, the Tabaxi stagger-danced onto another part of the scene, where Mirielle, dressed as the Grumpy Shopkeeper, was pretending to mop a floor. Her mop was really a broom, but the crowd understood, and saw what was meant.


    Salem pirouetted and leapt, kicking her legs and waving both arms. At just the right moment, when everyone''s expectations were highest, she knocked over Mirielle''s bucket, sending bits of torn paper and cloth flying onto the floor.


    The Grumpy Shopkeeper was young, but made up to seem older; padded front and back with cushions for stoutness. Pantomiming wrath (as she''d seen so often from Hilt) she picked up her bucket and flung the rest of its torn paper contents at Salem, who staggered back as though thoroughly wetted.


    Next, the Shopkeeper took up her mop and gave chase to the Sultry Wench, comically flailing and bashing; knocking things over, creating still more of a mess. A swiftly tugged cord freed the hen, who fluttered down, squawking, into mid-chase, adding confusion and humor. Salem did most of the actual work, covering Mirielle''s inexperience with her antics, making any mistakes seem intentional.


    Cap''n played faster and faster, meanwhile, switching tunes from ''Drunk Dance'' to ''Folly Run''. Then, at just the right moment, he fell crashingly silent as, in broad, can''t-miss-it acting, Mirielle stepped onto Salem''s tail. Now, Cap''n switched to ''Steam Kettle Explosion'', which lasted 1-2-3-4-5. Everyone counted along to its rhythm (even the elves).


    Salem''s fur stood straight out. Her gold-banded tail rose and expanded. Her pupils grew so large that the shine almost vanished from her wide eyes. Then, the chase was reversed, with the Tabaxi performing her best fighting-monk dance moves as she bounded and lunged after that poor, stout, struggling Shopkeeper.


    Everything was rigged, of course, to set itself upright and fly back together (except for the pie, which the hen was now happily pecking at). At the end of it all, nearly everything was back where it started, and Mirielle yanked at a bag in her sleeve, causing more torn-paper ''water'' to fill up her bucket. The music stopped with a merry trill, leaving Tabaxi and half-drow panting, holding hands, to bow for their audience.


    Well, high-elves did not applaud or call out. That wasn''t their way. Too crass. They did, however, fling a generous rainstorm of coins on the stage. And if young Lord Valerian, there with Kalisandra and Reston, happened to scuff out part of the mage-circle¡­ who noticed, in all of the fun?


    Cap''n scampered about, collecting more money. At one point, landing on Salem''s shoulder, the monkey whispered,


    "We keeps th'' lass. She be a natural."


    This other Val, who was only somewhat Mrowr, came to her next, bowed and said,


    "Milady, I fear that there has been a dreadful misunderstanding. If you will follow me, I shall convey you to quarters more befitting one of your rank and station."


    Salem studied the high-elf''s almost familiar face. Took in his nearly-right scent.


    "Where is he?" she demanded.


    "Gone," said this-Valerian, quietly. "He rides north on my horse. To Starloft, where he has asked me to bid you join him. There are mounts and provisions prepared."


    "I do not ride," growled the Tabaxi. "Your beasts will not bear me. At home, we use the great lizards. Yet, I am swift. Provide a mount for the Kitten, and a pack animal, and we shall away to join Mrowr. Great thanks for your aid, elf-lord."


    "We need friends," said Val, speaking as both of them. "And you have not once turned away. Our¡­ his¡­ situation is bleak, though, and dangerous. We will most likely attempt to send you away, should your life be imperiled."


    "Won''t work," stated Mirielle, from around behind Salem. "We''ll just keep coming back. And he promised!"


    Kalisandra had been quiet and still. Now she gave Mirielle a sheathed dagger; handing the weapon over with obvious difficulty.


    "This is Icicle," she said, closing Mirielle''s hands upon the knife with her own. "I pass it on, together with Frost Maiden''s blessing. May she smile upon you as she once did on me."


    Valerian placed an arm around Kalisandra, who had given up something terribly precious in this plane, to gain what mattered still more. Himself.


    In Mirielle''s hands the dagger grew cold and developed a faint, blue-white glitter.


    "See? The goddess accepts you," whispered the ranger, her voice catching slightly.


    Val drew her closer, kissing the top of her head and murmuring words meant for nobody else but his woman.


    Said Reston to Salem, providing some cover,


    "Here is a writ of safe passage, Milady. Wherever you venture in Arvendahl or Tarandahl lands, doors and hands will be open. However¡­ erm¡­"


    "Do not try to steal from your hosts," finished Val, pitching in for his floundering uncle. "You''re not that good, and no one''s that stupid."


    They departed shortly thereafter, hard on the trail of ex-planar Valerian; moving like tails were on fire and whiskers were singed.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Gildyr ranged northward with Karus, meanwhile, from a general sense that his elf-lord friend would be drawn to Starloft, in this plane or any. He traveled mostly in wild shape, as whatever would best suit the need; being sometimes a stag beside Karus, sometimes a free-wheeling, sharp-eyed hawk and sometimes a silvery trout (but never where His Lordship might loose an arrow.)


    The wood-elf hurried, without seeming to do so. Grey Fang¡­ all of the unchanged goblins¡­ depended on him. On Gildyr hung all of their hope for freedom and peace. For release from the ravening gnoll-curse. Pressed to the edge, between mountain and flame, they had done something awful.


    "I do not excuse me folk," said Grey Fang, when Gildyr had answered his summons, that day. "They was desperate. So near the end we could count our numbers on the hands of a few¡­ but there weren''t no call ter reopen the curse rift. Goin'' gnoll ain''t no kind of answer. Not really. Tis exchangin'' one death fer another, pretendin'' that choice somehow makes it all better."


    Gnolls.


    They''d performed the dark rites; pouring entrails and blood onto a sigil inscribed on the floor of a deep, hidden cave; one blocked off with rubble and stones for time out of mind.


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    The victim had to be innocent, young, and an enemy species. Grey Fang had not told him what or who the war-priests had chosen¡­ but blood had been spilt on the ancient sigil, wetting a long-parched throat.


    "She came at their call," Grey Fang had told him, looking troubled and grim; gnarled hands wringing and washing each other repeatedly. "Just like all them old legends said. The Mother came from ''er realm an'' gave ''em the power ter fight off even a high-elf¡­ by givin'' in ter ''er darkness. There ain''t no more time fer treaty or talk, Lad. The gnoll faction grows with each goblin death, and they''re ''ungry fer terror an'' blood."


    There was worse, though.


    "They''ve already kilt ''is Lordship an'' taken the heir. Not cause they wanted ''im¡­ gnolls ain''t that patient. ''Cause ''is sire''s last-magic kept ''im from further ''arm. Junior''s a captive. We knows where ''ee is¡­ an'' th'' elven stronghold ''ll soon be under attack. I''ve told it all, Lad, trustin'' ye''ll ''elp an old grump set things right. She must be stopped, an'' our people freed o'' the gnoll curse. Strike me down if ye think I be lyin''... I''ll not fight ye, Lad¡­ but these old ''ands brought ye safely from danger an'' back ter th'' light o'' yer people. This old carcass ''asn''t much fight left in it, maybe¡­ but, with ''elp, enough ter drive off the Mother, once more. I place meself an'' me folk in yer ''ands, Gildyr. We''ve nowheres else ter turn."


    What remained of the goblin mage''s family¡­ Pretty One, Twitchy, Snaggle, Black Gut, squinty and Dog-bait¡­ looked up at their wood-elf friend hopefully, trusting he''d make it all better.


    And, somehow, he had to. Right now, it all depended on Val, Lord Tarandahl, Warden of the North. If Gildyr could explain the situation, make the young high-elf listen¡­ offer him knowledge of Lerendar, maybe¡­ then the curse could be dealt with and lasting peace forged.


    Gildyr had to believe that, even though Arondyr had thought him a fool. Sitting by the fire, that last night together, the former paladin had said,


    "You mean well, boy, but you''re stupid and overly trusting."


    Poking at the flames with a branch, Arondyr went on to say,


    "I have little direct experience with your Valerian¡­ but a high-elf he is and remains. No more able to bend or shift course than a crashing boulder. He will react with rage and with pride." Then, truthfully, pulling a rueful face, "I would have, before."


    Astrea lifted her noble head, thumping her tail once or twice in the leaf litter, sending some warm, private thought.


    "But all that is over, for me," continued Arondyr, caressing the wolf''s velvet ears. "I am forsworn, and no longer possessed by my god or his wrath. You are not Cubby, but I wish you well, and say to you now what I would say to him, which is: beware the arrogant rage of a high-elf who feels himself betrayed and beset. He will slaughter you and your goblins, not pausing to so much as shake off the blood."


    Gildyr scrunched his knees up tight to his chest, slowly shaking his head.


    "You don''t know him as I''ve come to, Arondyr. He can be reasoned with. You turned from the path of hatred, and so may Valerian. I just have to show him Grey Fang and the littles¡­ explain what has happened. Tell him of Lerendar. My plan will work."


    Arondyr sighed, then reached into a faerie pocket and pulled something forth. Not food or wine, this time, but a small, ornate hand mirror.


    "As you will," he said, not wishing to argue the matter. "Moving on, I wanted to give this to you. It is a scry-glass. Gran got it for me, when first I set out on patrol, so that we could always see each other. Then you¡­ Cubby, that is¡­ got killed by a manticore, driven into our lands by a Starloft hunting party¡­ and Gran fell into mourning. For cycles on cycles, there was nothing there but grey mist, call and wish however I might. So¡­ all that is past. Only to say that, now you''ve come to us, the mirror is active again. But¡­ it is you she needs. Not me. It has never been me."


    Shaking his head, Arondyr tossed the scry-glass to Gildyr, so-very-nearly his lost little brother.


    "Take it, please, and speak with her often. It will make this second loss easier to bear."


    Gildyr took the small mirror, which showed¡­ not his own reflection, but the inside of their home tree, with Gran bustling about getting supper. He looked up at Arondyr''s expressionless face. At those no-longer-gold eyes, those angular features deflated of pride. Gently, Gildyr said,


    "She loves you, Arondyr. They all do. Twas only grief pushed everything else from their hearts. But, I will take the glass and use it, with thanks. If¡­ if you don''t mind¡­ I would speak with you, as well. My Arondyr is¡­ well¡­"


    "A bit of a flaming orifice?" Arnodyr suggested, beginning to smile. Then, "Yes, Cubby. I would very much like that."


    They''d parted as friends, with Gildyr still clinging to faith in his plan, while Arondyr went off to find¡­ something. Someone to fill up the void left behind by the loss of his god. And, now?


    "I can make this work," Gildyr promised himself, as he wild-shaped and tree-ported north. "Old Oak, Old Oak, give me all the right words. Make me convincing. Help me to reach a proud, broken heart."


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    And somewhen, somewhere else, Lerendar plotted escape. Once he''d healed enough to lean on a crutch made of crawler spine, the wounded high-elf took a flying long chance that had almost no hope of succeeding.


    Prayed, first; lighting a fire with tinder and flint, invoking the family god.


    "Firelord, lover of battle, who hardens steel and the hearts of his people¡­ for the love you bear to my family, hear me, Ancestor. Valerian comes to this place, meaning to help me. He is more yours than I''ve ever been, but I promise¡­ everything. My life, my pride, my hope of succession¡­ just let me get out in time to warn him and Starloft. I ask only this: let me get out of this cell, My Lord. Tip the odds in my favor, Shining One, and I will ask no more, forever. Not for me¡­ for those who shelter behind me. Please hear me, My Lord."


    Might have been only a stray, errant breeze from a rolling-past side tunnel, but that small, crackling fire flared up momentarily. Lerendar chose to take that as: Yes.


    No invoked flame could be left to die out, unattended and starving for fuel. Carefully, saying all the right things, Lerendar doused the holy flame with previous ashes, bringing the god''s other self into being.


    He did not follow Ashlord¡­ that was Reston''s unique confusion¡­ but also, he wasn''t a fool. Fire and Ash were but parts of the same mighty lord, consort of Lady Flame. So¡­


    "Winter and nightfall and well-crafted strike, bringer of future life and prosperity, I greet you."


    Nestled in ashes, the embers glowed briefly. A very good sign.


    "I have more than usual need for stealth and secrecy, Silent One. Bless me with both, now, I pray."


    That seen to, he banked the fire completely; taking one ember for future use. Then, feeling he''d accomplished something, Lerendar acted.


    His rumbling, spherical cell had just about reached its intersection with Bony''s. Lerendar limped into position, leaning heavily on that long, polished spine. Panting hard, too, because everything hurt and every move was a battle.


    His faerie pockets were jammed with oddments and hoarded food; anything he''d thought might prove useful. What made him laugh; so many arrows, but not one wretched bow. Not even a twisted-sinew and bent-branch first effort. What need had Lord Lerendar, leader of battles, for trash he''d have killed for, now?


    Right. So¡­ the prison cells came together, growing suddenly near twice as large. Lerendar hobbled over to the new far wall, where Bony lay in several parts; draped in moldering cloth and rust-pocked armor, still chained to the floor.


    It was so very hard to lever himself to a seated position, one leg outstretched, beside Bony, but Lerendar did it.


    "My friend," he gasped, placing a hand on the nearest, rat-nibbled bone. "Today, we escape or I die here, beside you. Tug the line with whomever you worship. Need all the help we can get."


    Held to that bone and the magic that locked it in place in this prison, saying,


    "Let the binding runes cover me. Just, please, let this work."


    Now the cells began rolling apart once again, trapping Lerendar in their increasingly narrow intersection. He was a betting man; would wager on anything¡­ and he knew that the odds were against him. That he was likely to end up swept back into his own prison, or smeared like a bug on one of the walls, but it was all he could think of. The only (maybe) way out.


    Lerendar watched as the space became ever smaller. Only at the last moment shutting his eyes before on-rushing stone. And¡­


    ¡­and he was still in Bony''s cell, feeling the tingle of binding-magic sift entirely through him. Lerendar whooped aloud, shaking Bony''s arm. (Tearing it loose, actually.)


    "Victory!" He shouted. "For Oberyn and the dawn, my friend! We have found our way out!"


    Needing to focus on staying unseen, where before he''d have fought his way clear, the scruffy blond high-elf could not linger, nor carry off Bony''s remains.


    Instead, he addressed his dead friend, saying,


    "I see here and honor a warrior, fallen defending the light. If there is aught you would have me deliver, anything you want me to take from this place, I stand ready, friend Bony."


    Not worded precisely, but then a faint greenish flicker appeared in that loose-jawed skull. A faerie pocket sagged open just over the skeleton''s chest. Lerendar, who could move at a thought (except for that broken leg) reflexively caught the item that dropped from it.


    Found himself holding a golden ring of ancient design, with a much-rubbed crest at its flattened top; the Kalistiel sea serpent, coiled around a blue gem. Lerendar bowed from the waist, with difficulty.


    "Son of the currents and thundering surf, I shall see that this treasure of your house is returned to your people. Rest, Sailor, and give me water''s blessing of always finding a path."


    Had still Legless and Tendons to visit and do the same for, scurry-for-safety be three-times-accursed. He was a Tarandahl, and that meant heroic, ridiculous faith to a vow. "Stubborn" did not begin to describe them.


    From Tendons, Lerendar received a picture stone, spelled to display a laughing young she-elf. Thinking of Beatriz, Lerendar promised that this, too, would find its way home.


    Legless had nothing to give but a faint, last-magic blessing. From a man who''d had no one, whom nobody mourned, Lerendar received stillness and silence. Blending-in-background, so long as he didn''t move. More suited to a trembling fawn than a warrior¡­ but very much welcome in this awful place.


    "May your spirits stay with me," he invited all three. "May we step into sunshine together."


    And then it was time to get moving. The spell-scroll map that he''d found in a corridor had gotten here, somehow. Brought by someone who''d meant to break into this tangle of burrows and get away, clean. It was someplace to start, at least, provided he could find the stable intersection marked: fountain.


    Question was, Firelit Corridor, or dim, Dusty Crevice? This cell, like all of the rest, passed by both options, along with the Pit and the Spider-Cleft.


    Lerendar pondered a moment, then pulled a lucky coin from his heart-nearest faerie pocket. Halfling¡­ Zara¡­ had got it for him at Serrio''s fair, claiming that Pappa was safe, now, forever.


    "Heads, Firelit Corridor," he announced aloud. "Tails, the Crevice."


    Then he thumb-flipped and caught the cheap fairing, which had Serrio''s image on one side and "guaranteed luck" stamped on the other. Caught the coin in midair with almost his usual flourish, then opened his hand to find¡­


    "Crevice it is. Wary and quiet we go then, my friends, abjuring battle for stealth. Onward."


    Hoping that a child''s simple faith was armor enough, Lerendar waited his moment, till cell and dim crevice aligned, then lunged through the gap and out into darkness, just barely not getting sliced. Did lose half of his crutch, but, hey... you couldn''t have everything.

 Chapter Ten

    33


    He rode out and away under a sky of fading light and faint, backward sigils. So large and diffuse as to cross the whole heavens, traversing the Strider and Serpent in their eternal battle, the symbols for ''ban'' and ''confine'' rolled away over and over. One would have to look in from outside to read those figures correctly, Valerian mused. One would have to be Sherazedan the Subtle to have that much power.


    Right. Here he was, and herein remain until he''d reached Starloft, Val guessed. This plane''s version, at any rate.


    But he could not run Dusty into the ground. The son of the North Wind was more pet and good friend than mere mount, and he wouldn''t have stood for it. He carried his rider for love and adventure, not out of servitude. Often, Valerian let him loose to forage and range, knowing the horse would return soon, refreshed.


    With that high, jagged ridge to his left, and the Needle''s glow on the horizon, he couldn''t get lost or fail to head north, despite the land''s strangeness. See, in his own plane, the Emperor''s Road stretched clear from Karellon to Land''s End in one direction, and down to Elydd in the other. Well maintained, warded and dotted with bridges and inns, the road allowed all of His Imperial Majesty''s subjects to travel in safety.


    Here, though¡­ well, it was more of a path than a road, marked with half-buried white glow stones and crazily-leaning old sign posts. Most of the bridges had fallen to ruin, their guard towers empty and dark. Those spans which yet stood were more danger than help; housing trolls or worse, underneath.


    In the name of His Majesty, Valerian did what he could to rout robbers, ghouls and the breakers of bone, giving no warning or quarter. A long, grueling business that took up most of the night, but had got to be done, or else he was no elf and no Tarandahl.


    The effort left him drained of manna near sunrise, at the shore of a reedy small lake. Off to the west rose a titanic structure, part of it blotting the stars. Looked like an immense staircase, but it could wait for morning, Val reckoned. At least, nothing appeared to be hiding there.


    Closer to hand, the road simply vanished into the lake''s dark water. Manifestly not a good sign. Figuring that he''d rest before venturing further, the weary young elf lit a fire the hard way and sat himself down, Dustroc grazing nearby.


    Would have set wards if he''d had the spare energy, but fire and sword were the best he could do. Tatters of very old sigil still twisted and sparked near the flooded path; all that remained of His Majesty''s warding. Odd. Most unsettling.


    What had Murchison told him, the last lesson but one?


    "Your people do nothing different, nothing original, ever. (Meaningless outburst), you''ve actively squashed innovation for thousands of years! Let something come up you can''t handle, and you''re (had rough relations with)!"


    But Murchison said and taught many strange things, and Valerian was no longer allowed to speak with him. Not after his controversial senior apprenticeship trial. Innovation had helped Val win through, but hadn''t much pleased the High Mage Council. A passel of stuffy old relics, the lot of them.


    Here and now, in this place of fading wards and rising chaos, Valerian struggled to comprehend what had gone wrong. No emperor and no Sherazedan, his other self had told him. Possibly worse, only a sluggish response to the war bells, as though the accord between tribes had withered to nothing.


    In his own place, there were several flourishing towns along the stretch of road he''d fought through the night to clear. Here, not even fallen roof timbers or grassed-in pits. Just many miles of barren waste. What had become of Castleton, Burkleigh and Fairhill?


    Val fed the fire, always an act of devotion as much as a chore. To the flickering blaze, he said,


    "Here, my folk are all safe and well, but everything else has fallen apart. It is¡­ as if the very magic foundations of this place have been drained to near nothing. How could this be? How have the gods allowed this?"


    He had offered no sacrifice. Expected no formal response, and yet Firelord answered. Not just responded. Emerged.


    A line of pure red light shot up from the campfire, then began to expand in more than just three dimensions. A mighty being formed itself out of sparks and light and flame, changing shape continually as aspects of it rolled into view from a much wider reality.


    Looked mostly star-brushing tall, well armed and elven, though sometimes seeming a pillar of flame or a many-winged beast. A wave of intense heat and pressure flowed from the god, flattening grasses, making the reeds burst and crackle, causing the lake to steam like a kettle.


    Also knocked Valerian backward and tumbling, to fetch up sprawled against a tilted border stone. Somewhere, very far off, an elk bugled. Dustroc shrieked and reared, offering battle as Val leapt back to his feet.


    Then everything froze, from the sparkling motes and wild-eyed stallion, to that suddenly pudding-thick air, leaving just Alaryn Firelord and Val still with action and thought.


    The god was not angry. He was trying to communicate¡­ but his words were more than just sounds and his images grew and unfolded along many possible paths. Altogether more than an elf-mind, a mage or warrior mind, could fully take hold of. The pressure seemed to increase, and yet Val remained upright. One did not cringe before Firelord.


    ''War cometh,'' said the god, tolling like bells and roaring like a caved-in, fiery roof. ''A foe from the dark planes, unlooked for.''


    A tumbling flood of images came near to pummeling the elf unconscious. He saw Lerendar limping through shifting dark tunnels. Saw the shadows of goblins writhing in torment as they split, grew and unfolded, showering cave walls with blood, bone and gristle. Heard hideous, bestial laughter. Saw Starloft a cratered ruin across all of the planes, hammered by dragons and chaos. Bloodied fangs, a dead child and greedy, ravening corpse light¡­ the red eyes of Kaazin the drow, and¡­


    Gnolls. An army of gnolls. Cursed, blood-thirsty murderers, one of them wearing his father''s shorn head.


    ''Take up your sword,'' commanded the god, managing something like regular speech.


    Val touched clenched fist to brow in response and then started to reach for Nightshade, but it was the dulled, heavy longsword, Smythe''s empty vessel, that suddenly lit up and hummed. Not on him. Laid out on the ground near his fire.


    Feeling pressed flat between pages, Valerian made it across a marathon''s worth of hard-battled yards. Felt like fighting a mountain gale. Like cutting his way through an avalanche. Time resumed as he reached for and grasped the sword''s hilt.


    ''Think into your weapon. Claim it,'' ordered Firelord, sending the blade through more sudden changes than Val could retain in memory.


    Understood, though, what Firelord demanded of him. Took up the blank blade and flowed into a number of stances. First attack, then ward, then fend off assault from the rear and above. And, at each move, the sword altered to suit him, changing balance and length till it matched him precisely. Some of his consciousness flowed into Smythe, making it almost another limb. The god said only,


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    ''Prepare,'' and then flashed out of sight, emitting a pulse of force that sent elk and druid, horses, Tabaxi and half-drow rolling furlongs away through the countryside.


    Val simply crashed to the ground. But, something had changed. Armed and forewarned, once again bursting with manna, he''d been readied for war.


    Was putting out fires, when the others arrived, out of breath and ready to fight. Still sensing god-wise, Val perceived love from Mirielle, ''he is useful'' from Salem, and some sort of hidden dread/hope from Gildyr. Beyond though, genuine worry and care. They''d come here to help him, all of them¡­ and they could not be risked against what he was about to face.


    The mighty white elk hoofed dirt over that last patch of grass embers, quelling the final few sparks. Rising pallid and late, the sun climbed over a massive stone staircase, ending a red, clouded dawn.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Elsewhere, an ancient and powerful figure mused on events, not entirely pleased. The planes were separated only by differing choices. By altered life paths and fates.


    To bring the people of one worldline into the plane of another was to mingle, confuse and make a knotted mare''s nest of their existence. Where there had been two planes, very soon there would just be a chimeric one.


    Only a fool would have moved pieces over, that way. A fool, or one desperate to force something dark out of long hiding. Out of its shielded lair, hopefully before it was ready to face concerted attack.


    If only this time, he''d found the right pieces and plane. If only this time, it worked. Just to be certain, he shifted the lines again, sending one more.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Back in the wilderness, Valerian did everything else except start talking. Made breakfast, harnessed Dusty, broke camp, sheathed Smythe, all the while listening to Gildyr, then Salem. Offering only,


    "Really?"


    "How unfortunate."


    Or, safest of all, because it encouraged chatter and saved him from having to explain his own recent doings,


    "Do tell."


    ¡­ in response to their separate tales. Gildyr, it appeared, had gained a noble beast and a back-stabbing, infamous brother. One Arondyr, a now forsworn paladin. Well, it was no wonder his god didn''t want the miserable wretch. Valerian wouldn''t have stood him, either¡­ but he didn''t say so.


    Gildyr being Gildyr, Val was required to meet his new stag friend, a lord of the forest named Karus. Very tall, crowned in wide golden antlers, its pelt the shimmering white of a pearl, the beast was truly impressive.


    It sniffed him, whuffing warm breath in his face, getting a smile despite Valerian''s resolve to remain unmoved. He''d always liked elk¡­ mostly stewed, though it seemed impolitic to admit that.


    But something was troubling Gildyr, who would talk the sun from the sky and the ears off a mule, if one let him.


    "This isn''t exactly my Karus," the druid explained, once Val was done being snuffed and approved by the great creature. "Mine was¡­ was killed."


    The elk made a low grunting noise, causing Gildyr to divert that river of speech for a moment and caress the white, curving neck.


    "I know¡­ I know, heart-friend. I would rather have been the one to die, too. A hundred times over. Anyhow, um¡­" he looked back at Valerian, his green eyes swimming in unshed tears.


    Like his grandfather, dad, uncle and brother, Val had trouble with naked emotion. It made him uncomfortable.


    "Go on," he said coolly, beginning to pace. Then he went over to fuss with the horses (who never cried, ever). Mirielle''s steed had turned out to be Patches, a joyous thing in itself. The mare did not know him, but neither had this plane''s Dusty, at first.


    "I think that the girth band is loose," he lied, to avoid seeing Gildyr''s sentiment. "She takes a deep breath when being saddled, then expels it once laden, just for the mischief."


    ¡­and Dustroc was clearly in love. Gildyr struggled on, saying,


    "Perhaps you remember the manticore hunt, some cycles back, milord?"


    Valerian winced slightly.


    "I do," he admitted. Dad had been driven incandescent with anger, fear for his heedless young son and the close brush of disaster. Dad, who was now dead and beheaded. "My father was somewhat upset."


    "I¡­ well, yes," nodded Gildyr, swallowing visibly. "The¡­ creature slaughtered my Karus, then started¡­ then came after me. I was, um¡­ was the child in the grove. The one who¡­ the one¡­"


    Val turned to face Gildyr, puzzled.


    "What child?" he asked. Truly, honestly, not having heard that a terrified wood-elf cub had nearly been killed, that day in the woods. The day he and Kalisandra had decided to sneak out and join the manticore hunt, for a lark.


    Gildyr''s jaw dropped; whatever he''d meant to say wiped out in the face of the high-elf''s mild curiosity.


    Salem and Cap''n butted in with a tale of their own, then, giving the druid time to compose himself.


    "We were imprisoned!" she accused, "because no one in this kicked-sand-over place trusts what is different! But of course, they were not able to hold a thief and rogue of such skill as myself. We soon broke free, stole mounts and supplies, then followed your trail, Mrowr."


    Behind her back, Mirielle shook her head and hand-signed ''Not really''. Then Val had to listen to the entire story of their show, which served to calm and amuse even Gildyr.


    Eventually, though, her tale ran to its end. A very difficult moment then loomed for Valerian. Yes, he''d made promises, asked them to follow and serve as retainers¡­ but that was before he''d learned of this new and more dangerous enemy. Goblins were one thing. Gnolls, entirely other. The battle ahead was no place for children, soft druids or Tabaxi nobility, Val reasoned. For their own safety, they had to be sent away.


    Hardening himself, he said,


    "At the behest of my god, whose sign you saw in the heavens, I intend to ride north. I believe that once I have reached Starloft, our¡­ exile to this plane shall be ended. I think¡­ hope¡­ that if you are in a different location, that is where you shall reappear in our home plane. For that reason¡­"


    He never concluded the statement.


    Instead, there was a sudden bright flash, and a gyrfalcon''s chuckling shriek split the air. Snowbird, white wings catching the odd spear of sunlight as she banked and wheeled, overhead. Truly, actually Snowbird. The genuine falcon, this time. How he knew, Val couldn''t have said, but it was with joy that he stepped away from the others, lifted a gauntleted arm and uttered the shrill whistle that Kalisandra had taught him.


    Snowbird screamed in response, then dove like a thunderbolt, landing hard on Valerian''s upraised forearm.


    "Oof¡­ Gentleness is not in your nature at all, either of you," Val chided the golden-eyed raptor, seizing the thongs of her jesses and binding them to a silver ring on his glove.


    Her hot little mind full of murder and recent feeding, she was willing enough to stay put. Kalisandra appeared moments later, seeming to ride into view from a long, bright-edged tunnel.


    "There you are!" she exclaimed, to the gyrfalcon, or maybe to Val. "Snowbird, to me!"


    The jesses came magically untied, and the bird launched herself into the air, leaving Valerian a bit on the back foot. He had many memories now, of he and Sandy together. Happy. But most of those were not really his.


    The ranger rode up on Apple Wine, her little red mare, with Snowbird perched on one shoulder. Dusty and the elk both grunted in welcome. Valerian stepped forward a bit and lifted a hand.


    But, there was no urgency to this Kalisandra''s dismount. She got off her horse, flipped the reins over the mare''s head and out of the way, then slapped her flank to send Apple Wine off grazing. Snowbird she shooed away onto a low, scrubby tree.


    Next, she looked hard at Val, who looked back. He couldn''t think of anything to say that didn''t sound stupid¡­ and anyhow, there was distraction. The sky-runes had shifted a bit on the clouds overhead, causing Valerian to glance up and shake his head.


    "What are you staring at, Fisher?" Kalisandra demanded, coming over to join him in searching the sky.


    The others all busied themselves with things that did not need redoing.


    "Prison bars and unseen fetters," he grunted, surprising Sandy by starting to reach for her hand, then stopping himself, then doing it anyhow. Probably made him look foolish, but he looked her right in the eye and said, "We need to talk. It is very important. Right now."


    Kalisandra cocked a slim, dark eyebrow.


    "You snap orders now, Milord?" she scoffed, withdrawing her hand.


    That stung, but he kept to the point. There was a very large, very ancient stone stairway, clearly giant-built, rising from a clear patch of ground to the west. Climbing hundreds of feet, it ended abruptly in glowering clouds. Private enough for what he had to say, only Kalisandra lifted a blocking hand.


    "Wait, before you spout whatever nonsense threatens to burst you, I bear a message from your master."


    And, all at once, where Kalisandra had stood there appeared a towering image of Sherazedan. Hooded and cloaked, staff in hand, raven perched on one shoulder, pale eyes gleaming. Gazing down at Valerian, the court wizard said,


    "Disappointing. You were placed here to aid your analogue, not muck about in this plane like some would-be hero of legend, wasting valuable time. Below passing marks, I fear." Then, "Two days. Be in place, or reappear wherever you happen to find yourself, come what may. My patience grows thin, Valerian."


    The wizard''s image imploded to nothing, then, leaving Sandy to wobble and sway in its wake. Val reflexively caught her, fighting for self-control. Handed her over to Gildyr, who looked like he wanted to say something nice.


    "No," Val forestalled him; turning away to explore those stairs by himself, and very much to not think.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 Chapter Eleven

    34


    Almost entirely by accident, Lerendar learned the map''s secret. Discovered through luck and blunder that giving its opposite edges a sudden, sharp tug would cause that tangle of inked ship''s cordage to rise and unfold in a three-dimensional view of the tunnel system¡­ including his own burnt-stick revisions and notes.


    Always centered on him, the chart showed with glittering points the presence and motion of others, though not their identities. Well enough. Lerendar avoided contact on general principle, feeling that no one in this shifting, permanently benighted place was likely to have the best interests of a crippled high-elf at heart.


    There were three fairly stable passages, he learned. One¡­ the Firelit Corridor¡­ which tended north-south. Another¡­ the Dank, Smelly Way¡­ which meandered mostly east-west and a little bit downward. A third¡­ the Diagonal March¡­ which plunged at an angle across all of the others, from top, to Fountain to somewhere far out of sight, down below. Added to these were wandering corridors and rolling chambers always, always in motion, except for brief stops in the deepest part of the watch.


    The Diagonal March was the most obvious path to the surface, but also the most heavily traveled and least accessible to an elf on his second scrounged crutch. Some of the wandering passages were less steep, though, and intersected D.M. beyond the main guard posts.


    Weirdly, the diggings were mostly deserted. There was plenty of goblin sign, and their rat-like stench lay like a fog over everything. Just¡­ very few actual goblins.


    Of prisoners, well¡­ Lerendar found the gnoll''s midden on his third day of furtive lurking. Found the well-chewed remains of his father''s warband. Just shattered bones and bits of torn armor, now. Twenty dead elves who would never more ride, fight or gamble by torchlight. Friends, who he vowed to avenge¡­ somehow.


    They''d been eaten, most of their souls and manna taken in by their predator. Nothing to salvage and less to release, unless he could find and destroy whatever had consumed them.


    Worse, for Lerendar, was a fragment of dad''s helmet strap and badly stained golden-red cloak. His soul was trapped, then, too; unwilling strength for some hideous battle-mage.


    Setting a fire here, now, would accomplish nothing. Their spirits and power were already taken. All it would do was to pinpoint his location, allowing the gnolls and goblins to find him again. Maybe lock him back up in a cell that intersected nothing, ever.


    Lerendar had no choice but to move on, taking that scrap of dad''s helmet and cloak along with him. Short-stuff, maybe, could do something with it, he thought. Wave his hands, mutter mumbo-jumbo and draw forth dad''s spirit.


    The shades, his comrades, fluttered and keened, audible only to Lerendar. Time to move on, for the midden would soon intersect the busy Main Gallery, where no doubt a huddle of goblins and gnolls waited to squat and relieve themselves. He could not fight them all, or even a few. Not like this.


    Wanted his health back. Wanted a sword. Wanted to burn this place, end to end, top to bottom, leaving nothing alive but the echoes. Settled for ducking away down a shifting back passage, seething with anger and hate.


    Almost got himself eaten, because of it.


    Not paying attention. Only himself to blame, for Bony (Prince Andorin) shrilled a faint, unheeded warning. Lerendar lunged through the brief connection of Midden and passage. Made two thumping limps down the way, stopping cold when a cave-slime dropped from the roof and onto his head. Felt like a squishy, wet sack of mud thrown from a window.


    Gummy, acidic and mutable, the horrid thing flowed over his entire head and face; blocking air, burning flesh, blurring sound. Again, Dad''s last-magic saved him; keeping Lerendar just this side of perished from suffocation, until he stopped clawing and writhing. Till he ceased grinding pebbles and bone fragments into his back with his wounded-prey thrashing.


    Senses blackening, chest bursting for air, hands clutching acidic goo, he at last grew still enough for the slime to spread itself out in a fragile, thin layer, preparing to feed.


    That, he could battle; tearing, shredding, peeling it away with the help of his shade friends, whose chill-touch froze bits of the slime into crackling, papery shards.


    (He was used to the chill-touch, by now, for goblins and gnolls could sense prey by its heat. More than once, Bony, Tendons (Elarvis Farstrider) and Legless had cooled him down to environment level, while something dark and hunched-over snuffed its way past his hiding place.)


    Here and now, Lerendar scrubbed at his face and hair with goblin spittle-wine he couldn''t afford to waste; sucking at air like a man two gasps from drowning. Cold¡­ so very cold, until last-magic warmed him again. That done, the shades rustled and moved off; splitting up to keep watch while their friend recovered.


    So, that was day three of "freedom". After that, it got worse.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Back at the campsite, away in a whole other plane, Kalisandra wrenched herself free of Gildyr.


    "Off!" she snapped. "Release me, Druid. I need no assistance."


    Gildyr obeyed, relinquishing the high-elf maiden to stalk off and turn, her face chilly and hard; not so much lovely, as striking. Brown hair caught back in a disciplined plait, dressed in a ranger''s no-color armor and cloak, she blent with the background until sudden movement or speech betrayed her.


    Mirielle stamped forward, then, a mutinous look on her bluish small face. Having worked herself up to an outburst, the girl stood before Kalisandra; feet braced apart, fists on her hips.


    "He''s not an idiot," she objected fiercely. "He likes you, and you should be nice!"


    Kalisandra stared for a moment, one eyebrow rising expressively.


    "I am¡­ addressed by a half-drow?" she wondered aloud. "Some by-blow of rapine and raid?"


    Mirielle exploded, her newly-gained dagger humming with frost, twin to the one Sandy wore.


    "My father''s a prince!" she yelled. "And my mum didn''t die! She loved him!"


    Kalisandra snorted.


    "And who spun you that silly fable?" the elf-maiden scoffed, shaking her head. "Never mind. I can well imagine who might think up and spread such drivel."


    Only, Mirielle stood not alone. Salem''s clawed hand came to rest on her trembling shoulder, as the Tabaxi''s long tail curled around her, pulling the girl to her side.


    This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    "I have met him," she growled. "He is a prince, indeed. His heart is good, despite his bare hide and other shortcomings. Call me a liar, do you, elf-maid?"


    Kalisandra rolled her blue and brown eyes. Would have said something caustic, but then Gildyr stepped up, as well, Karus tall as an oak, behind him.


    "Her mother''s a beautiful mortal, filled always with sunshine and love for her prince. Quite a powerful hedge witch, as well. You might want to watch what you say of their child¡­ milady."


    He had not heard enough of the tale that Val was forever embroidering to recall names, but that hardly mattered to Kalisandra.


    "As you will have it," she said, already turning away. Then, pausing momentarily, "Only, it does no good at all to believe foolish rot about parentage. Better the truth, however hard, that somebody''s comforting lies. I go to speak with your former lord. Whatever is happening, I can deal with, myself. Be not here, when we return from above."


    And with that, the ranger strode off, heading for that massive stone stairway, and Val. Gildyr stared after Kalisandra, his jaw loose and eyes wide.


    "Have we¡­ just been dismissed?" he wondered aloud.


    "So it would seem," replied Salem, as Cap''n howled insults from the safety of her soft, dark-furred shoulder.


    Mirielle thumped herself down on the ground, drawing both knees up tight to her chest and wrapping her skinny arms close around them.


    "We''re not going!" she/they said, meaning it.


    "Karus and I remain, as well," Gildyr decided, after consulting briefly with the great stag.


    Salem''s golden-striped tail lashed in agitation, her ears back nearly flat to her head.


    "That one is driven by fury and secret shame," said the Tabaxi, "and it is possible to do ill while claiming only best motives. Mrowr will surely have need of us. Also, Cap''n refuses to leave."


    Yet, after all, how difficult could one surly ranger be to soothe and control?


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    As it happened¡­


    Just a bit earlier, torn with emotion he wasn''t prepared for, Valerian ascended the stairway. Each separate step rose higher than he was tall, having been built for giants. Fortunately, there was a wagon ramp on the right side, heading upward. Bit steep, but usable. More than that, assessing the staircase''s ramp and location, a ludicrous ''couldn''t possibly be¡­ could it?'' notion began to take shape in Val''s head. Call it an outside hunch.


    The balustrades were carved of black stone. Worn and chipped by weather and time, they towered at least four elf-heights over his head. Not that he couldn''t balance without a handhold; in fact, sprinted recklessly upward, meaning to reach the clouds in one breath for sheer, mindless sport. Betting himself¡­ let''s see¡­ a new set of Crown Game pieces against a fine cloak that he could do it, and that something up there would be worth such a dare.


    Just about made it, first try. The stairway rose much higher than he''d expected, seeming to change from stone into something like sculpted mist on its way cloudward.


    Near that shifting, purple-grey ceiling, he took a quick breath, then slid backward a bit, trying to decide where the terrestrial staircase ended, and what, exactly, he owed himself. (But it was cloud giant magic, for certain.)


    Had just decided ''game pieces'', after all, when Kalisandra showed up like the ghost of an unhappy bride. Stepping silently from shadow and mist, she gave him a piercing once-over look, then shook her head.


    "So, you''re not an idiot, you like me, and I should be nice," she mused, thin-lipped mouth quirking slightly.


    Holy gods. Holy flame.


    Val briefly considered hurling himself over the edge, only fleeing her wouldn''t help matters. (And up was the answer, not down. Maybe.)


    He straightened still further, folded his arms across his chest and said,


    "Milady, I am pleased that you heeded my summons." (That made her scowl.) "I have something important to tell you."


    "And I, you, Milord¡­ but do proceed, as you are clearly in charge, here."


    Her eyes had gone past his face to the projecting hilt of Smythe, still sheathed across his back.


    "I see that things have gone very wrong for the Tarandahls. I¡­ am truly sorry, Valerian."


    Then, shaking useless sentiment out of her thoughts, she prodded,


    "What did you want to say? And, keep to the point, if you please. I haven''t all day."


    Right. Val puffed out a quick, troubled breath, saying,


    "I have met my other self, here in this plane. His memories and mine have become united. Interleaved." He laced his fingers together by way of demonstration; no small feat in stiff leather gauntlets.


    "The point is, he and his Kalisandra are very close. In love, actually. They are married, in the sense that¡­"


    "That we most certainly aren''t," finished Sandy, looking less grim than he would have expected. "Understood. What of it?"


    Vexing, awful, splendid female. Everything he didn''t dare say that he''d always wanted.


    "Just¡­ if I do or say something overly affectionate," Val replied slowly, "I wanted you to understand why¡­ and that part of me cannot help trying. That''s it. That''s mostly all, besides a possibly stupid notion of mine. You?"


    Kalisandra inhaled sharply and took half a pace backward, clearly steeling herself for something unpleasant.


    "My lord, I would not have you deceived," she said to him. "Lindyn has fallen. The realm of Geldaherys is no more. I have now neither lands nor standing at court. Thus, I release you from your betrothal vow. I shall escort you to Starloft in this plane and that one, as your master bade me¡­ Do whatever I may to help restore Ilirian¡­ and then I shall leave you. So¡­ make a new troth, find someone else. That''s the end of it."


    Except that it wasn''t. Valerian sensed something further. Some deeper trouble she very much wanted to hide.


    "NO!" snapped Sandy, eyes blazing with sudden fury and pain. "No magic! Stay out of my head, Fisher, or¡­"


    Or, too late. Not really meaning to, he''d glimpsed what her anger couldn''t conceal¡­ and yes, it was bad.


    "Satisfied?" she whispered. "I would have spared you the humiliation of learning that all this time, you''ve been betrothed to a nothing. No lady at all, but the daughter of two quick-witted Feens who saw their chance and took it. That day when the palace was raided¡­ it was all of the family who perished. Not just the lady and lord, but Kalisandra and Kesteros, as well. I have no name and no lineage¡­ just two scheming parents and a lying, desperate counselor. You are free, My Lord. Rejoice and run off with someone better."


    She was crying as Mirielle did, without movement or sound. Just tears and heartbroken silence. But that, he could deal with.


    Val conjured a tear-web, stepped over and used the small, sparkling net to dry Sandy''s face. Then, folding it carefully into a bird shape, he pressed the web into her nerveless right hand, folding her fingers shut with his own.


    "So many tears, so many wishes, Katina told me¡­ and she knows these things. Look at me, Kalisandra."


    "Not my name. A dead girl''s. Robbed from a corpse."


    "The only name I know. Thus, the one I shall use," he corrected, adding, "A hundred years ago, nobody asked me whether I wanted a wife. I was a child. I would have said no. But, like it or not, I got¡­ you. Sometimes we were friends, sometimes we hated each other. Usually, we got into trouble."


    Kalisandra sobbed-laughed a little, remembering.


    "Your fault, usually," she snorted.


    "Only fair to say, I remember things differently," said Valerian, brushing mist-dampened hair from her face. "You deride your parents, but they loved you, and wanted the best for their children. Counselor¡­"


    As ever, Val forgot the man''s name.


    "Garrod," she who was and was not Kalisandra supplied. "Counselor Garrod. Second father to me and to Kesteros, both, before my brother went off to fosterage. Garrod revealed all of this on his dying bed, two days ago."


    Right. Val glanced out at the roiling clouds, then back at the heart-stricken ranger.


    "He was not an intentional schemer, Milady."


    "I am not noble!" she raged, jerking away from his touch. "I am just the¡­"


    "You are as your behavior and choices reveal; very brave, very stubborn, completely honest¡­ and impossible to forget, or to do without. Garrod meant not to deceive, but to protect the realm. Who has suffered, exactly?"


    "You were lied to, Milord," she insisted, not meeting Valerian''s gaze. "Your folk would never have agreed to the match, had they known that I was plucked like a cur from a litter, thrust into a dead girl''s position."


    Valerian wouldn''t give over, though, being high-elf resolved and Tarandahl stubborn.


    "It seems that I am Silmerana, now. Warden of the North, and responsible for my own decisions," he told her. "Counselor Garrod is dead, having done his duty by Family Geldaherys, as he saw it. Who else knows of this, beside you and I? Kesteros?"


    She shook her head violently.


    "No! It would kill him, end his chance of betterment at court. My Lord, please leave him out of this. He''s just a boy¡­"


    "He is safe," Val assured her. "And my realm is mostly in my own head, contested by goblins and gnolls, Milady¡­ but I have a plan that will¡­ hopefully¡­ take me to Starloft well inside of the allotted time and any patrols. A wife I may or may not need, at the moment, but a trusted comrade, absolutely. Care to explore a cloud giant city and search for a transport disk?"


    She seemed momentarily lost and bereft, uncertain how to respond. Valerian caught at her hand, the one still clutching that wish-laden tear web.


    "Come on," he urged. "It''ll be fun, or we''ll die. Just like always."


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 Chapter Twelve

    35


    The plan had seemed perfect, at first. According to Gildyr, all that Grey Fang had to do was channel stored manna, directing an empty side-passage into Junior''s prison cell. Once the connection was made, nipping on in to snag his lordship would be less work than dropping a bone down the crap hole.


    ¡­Except that shifting a static tunnel took the massed force of at least seven goblins, and there were barely that many left he could call upon. Squinty, Black Gut and Dogbait were still unclaimed by the Mother, but three of his kin¡­ Bad Leg, Scar Mouth and Tilly¡­ had already died and gone gnoll.


    That was trouble in more ways than one, as it meant that the Mother could sift through their minds and learn about Grey Fang''s existence. Not of the plan, though; that he''d kept a close-guarded secret, waiting on Gildyr''s arrival. So much for their grand scheme, as it would have worked out in their heads.


    Real world, the plot went rancid a bit at a time, like meat left too long in the salt bag. First, Gildyr up and took off; vanished from ken like he''d never existed at all. No contact, no message, no help.


    Then that murdering half-elf, Grim Beard, led a raid that killed Bogwump and four hands of others. They never got close to his lordship''s cell. Wouldn''t have known how to find and reach it, even if a slaughter of gnolls hadn''t beaten them back¡­ but there went more sharp teeth and good folk, lost forever.


    Nearly a fortnight had passed, with no word and no Gildyr. Finally, Grey Fang could wait no longer. Counting himself, Pretty One, Dogbait, Black Gut and Squinty, that was a hand of goblins. Seven, if he included the littles, Twitchy and Snaggle¡­ only, they weren''t more than kitts and hadn''t much magic; could barely toast fleas off a hide, working together.


    Gildyr could have helped, but he wasn''t nowheres the goblins could sense. Not even fungus or roots could sniff out their only real friend.


    "Ee''ll show," Grey Fang assured the others, as they huddled in his slow-rolling workroom. "Ee ain''t like the rest o'' them surface types. We''ll just start with th'' plan, an'' let Gildyr come ter us, oncet ''ee be ready."


    "What be th'' plan, Uncle Fang?" asked Squinty, picking his teeth with a splinter of bone.


    "Tis never-you-mind till we gets there," snapped the goblin mage, shaking his staff. "The fewer as knows, the fewer sings out under fire or fang. Now up, all o'' yuns. Time ter be off."


    They grumbled, being surly and cross-grained young goblins, but did as their elder bade them. The passage he had in mind was an unmoving stub that sometimes connected Grand Diggings and Slant Path. Not much used, because the two shifting corridors were not often both in position at once. Long enough to reach his goal, most likely. If not, if the stub fell short a few yards, Black Gut''s void bombs would open some space in a hurry.


    And hurry, they must. Being goblins, Grey Fang''s small kin group weren''t warriors. They wouldn''t fight unless cornered or driven. Instead, they depended on ambush, stealth, poison and traps. Were no match at all for a hulking, bloodthirsty gnoll. Or even a wounded elf.


    All depended on simple avoidance and maybe a little good luck. Fortune rarely showed her beautiful face to the goblins, but Gildyr was part of all this, along with Butcher''s two kitts, Junior and Sparks. Perhaps the gods who cared nothing for small, squeaking prayers would listen to grand folk, and act.


    Grey Fang led his small kin group (a mischief of goblins) through the back tunnels, using an ages-old feel for spaces in stone to guide him. No light, which would give them away and they didn''t need, anyhow. Several potions and plenty of heal moss for packing in wounds, carried by Twitchy and Snaggle. Food, of course; some cached ahead, some in the packs, and plenty of good, fizzy mouf wien.


    As the Dragon Tail corridor ground into place below the stub passage, Grey Fang called his group close around him, letting them bump up and sniff at each other, for comfort.


    "''Ere, now," he whispered, pulling the Old Lady''s rib from his gathering pouch. "''Ave a nibble, an'' muster yer strength, kitts."


    The tooth-marked and defleshed rib hadn''t much savor left, but still glowered with manna. Grey Fang bit first, then handed the relic to Pretty One, who chewed with her eyes closed. She, too, passed the bone onward. In this way, all could partake of the strength of their Ancestress, the fabled Old Lady. Snaggle and Twitchy were last to chew, their needle teeth scraping and clicking on bone.


    Grey Fang let them have a bit longer, then reclaimed the relic and put it away.


    "''Ere''s the plan, then," he told them. "Gildyr''ll be ''ere. Said ''ees got Sparks in th'' palm of ''is ''and, practically with us, already. In the meantime, we''ve got ter spring Junior, and get ''im ter safety somewheres them gnolls can''t reach. Ter Sparks or Grim Beard, ''ud by my guess."


    Pretty One''s yellow-red eyes widened.


    "Cor," she whispered. "Them''s dangerous folk fer the likes of us ter be muckin'' with, Grampa. What if Junior don''t get that we''re tryin'' ter ''elp ''im?"


    "What if Sparks blasts us clean down t'' our ankle bones, like ''appened ter Ratchet?" fretted Dogbait, who''d been there in hiding and seen his friend burn.


    "Grim Beard won''t listen," whined Squinty, close to genuine panic. "Not if we served up Junior with mushrooms n'' sauce, right ter ''is tent!"


    "We ain''t eatin'' ''is lordship," snapped Grey Fang. "And Gildyr''ll be there ter run th'' negotiations. ''Ee won''t let us down, an'' we can''t fail ''im¡­ or else tis the gnoll curse fer all of us. Now, brace up, you lot. Sometimes, runnin'' fer cover ain''t enough. Sometimes, there''s nuthin'' fer it but sharp sticks n'' teeth."


    They shivered and gulped, but they nodded, bumping up against Grey Fang for comfort of kin-scent and warmth.


    "All right, we''re under the stub," Grey Fang whispered. "Black Gut, ready yer bombs. Squinty, we''ll be needin'' that rope. The rest o'' yuns, up on Dogbait''s shoulders. We''re gonna need ter ladder n'' reach, soon as th'' way opens up." Then, "Shadows ''n luck, kitts. I''m that proud o'' yuns, an'' so''s the Old Lady. ''Er line ain''t dead yet, an'' we ''as ''er blessin'', fer certain."


    When the Dragon Tail corridor reached its best position, Grey Fang nodded at Black Gut.


    "Now!" he commanded.


    The squat, pudgy goblin-lad gestured with both of his hands, generating a dark, chaos-shot orb. At Grey Fang''s signal, the younger goblin lofted the void bomb up the ceiling, chirping,


    "Boom!"


    The orb poured up and flattened against the passage roof, eating a hole through the rock with a shuddering ''Crump''.


    "Ladder!" whispered Grey Fang.


    Obediently, Dogbait trotted into position under the hole; Pretty One, Twitchy and Snaggle teetering atop like a goblin trophy-head pole.


    "Up!" Grey Fang commanded them, sending first Squinty, then Black Gut clambering over their fellows and up through the opening. A coil of glimmering rope snaked its way down moments later, anchored to something above in the stub.


    "Break off an'' climb!" ordered Grey Fang, boosting Pretty, Snaggle and Twitchy. Hands from above reached down, took hold and hauled, yanking the kitts out of sight.


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    Grey Fang came last, bidding his old carcass last just a little bit longer. Squinty magicked a seat at the rope''s end, spelling a sort of step-into butt harness that Grey Fang was glad to let carry him.


    Got up and into the twenty-foot stub with all the kitts hauling, just as the Dragon Tail passage moved on. For a long few heartbeats, all of them huddled together, counting, recounting and sniffing each other. Then,


    "Kitt''s first bat ''unt, that were," said the old mage. "Easy, fer such as you lot. Now, muster yer magic, fer we''ve gotta shift this bit into the path of ''is lordship''s cell."


    Distance of nearly a twelve span, that was; through stone as heavy and sullen as mountain-roots. A challenge, but having succeeded once, the kitts were more confident¡­ and, surely, Gildyr was on his way. Would be there, soon.


    "Right, then. All ''ands together, now," whispered Grey Fang. "Open yer minds an'' let manna flow. Try not ter think. Just be."


    Ought to have told them what to do next, in case something went wrong, but that would have crushed their hopes like a trod-upon cave beetle.


    Six small, trusting hands came to rest upon Grey Fang''s old, gnarled one. The manna of six kitts poured into the goblin mage, granting him power he hadn''t wielded since pulling Gildyr away from the manticore.


    Grey Fang inhaled sharply. Spoke words of command to the tunnel stub, which began to shudder and flex in response. LIke a reverse, hollow cave worm, the tunnel stub heeded him, oozing through rock one hard-fought yard at a time. Occasional whimpers and grunts could barely be heard over rumbling stone, but Grey Fang pressed onward.


    Almost¡­ almost¡­ just a little bit further¡­


    The elderly goblin could feel himself draining, emptying; pouring not just his own manna but all of the kitts'' into shifting that lumbering stub.


    So close¡­


    And then it was done, the short passage in place to intersect Junior''s traveling prison cell.


    "Rest," Grey Fang whispered, as Dogbait, Pretty One, Black Gut, Squinty, Twitchy and Snaggle collapsed in a quivering heap. "There''s the ''ard bit managed," he promised them. "Naught left now but ter rescue ''is lordship an'' flee."


    He handed the relic around, then, along with some mouf wien and jerky, same as they''d been leaving for Junior, all this time.


    To calm them still further, the old goblin told stories. The sort that always began with "I remember when¡­". Best way to pass along memory, in a species that lived such a scant, frightened span.


    Little by bit, they began to recover; complexions returning to tan from grey-white, manes and arm-strips regaining their luster, eyes glowing bright in the darkness.


    "Cell''s nearly ''ere," remarked Grey Fang, clambering back to his feet with the aid of his staff and Pretty One. "You lot get back ter th'' other end o'' th'' stub, in case Junior puts up a fuss about leavin''."


    The elderly goblin could feel the cell rolling toward them, slow as a bubble in mud. As the kitts scurried obediently off, Grey Fang hobbled out to the very front of the stub. Breathing deeply, marshaling all that remained of his magic, the old wizard tried out a smile; exposing his lone, rotted fang.


    Light-spores rose from the end of his staff, setting the rat-skull and bones all aglow. Along with his welcome-squeak and the clatter and rattle of trophy bones, the spore lights showed that he meant no harm; wasn''t attempting no sneakery.


    Nevertheless, Grey Fang took a nervous pace backward. Elf lords was mighty dangerous folk, especially when they was wounded. As well try to net a tornado.


    The stub end twisted and writhed as it made contact with Junior''s cell, developing a sudden, spherical growth like a mushroom cap.


    Grey Fang widened his comforting welcome grin, rattled the bones on his staff and took a step forward, sending spore lights dancing and spinning into the prison cell.


    "Greetings, yer lordship," he quavered. "I be Grey Fang, of the Down-Cavern goblins, an''..."


    Something moved in the shadows, hulking and fluid, reeking of carnivore. A gnoll. At least seven feet tall and muscled like an ogre, its spotted pelt netted with scars, the monster straightened from the bones it was scavenging.


    It stared at Grey Fang through eyes maddened with hunger; glowing with greenish-pale corpse light. Bits of old marrow and tattered leather dripped from its fanged jaws, which blasted an odor like burnt, rotting meat.


    It had weapons, was armed with a short sword and daggers, but seemed to forget all that; instead brandishing the snapped, splintered bone that it clutched in one massive fist. Sensing warmth, pulsing blood and a rabbity, terrified heart-beat, the beast slunk forward.


    It stalked Grey Fang slowly, sounding a crazed and hideous laugh.


    "Come, little flesh," it snarled. "Come and be eaten. Come serve the Mother in death!"


    Screams. There were screams from behind him. The terrified kitts, who were trapped at the stub''s other end. No escape spell. Couldn''t just leave them. Instead, Grey Fang made ready to die.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Somewhere else in the tunnels, sometime earlier, Lerendar soon faced the trouble of food and drink¡­ or, not enough of it. See, in the cell, he''d been fed. Out on his own, there was pretty much nothing to eat, even had he the speed and strength to go hunting.


    Weapons? Well, maybe. Did not every elven toddler wield a sling, until they''d grown tall enough for a bow? Clever, half-wild little brutes, even the high-elves; capable of dropping a bird in flight.


    Older taught younger, handing down the plane''s simplest ranged weapon, along with old fey-games and the habit of stim-leaf chewing. All outgrown by the time they gained spirit and true name¡­ but there was no doubt that an elven mother or nanny had her hands full¡­ and that old skills remained to be called upon. Could be brought back, at need.


    Constructing a sling was not hard at all. Just wanted reasonably flexible leather and cord. These, Lerendar could scavenge, as he cautiously wandered those shifting dark tunnels. Once being children, themselves, the shades understood, and pointed out useful detritus, making needed things glow. Better yet, ammunition was literally everywhere, as the caverns were littered with stones.


    The crippled warrior soon gathered what he required and found himself a deserted burrow to work in. (No food that he trusted, but more of that fizzing pale wine, tucked away on a crooked shelf.)


    Talking to Bony, Legless and Tendons, Lerendar described each step as he worked. From cutting and punching the leather with Snap, to braiding and splicing long cords; looping one end and knotting the other, with a sling pouch woven right in at the middle.


    In a little bit over two candle marks, he had a fine sling. The shades were mere spirits, too weak to move physical objects unless they all worked together. United, they could ruffle paper to get his attention or simply attempt to possess him. All three at once meant enough extra strength to stand unassisted. At least, for a while.


    This mattered a great deal, because Lerendar had forgotten how much balance and poise was required to sling a stone and hit anything but the floor or himself. He had to step forward, which¡­ Right. Not on a crutch.


    But with Legless, Bony and Tendons aboard, he could just about manage the footwork and stance. Used the trick for short bursts of sling practice, stopping each time when his breath started misting with cold and the world around him grew wavery-dark.


    Practicing left him weary, needing periods of human-type sleep. Odd, that¡­ and the first time he''d ever "dreamt"; experiencing strange, rambling, incoherent visions in which Bea and their child figured strongly. Which, you know, made him laugh a bit. Lerendar hadn''t realized that he cared that much about his small, unofficial family.


    Just¡­ dreamt that dark-haired Beatriz was wrapping his wound for him, making light talk of her folk and lost village, while Zara played with the toys he''d brought for her. A strangely comforting vision, oft interrupted by flashes of hunting with Short-stuff and Dad. Also, wandering the halls of Starloft, utterly naked.


    Well, enough of that. The first thing he brought down was a bat, which he wouldn''t have eaten, no matter how hungry he was, but which made a fine moving target. The cavern he''d found was large, with a dim, fungal glow and a brackish pool at one end. There were blind, white fish in the pool, looking like slithery worms. Affixing Snap to an old broken spear shaft with cords and pine gum (which was meant to be chewed, but worked all right as adhesive) Lerendar caught a few fish and made his own half-raw, half burnt-up dinner. Best thing he''d ever tasted, bar that odd, bitter water, itself.


    The second thing he brought down was a skittering goblin, part of a half-glimpsed troop which made haste to drag their squealing fellow away, no doubt to fetch reinforcements. Lerendar doused his fire, took several long gulps of water and then hobbled off as fast as he could, guided by shades and by map.


    Later, in a safe, quiet spot, he marked the cavern on his chart: Water! Fish! But, also, Not private! He was about half a mile from the surface at that point, in a tunnel that whipped like a slow-moving rope''s end.


    Got the surprise of his life when daylight¡­ actual sunglow¡­ waked him from more of that healing sleep. The¡­ he¡­ There was a shallow, cliff-side cave through which a sliver of wintery twilight had crept.


    Lerendar bolted half up and forward without thinking, not bothering to consult his scroll map. Just scrabbled across ten yards of litter and rock without even using his crutch. Nearly lost his left foot when the tunnel ground off and away, shutting that brief point of contact like a slammed door¡­ but he made it out to the cave.


    No need to tell that he lifted his face to the sunlight and cried. The cave was shallow and far too high up on the cliffside to use as an exit. Just a pockmark in stone, but Lerendar could not bring himself to leave it until the shades threatened mass possession.


    "Please," he asked, as the tunnel went past, yet again. "Just until sunrise. Let me see stars and breathe free, until then. Promise, I''ll go. Just¡­ give me a little while longer, please."


    Honestly would have taken his chances with the cliff, rather than plunging back into foul darkness and rat-stench, had concern for his people¡­ and those implacable shades¡­ not prevented stupidity.


    Marked, underlined, circled LIGHT! on his map. Watched a sullen red dawn, then suffered himself to be led back within.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 Chapter Thirteen

    36


    The wind blew in tense, icy blasts, growing more powerful as they climbed. Purple-dark clouds streamed past, taking wind-sprite shapes to leer at Val and Kalisandra. Those drifts and tatters of mist which did not pass above or below them became part of the staircase; growing temporarily harder than cloud, but weirdly less solid than stone. Briefly made use of, soon it moved on, shoved by an angry wind. The earthen part of the stairway had ended some fifty feet lower. Here, all was clouds, mist and strong, ancient magic. So much for setting.


    Sandy became aware of the goddess before Valerian did, though he was the target of most of her mischief. Sudden wild gales and slyly-placed ice threatened to send him plunging over the side. Intense temperature drops and streaking frost battled his shielding and warmth spells. Mocking laughter echoed and bounced.


    "My Lady," called Sandy, diverting a sudden blizzard of icicles. "What is thy will? Speak, friend of the helpless and hunted. Two frozen corpses will gain you no fame¡­ can offer no worship!"


    A whirlwind of glittering snow appeared on the titan''s stairway in front of them, briefly turned into a young, lovely, icy-pale girl and then vanished, again.


    ¡­but at least the wind dropped.


    Kalisandra offered graceful obeisance, dragging Valerian, too, to one knee.


    "Speak, My Lady," she called out. "Thy handmaid listens."


    Another crystalline whirlwind formed, spinning at a weird right angle to all of that streaming dark cloud. The staircase might have been barren desert; hot and dry as the surface of Char. Frost Maiden did as she pleased and went where she liked, utterly free of constraint, unbound by physical laws.


    Came nearer, this time. Manifesting on the same colossal step as Sandy and Val, she pirouted to a halt with both arms upraised; bow in one hand, sling in the other, a suggestion of ice-bolt arrows filling the air all around her.


    Younger than Firelord, taking no other shape than her own, the goddess had dark, unbound hair, moon-pale eyes and translucent, back-curving horns. Her expression was mocking, spiteful and sly. She was dressed as a huntress in clothing that shifted along with her background of roiling vapor and hissing sleet.


    "You, too, will desert me for¡­ this," she accused.


    Her voice pattered and gusted like wind-driven hail on a window pane. Sometimes it rang out like sea ice, booming and cracking with each surging wave. The air around her wasn''t just cold, but void. The bleak, utter absence of warmth.


    Kalisandra struggled to placate her goddess, saying,


    "My Lady¡­ there is an ancient compact between our two families. It was enacted again, when we were just children. We are meant to be wed, only, things have changed. I am no longer¡­"


    But Frost Maiden wasn''t listening. Wouldn''t allow her to finish.


    "Compact is nothing," she sleet-rattled. "He dies here and now. Then you shall have freedom and youth, tricking the hunters, forever."


    Biting chill shrank the air. Cracked it like glass, snatching at breath and blackening flesh.


    "You¡­ speak of freedom, Milady," said Kalisandra, as Valerian scrawled hasty sigils of warding around them. "Yet¡­ you mean to deny me the freedom to willingly choose your service¡­ to be your drawn bow because that is what I want."


    That Firelord was paying attention was evident from the odd drifting spark and occasional heat-ripple. Not precisely a threat. Merely watchful.


    Frost Maiden pouted like an elf of seventy years; a human of maybe twelve or thirteen. One who''d deliberately chosen to never mature. She, too, sensed Firelord''s nearness.


    "Poacher!" she blizzard-howled, stamping a dainty foot. "Here stands your game piece, ready to claim and nullify mine, yet again!"


    Valerian''s hand was indeed upon Kalisandra''s shoulder, but¡­ only to help steady the ranger, whose hair had whipped loose of its fuzzy dark braid. Whose boots slid backward against icy cloud.


    "I¡­" he began.


    "SILENCE!" shrilled the goddess; keen as wind through ice-coated rigging. Then, caught by a sudden, sly notion, Frost Maiden actually smiled, purring,


    "Very well. A hunt, with your boy as the quarry. Safe den is the giants'' transport chamber. As for pursuit¡­ hmm¡­ let us have these."


    Frost Maiden''s hand described a swift arc, causing Gildyr, Salem and Mirielle to appear in the air by the cloud-span, still clutching and straining as though stopped in the act of clambering upward. At her mischievous finger-snap, three glowing spirits formed in the freezing dark sky: Fox, Hawk and Stoat. Not the creatures themselves, but their totems; their divine essence and lifeforce. That which had first been breathed into being, the day of creation.


    Like shimmering smoke, the phantoms poured themselves into Salem, Mirielle and Gildyr, filling their unwilling hosts with a savage predator''s hunt-lust; enveloping their bodies, suborning their wills.


    "To your places," ordered the goddess, drawing a space-bending sigil. The hunters vanished like wind-driven snow.


    "They lie in wait," she said. "All blows will seek out the boy. When thrice struck, he is eliminated. Dead in body and soul."


    At least, those were her words on the surface. The spoken parts. Below that, tremendously complex runes of divine magic bent and folded reality; changing the bridge and the cloud-giant citadel above it. Shifting the mortals like game tokens.


    Not intending to lose, she did not say what would happen once Val reached the transport disk, alive and unscathed. Just spun away like a crystal tornado, leaving her teasing laughter behind her.


    "Stay close," urged Kalisandra, seizing his arm. "We watch for each other, just like at home, tracking orcs." Then, "I''m so sorry. She¡­"


    "Is your goddess. She has her demands, as does the Shining One. I would not come between you, but¡­" he kissed her lightly, just brushing her icy cheek. Her impatient shove came half a beat later than it might have done. So, progress.


    "Off!" she growled, while Valerian battled a grin.


    The original stair had been awkwardly huge, but traversable. This new, altered structure was a nightmare of pit traps, deadfalls and hurdles, designed to maximize cover and ambush. On the one hand, meant to let fast, fleeing prey scramble to safety. On the other hand, to give predators plenty of places to lurk. Many vectors from which to attack.


    Only, Val had just hatched a new plan. Half-formed and still changing, it might work, but he did not let himself think through it too clearly. Not with a hostile goddess as his opponent. One who''d set no conditions at all, should he succeed in evading her hunters and traps.


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    Everything depended on surprise and on Kalisandra, who could be rid of him in a hurry, if that''s what she truly wanted. Pointing to himself, he said,


    "Bait." Adding quietly, "You''re long-range cover."


    Sandy nodded, but frowned, biting her lip.


    "I would not harm those the goddess has forced into hunting you, Northerner."


    Val had an answer for that. A trick he was struggling not to reveal. Taking Sandy''s hand, he inscribed a sigil into her palm, then said,


    "Your stored arrows. Need access, please."


    She scowled bleakly, looking suspicious, but guided his hand into the faerie pocket containing her quiver and arrows. Inside the pocket, hopefully hidden from Frost Maiden, Val transferred the sigil to half of those barbed and serrated broad-heads.


    A neat and subtle change took place. Now, their damage would not be external. Passing harmlessly through solid flesh, they would rip out a ride-along spirit. Pretending to kiss her face again, he whispered softly,


    "Awair a clear, safe shot. They will fall stunned."


    ¡­then he really did kiss her cheek. First, because an angry goddess was more likely to make mistakes. Second, because he really wanted to.


    Frost Maiden''s voice began counting, in the high Empyrean tongue. Symbols flashed in the air as well; lighting those seething dark clouds from some angle that made no physical sense. Because she was fair (by her own estimation) Frost Maiden grudgingly restored Valerian''s manna, as Firelord burnt away the night''s harm and exhaustion. Better than he''d expected, actually. As for Sandy,


    "I am in your hand, Milady, to save or cast off," he said to his maybe someday-wife. Next, he turned and began sprinting up the warped stairway, listening hard for approaching attack.


    Val changed direction and misty-stepped randomly, moving sometimes in cover, sometimes out in the open, trying his best to have no discernible pattern at all except mostly forward and up.


    Tall brambles grew somehow out of the cloud steps, but they were weak and fragile, having little actual substance. Being an elf, he could separate sounds from each other; telling wind and rustling foliage from the soft pad of footsteps, the flutter of wings. Also, Salem-now-Fox had not cast off her cloak, which he''d mage-traced, here too. But she wasn''t the first to strike.


    There was a sudden wide gap in the giant stairway, spanned by floating and bobbing ice chunks. Perhaps thirty yards across, the gap opened onto a distant landscape of hillock and marsh, so far below as to look like an abstract painting. Damp, chilly air blasted up from below, smelling of mud.


    Valerian glanced around. Nothing, as yet. No Fox, Stoat or Hawk. He backed a few paces, as though intending to leap. Misty-step she''d expect, so he did something different. Cast blinding light and ''Hide'', then projected a brief simulacrum of himself to the other side of the broken stairway. Next, he jumped about half the distance across, to the largest, most stable-seeming of those twisting and bobbing small icebergs.


    Frost Maiden could certainly see through the ruse, but Gildyr, Salem and Mirielle hopefully couldn''t. Kalisandra, well¡­ genuine heart-bond would not be fooled by such basic illusion. If she felt anything for him, at all, she''d see through the spell.


    His leap was good, his landing solid, despite that slick, tilting surface. Only, with a sudden burst of wild laughter, a taunting wind-voice shrilled: "Tricked you!" The ice chunk dissolved into glittering motes underfoot, leaving him standing on nothing but air.


    Valerian plunged momentarily, frigid wind whipping, clothes rattling. Then he cast ''Levitate'', preventing sudden, harsh reacquaintance with the spinning, uprushing ground.


    Aimed himself at the higher edge of the stair-gap, meaning to hit the ground dodging. Then Mirielle appeared, surrounded by the glowing shape of a great hawk. She swooped toward him, mace in hand. Val did not act at once. He was meant to be bait. Just foolish, unheeding temptation, luring a predator out of concealment. He had to hold position long enough for Sandy to shoot and expel the possessing spirit. Only¡­


    The girl was flying. There was genuine delight in her eyes, not prey-drive or hunger. He sensed a shadow at gap''s-edge, above them. Kalisandra, leaning dangerously far; bow drawn, arrow nocked. She fired, sending a silvery shaft humming straight for the girl, who would plunge to her death, without the aid that indwelling spirit.


    Heart-bond, he thought. For some reason, Mirielle loved him; had come to share joy with a friend, not to hunt him. But Kalisandra didn''t know that.


    With no time for formal sigils, he mage-handed that hurtling arrow, diverting its path from the soaring and banking young girl. Got himself back onto the stair with a surge of manna, landing safely over the crevice, no longer hidden from sight. Tucked the arrow away and then¡­ stupid parlor trick, learnt from Murchison¡­ batted Mirielle as high and as far in the air as wild-channeled manna would let him. Not dead, but off of the gameboard. That was one hunter dealt with.


    He paused to be certain that Kalisandra made it across the floating ice chunk trail, putting his own bow away and extending a hand to steady her final, short hop. He started to thank her, to say something encouraging. Only, her face was tear-streaked and pale. She wouldn''t look at him, but it was clear that her heart was being torn into two ragged halves.


    "Sandy," he began, feeling utterly miserable. "I never intended to cause a rift between¡­"


    "Go!" she said, savagely. "Frost Maiden will not spare a thief for changing his mind. Move, Fisher, before the others arrive!"


    He moved, pivoting to lunge further upward; hurtling one obstacle after another. A sudden, glittering maelstrom turned the stairs at his feet into a violent whirlpool with fanged edges and a long, lashing tentacle. He leapt, tucked and levitated; not straight across, but a little bit sideways, dodging capture.


    Vast, crashing boulders of ice thundered down-slope like an avalanche. Valerian misty-stepped past the first two, then used another Murchison trick to sprawl flat and meld with the stairs, white the next three rolled down and away.


    Javelines of ice burst through the stairway with sharp, booming cracks, intending bloody impalement. He switched course at random, watching for the sudden bulge and glow that betrayed their shattering rise.


    Frost Maiden''s wrath was palpable, making the air burn with life-stealing cold.


    He focused on staying alive and climbing the cloud span, relying on Kalisandra to knock Gildyr and Salem out of the fight. He could see the tall spires and floating islands of a sky-giant citadel, gleaming in sunshine, above. A few hundred paces, at most.


    Did not expect Gildyr, burrowing up from under his feet like a desert sandworm. A last-moment change in direction probably saved his life, as Val was hurled backward rather than bitten in half.


    He came up rolling, dodging a lightning-fast, razor-clawed paw. Drew Nightshade, determined not to need Sandy''s help. Not to make her defy her goddess, again.


    The druid was curled up like a bean inside the transparent, glowing form of a gigantic stoat; his magic forming a crackling web around the sly predator. Trouble. Very, very much that totem beast had the reach on Valerian¡­ and firebolts would hurt Gildyr more than the spirit beast. Uttering crazed, bass chuckles, it circled and stalked him, baring teeth like an entire, up-ended armory.


    Worse, the stair began forming deep pits all around him, limiting Val''s physical motion. Not misty-step or levitate, though. As long as he had the manna to do so, he could flash in and out of its sight, keeping the totem beast scurrying.


    Only, it wasn''t that simple. Not being flesh, it did not have to actually turn. Just reshape itself. Sort of ingesting and then spewing its own substance to face in the right direction. It could also expand, although its strikes became more like wind than a physical blow.


    Vines shot up from the cloud-step, grew wildly, then twisted and died, having nothing but vapor to draw upon. Even dead, they were dangerous, with thorns as long as his hand, dripping venom. He scratched himself ducking a swing of the Stoat''s long tail, marking a point for the goddess.


    Instantly, Valerian''s right leg began swelling as toxin battled his ward sigils. His manna remained high. Firelord''s doing, most likely. Val levitated, using a few cautious firebolts to burn off the thorns. Tried cutting at the stoat with Nightshade, but only succeeded in bloodying Gildyr, who twitched and rolled as if in a dream.


    Shifting strategy, Valerian misty-stepped out of the bramble-ash and into the air over the totem-beast''s questing head. Hurriedly pulled the spelled arrow out of its pocket, then drew back to throw it at Gildyr.


    But then¡­ distant but perfectly clear¡­ an elk bugled. Karus, Lord of the Forest, awakened his heart-friend, causing the druid to slowly uncurl.


    Moments later a bow sang. An arrow hissed past at an angle, close enough to stir Valerian''s hair. It flashed through the glowing Stoat, and then on into Gildyr. Passed through the druid entirely, dragging tatters of shimmering spirit-silk. The Stoat writhed and then vanished, leaving Gildyr wobbling drunkenly. The druid half fell into Val, who caught him reflexively.


    "Rest," said the high-elf, lowering Gildyr to a seat on the stairs. "You are freed of possession, and I cannot linger."


    Salem lay in wait up ahead, Valerian sensed, between him and the citadel. Kalisandra was somewhere behind him, ready to strike again, though it tore her away from her goddess, forever.


    Val shook his head and then resumed climbing, trying to think like a cat and a fox in unholy union. He had to win. Had to reach that stepping disk without further injury, and find a way to make everything right.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 Chapter Fourteen

    37


    Otherwhere and somewhen, Grey Fang positioned himself between a slavering gnoll and six terrified goblin kitts. His heart hammered like a dwarf''s forge as he shuffled through bones and detritus, lifting his staff and readying magic. The gnoll prowled forward, its laughter see-sawing from low chuckles to helter-skelter hysteria.


    Its hulking, hunched shoulders brushed the roof of the mobile prison cell. The fanged head was carried low on a long, maned neck. Ropes of blood-flecked spittle hung from its jaws, which blasted the stench of a bog-corpse. Its manic giggling rose in pitch as it slunk toward Grey Fang, for terror, shock and pain added real savor to meat.


    Suddenly, the gnoll lunged. Grey Fang raised his staff and released a scrawled sigil, shouting "Rise!" in a voice that quavered not at all. At his command the stone floor softened, flowed and then mounded itself like a wave crest, overtaking and seizing that hurtling gnoll.


    At a sign from Grey Fang, the liquified stone hardened again, entombing the hideous creature. Not before its taloned paw raked the goblin''s face, though; tearing one eye from its socket and laying open his flesh to the bone.


    Grey Fang stumbled backward as Pretty One, Black Gut, Squinty and Dogbait rushed to his aid. Pretty and Squinty threw stones at the gnoll''s exposed muzzle and paws. Black Gut carved out a pit between Grampa and the trapped beast with a trio of void-bombs, shrieking, "Boom! Boom! Boom," as he did so.


    Dogbait stanched the blood flow with heal moss and spells, helping the blinded old wizard out of the cell and back to their tunnel stub. Squinty, Black Gut and Pretty One tumbled in after them, shrill alarm cries barely audible over the gnoll''s anguished howling.


    What seemed like forever passed before their section of corridor moved away from the ravaged cell, cutting off noise from outside and killing those bone-chilling howls.


    Grampa¡­ Grey Fang¡­ was too badly injured to speak or to give them directions, so Pretty One took immediate charge.


    "Snaggle, Twitchy, stay with Grampa. One o'' yuns ter each ''and. ''Ee''ll need ter be guided," she ordered, doing her best to sound confident. "Dogbait, see ter ''is wounds. Pack ''em tight with spider silk n'' blood seal. Squinty, stand watch. This ''ere bit o'' tunnel''s gonna hit sumthin'' else sooner or later, an'' then we c''n scurry on out¡­ but Grampa''s gotta be in shape ter move, when it does."


    Dogbait was already hard at work, pulling wadded heal moss out of his belt-pouch, chewing it up properly and then gently smearing the resultant paste over Grey Fang''s mangled face. The Gnoll''s claws had gouged deeply through flesh, tendons and nerves, causing a ragged and filthy wound; its edges gaping and flexing whenever their grandfather struggled to speak. One eye was missing entirely, the other swollen shut; scraped bone showing at forehead, cheek and chin.


    The heal moss took root and spread, forming a living bandage that drained away poison and flesh-rot. It also numbed pain, easing the wizard''s agony. A sprinkle of blood seal and several layers of spider silk finished the dressing, along with the chant they always uttered to help an injured one feel better, quickly. The other kitts joined Dogbait in murmuring,


    "Heal, heal, drain n'' seal, the sooner ya rest, the better ye''ll feel. There''s sneakin'' ter do, yet, n'' treasures ter steal, so rest up, Ol'' Grampa, n'' heal."


    That there was pure magic in them words, passed on from mother to kitt for generations out of mind, every one of them fiercely believed.


    "There now, Grampa," said Pretty One afterward, taking his hand. "Settle an'' rest. Me an'' Dogbait an'' Squinty ''ll get us on ''ome ter the burrow."


    And then? With no Gildyr to guide them and no rescued elf-lord to trade? With Grey Fang terribly wounded and gnolls around every corner? What could six goblin kitts possibly do next?


    Pretty One shivered, but resolutely thrust fear from her heart and mind. The others needed her to be strong; to lead them until Grampa recovered.


    As if sensing her decision, Grey Fang tried to say something, but the heal moss and his own badly gashed face wouldn''t let him. Instead, the old goblin reached into his sack and pulled out their family relic, the Old Lady''s rib.


    Groping for Pretty One, Grampa pressed the relic into her hands. Pretty One straightened her spine and set her shoulders, accepting heirloom and authority.


    "It''ll come right, Grampa, I promise," she told him. Told all of the anxiously watching others. "We''ll ''ead fer the lake cavern. Tis closer, an'' there''s old diggins'' ter lay up at. Gildyr c''n find us there as well as ''ee could at ''ome. Ee''s been there before."


    They had only to wait for their tunnel stub to grind through the mountain, back to a juncture she recognized. That was all, just sit tight and wait. In the meantime, she would do her best to keep the others'' spirits alive; being their hope and their backbone, till Grampa could take back over, again. And if he never fully recovered, or died of gnoll toxin?


    Pretty shook her head. Grampa always told them: "Rot starts from inside, away where no one else c''n see it. A little fear, a little anger, a touch o'' jealousy¡­ soon spreads ter th'' whole clan."


    She handed the Old Lady''s relic around, giving everyone a nice, long chew. Then,


    "You lot get some sleep," said Pretty One. "We gotta be ready ter move at a moment''s alert."


    Ready to run fast and far, if it came to that. Time underground did not pass the same way as above, closeness to stone making everything slower¡­ but, to Pretty One''s figuring, they spent about three sleep cycles in the tunnel stub, eating, drinking and caring for Grampa at one end, voiding their waste in the other. Holding their breath and hiding through dangerous intersections, until they were safely past well-traveled lanes. Finally, the stub ground up against the vast lake cavern. Lots of fine memories, there, of a time when the diggings were crowded with folk and their scampering kitts. Now the big cavern was empty. Or, almost.


    Hurrying out of that dark, slow-lashing passage, Pretty One helped carry Grampa into the glow of fungus and worms. Out where water lapped gently and kin-scent still lingered. But there was another, fresher trace laid over the ghosts of lost friends.


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    Pretty One smelt him and his dinner; saw the banked coals of a cook fire before she saw him. Elf, smelling strongly of pain, hunger and worry. Not just any elf, either. Junior, himself, or Pretty''s head was a rotten turnip.


    She froze, momentarily, but the fugitive high-elf did not. There was a sudden whooshing noise and a sharp grunt. Then a sling-missile keened through the air, striking Black Gut full on the shoulder, snapping his collar bone. The kitt squealed and collapsed, but there was no further attack. Instead of lofting another missile, the elf doused his fire and melted into the shadows; gone in less time than it took Pretty to catch and prop Black Gut.


    "Ee''s ''ere," she whispered. "Bain''t eaten by gnolls, after all¡­ an'' ''ee surely knows ''eal magic¡­ or someone does, if we gets ''im back ter ''is kin."


    Pretty One shifted poor, squalling Black Gut onto Dogbait and Squinty.


    "We''ll find us a safe, ''idden burrow not far from the water," she said. "Then, oncet yer all settled in, I''m goin'' after ''is lordship. Ee''s our key ter fixin'' up Grampa an'' Black Gut."


    "Ee''s dangerous, Pretty. Kill ye flat dead as soon as look at ye, ''ee will," said Dogbait, while packing moss around Black Gut''s snapped bone. "Old Lady''s blessin'' ee ain''t kilt poor Boom-boom!"


    "Stay ''ere," agreed Squinty. "We c''n just wait fer Gildyr, like Grampa said."


    But Pretty One shook her head.


    "Ee wants out. We c''n show ''im the way. ''Ee''s ''ungry, an'' we ''as food. ''Ee''ll listen. ''Ee''s gotta."


    She''d run him down and make him listen, because everything that mattered depended on making this work.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    ¡­Which explained why Lerendar, consulting his map, spotted a lone, persistent stalker. Sometimes shaken off track in the shift and tangle of passages, but generally less than a furlong behind, for candle-marks time, and then a full day.


    He set a few hasty snares and some deadfalls, but the pursuer was clever or lucky; evading all that one elf could throw at him. Lerendar was sick to death of darkness and rat-stench and tunnels. Tired of fleeing his unseen pursuer. Finally, at the butt-end of a long, curving tunnel, he chose to stop running.


    Sling in hand, smooth stone at the ready, all three shades in boiling possession at once, he faced his assailant like a warrior, not like scurrying prey. Stood well enough forward of the stone wall to give himself plenty of sling room. Had his makeshift fishing spear planted head-down like a javelin, ready to throw.


    Thanks to Bony, Legless and Tendons, he could see and hear outside of his normal range. Something was scrabbling closer, but fitfully. Nervously. It glowed deeper than red in his dark vision; huddled and furtive and small. Goblin. Young and female, by scent.


    Lerendar made use of the shades'' power to stand himself upright. Began swinging the sling-pouch and shot in preparation for casting. He could see the glow of her yellow-red eyes, follow her scuttling progress as she darted forward to place something onto the ground between them.


    Then, uttering a faint squeal of genuine terror, the goblin scrambled back into the shadows. Trap, most likely. Some cursed or poisoned object, possibly spelled to explode when touched. Lerendar wasn''t a fool.


    Yet¡­ all of this time, and she hadn''t attacked, nor driven him into a party of skulking gnolls. The shades were deeply uneasy, but seemed not to sense any danger. Two were for leaving as soon as the circling room ambled past. Wasn''t unanimous, though, for Bony sighed,


    ''A gift,'' in a voice like papery, wind-rattled leaves.


    Sling still in hand, trying to make it seem that his crutch was a weapon, the elf came forward a pace or two. Close enough to see, on a clean bit of scraped hide, another flask of that rank, fizzy wine alongside a loaf of flat and leathery bread; same as he''d had, day after day in his cell.


    ''Food,'' whispered Bony, inside of his head. ''Drink.''


    He could not lean over to pick anything up without toppling forward; revealing the extent of his injury. Nor had he the magic to simply waft objects over, as Shorty and Mom did. Honestly wasn''t certain what to do next, though it seemed he was being propitiated. Offered to, like a god. There was even a small, polished gem. Pried from a captured weapon or helmet, no doubt, for it looked like a pommel or crest ornament. In the darkness, he could not see color, but very much wanted it not to be red; not part of some fallen Tarandahl''s gear. Seething with anger, frustration and hate, Lerendar snapped,


    "Why do you follow me?!"


    Question: What separates a high-elf from the chaos and cruelty of the Seelie Court?


    Answer: Not much. A decision to leave the Fey-Wilds behind; sacrificing eternity, power and direct access to the gods (their parents) for a chance to wander the earth and breathe free.


    Many generations separated Lerendar Tarandahl ob Keldaran from the glory and terror of Avalon. His magic was little more than a spark. Yet he was elvish. mighty, and sometimes compassionate.


    For just an instant he saw, not a quivering she-rat but a terrified child, trying the last, most desperate thing she knew to get help. Daring to speak to an implacable enemy god.


    "We¡­ we c''n show ye th'' way out, Yer Lordship," she begged, almost sobbing. "We c''n get ye past them patrols an'' back ter yer own folk."


    The shades fell to arguing inside of his head, sounding like wind in the battlements. Only Bony believed her, but¡­


    Wind. What he wouldn''t give to feel the air move, again; see sunlight sparkle on water; reach and warn the people he loved.


    "How does this benefit you?" he demanded. The circling room would arrive soon, Lerendar knew. If nothing else, he could step in and away from that cringing young goblin. Try to lose her again, in the scribble of passages.


    "We needs yer magic, Milord. Magic fer healin''. Fer putin'' an end ter th'' gnoll curse. There b''aint but a few of us left, Mighty Lord. Ye''ve won. We c''n fight yuns no more. Please¡­ just let us go. Stop the gnolls. Heal Grampa an'' Boom-Boom."


    The high-elf glanced down at his own splinted and shade-strengthened leg. He was no master of heal-craft, as all but an idiot she-rat could see. Inside his mind, Bony was winning that furious argument, with Tendons now swinging over to team: trust the goblin-child.


    The girl seemed to realize that he was possessed, watching as different minds emerged and drew back, again. Wrapping both skinny arms tightly around herself, she rocked back and forth on her haunches, mutely awaiting the verdict.


    Three of those people were dead at the hands or neglect of their goblin captors. The high-elf still lived, but had lost freedom, health, his future as Silmerana¡­ his father and friends to goblins and gnolls. Very far from a sympathetic audience.


    "You speak of a gnoll-curse. How does one end it?" Lerendar probed, turning a bit to face the oncoming chamber.


    The goblin looked up at him through her mane of matted and fawn-spotted hair. She seemed to sense that Lerendar''s decision swayed on a knife''s edge. That it could swing either way, depending on how she presented things.


    "Grampa¡­ Grey Fang, that is¡­ said that the ritual must be undone, played out in reverse with th'' blood an'' entrails an'' life returned ter th'' sacrifice, an'' the oaths un-chanted, Mighty Lord. Such as us could never manage all that, but if there''s a mage o'' power amongst yuns¡­"


    Shorty. Valerian could mutter and wave away any such hideous curse, three out of four felt positive. Especially with Bony''s guidance.


    Lerendar shifted his stance, from both legs to leaning heavily on his crutch. He was so very cold; his vision beginning to swim and grow dark. Had either to flee and sleep off the effects of possession, or trust a seemingly genuine offer of aid. In the end, it was Bony¡­ Prince Kalistiel¡­ who decided.


    "Lead on," said the shade, through his still-living friend. "This one will need rest¡­ and we are here, surrounding you, whether you see us, or not. Trifle, betray him, and learn the extent to which a goblin may suffer."


    Very wide-eyed, Pretty One nodded assent.


    "We''ve already learnt that," she whispered. "Ain''t much more yuns c''n teach us o'' loss, Milords."


    Then, clambering back to her feet, she gathered the offerings and tucked them away, saying,


    "This way, Mighty Ones, quiet an'' quick as yuns c''n manage. We''ll stop fer rest whenever ye says ter."


    And then, glancing frequently backward, the small goblin girl set off, hope limping slowly along in her wake.

 Chapter Fifteen

    38


    Many cycles earlier, in lower Karellon, a lost and out-of-place magician tended his shop. Small and oddly-angled, having been built into the space between an aerial bridge pylon and the Ministry of Mortal Affairs, the shop received little natural light. Quite a bit of harvestable traffic vibration and scores of ringing speeches, though, along with copious manna.


    It was reached by traversing a series of air-mounted flagstones; down, up or sideways, depending on how the bridge drifted. This part of Karellon rarely settled, and its inhabitants liked it that way. Maps were pretty much useless, but nobody minded. Most of the streets were not even named; the buildings, including this shop, unnumbered. One got there by need and by knowing.


    There was a sales floor and counter up front, a small stockroom beneath, accessed by trapdoor and magical lift. In back lay the workroom, where the magician hammered out spells and taught a few students. Half-orcs, mostly, with varying ranges of talent.


    Upstairs to the spiraling right, an elvish oracle did her level best to dodge custom. Meliara Tarandahl ad Galadin was a self-exiled northerner. A reclusive noblewoman whose terrible visions only came true if spoken aloud to the one they concerned. She received very few callers, and kept very much to herself.


    As for Murchison, he was trapped in this plane, which was so far from his own as to defy description through sigil or formula¡­ and therein lay much of his problem. It seemed that the algorithm which had brought him here would not operate in reverse. Not in a plane of high magic, just as sigils and spells fell flat, back home.


    The distance was mind-bending, the incompatibility factor staggering¡­ and Achilles Murchison was stuck. Worse than stuck; in constant physical danger from a place that rejected his very particles, constantly fighting to kill and replace him. All of the food was poisonous, till spelled. All of the water, like venomous mud.


    He maintained a warded safe space within his shop (rechristened "Murchison''s Backwater Research"). Stayed there, building up custom through word of mouth. Found his niche performing needed small miracles for those too humble or poor to trouble an elven mage-lord.


    Love spells, find object, good fortune and healing; these were Murchison''s butter and honey. Kept the lights on and the register chiming, so to speak.


    Yes, he missed home right down to his cells (which were suffering literal ionizing high-energy manna decay). Of course, he tried all that he knew to return to his own plane. Didn''t matter. Nothing worked. It was as if some powerful force, having spotted his backdoor arrival, had nailed the way shut with Murchison still trapped inside.


    He''d killed a man coming here, and had to live with that fact, every day. Some twisted version of himself, Murchison figured; one possibility out of literally infinite gradations of him. Had somehow¡­ burnt up and absorbed the poor guy, whose weird memories and life history were a constant plague to the real, foreign thing.


    Maybe they missed him back home. Maybe they just shrugged and got on with their lives, as one did. Certainly, no one came after him, and after a while, he stopped looking for rescue. Stopped searching faces for someone he knew.


    But, a guy had to eat, red-handed or not, so Murchison turned his other-self''s dim, cluttered shop into a modest success. Sold spells, charms and potions; took in a few students. Got by.


    Until, one day, the Visitor¡­ a hooded and cloaked young shadow who stopped by once a week to see the oracle¡­ came into his shop, instead. A tone chimed alertly as this unexpected customer crossed the door''s warded threshold, its melody ending with the sweet little trill that meant: serious money.


    Murchison bustled out of the back, where he''d been preparing a tincture of nausea for a school-ducking potion (very popular with the local kids, at two coppers a sip).


    "Welcome, valued patr¡­" he began, and then trailed off blinking, not certain what to do next. Bow? Touch hand to forehead in reverence, as the locals did when faced with a slumming high-elf? Because this was no regular, off-the-street shopper. This was an aristocrat, absolutely secure in the knowledge that no one would question his cobweb-thin ''regular-person'' disguise.


    "Um¡­ how can I help you, My Lord?" prodded the wizard, wiping his hands on a clean bit of blue apron.


    The elf had wandered over to the joke counter, regarding transformative and excrescence potions with mild interest, booted feet not quite touching the floor. Definitely male, and quite young. A he, by height and breadth of shoulder (elves showing much greater sexual dimorphism than humans did). Plus the fact that you could look at the kid without going mad. Ash blond hair framed a face of cold, incredible beauty, shadowing silver-grey eyes. His expression¡­ and he had an expression, surprisingly¡­ was somewhere between embarrassed and defiant.


    Murchison could have gotten himself fried where he stood for not pretending to not see his visitor. For daring to address him unbidden, and for hinting that the elf might need help from a human. Only, the kid didn''t blast him. (Kid. Funny. Probably over a hundred years old to Murchison''s twenty-seven, but still young for his species. Thirteen or fourteen, in human years)


    "Did you¡­ come here looking for something in particular, My Lord?" asked the wizard; radiating gentle helpfulness, just as hard as he could


    But High-elves never just said anything. This one''s response was a river of mellifluous, nearly sung court speech spiked with flickers of moving imagery, but the gist was:


    "I have been told that you instruct students in the craft, Wizard."


    Alarmed, Murchison clarified hurriedly,


    "I teach a few local wild-talents, My Lord. Wouldn''t dream of taking students away from their proper instructor, though. There are no elves, or half elves among them."


    Because, angelic good looks or not, high-elves could be right illegitimate terrors. Especially the younger ones, whom even their parents preferred not to raise. But,


    "I had in mind something more in the way of¡­ supplementation. I am apprenticed to His Imperial Highness, Sherazedan the Subtle and¡­ so forth, through sixty-one tedious stanzas."


    Murchison felt his eyebrows climb into his shaggy brown hairline. He gave a sudden sharp whistle. Forgot himself momentarily, blurting,


    "Whoa. Sherazedan? That''s big ju-ju. That''s some heavy hoodoo, right there. What in the world does a student of Big-staff the Mighty want with a piker like me?"


    The elf''s face twitched. Something that might have grown up to become a smile lit his pale eyes, briefly.


    "I seek to augment my skills, such that I may pass my senior apprenticeship trials¡­ which are being held at the end of summer. I find myself underprepared, owing to more activity on the playing field than the classroom. Hence, my presence in this establishment, Wizard."


    A picture was starting to emerge and sharpen in Murchison''s mind, of a talented kid who''d rather do anything else than apply himself. Delicate situation.


    "And, uh¡­ if I may ask, My Lord¡­?"


    The elf nodded once, signing ''go on'' or ''do so''.


    "...what form will this trial take?"


    And, eyerolls were apparently universal. Radiating petulance and manna, the kid grumped,


    "It is to be a series of formal combat encounters with an advanced journeyman. They get to choose, and Lady Solara has already indicated that she will select me as her opponent. She boasts of her intent to humiliate me in the trials, and have me recycled or sent back home in disgrace."


    Bad enough, and Murchison started to respond, but the elf-lord burst out with more.


    "I am no wizard!" he raged. "I am a fighter, like my father and brother! I but perform these ridiculous tricks at their behest, until I am summoned home once again!"


    He was literally leaking fire, now; causing a storm of sparks and bright zephyrs to swirl in the air all around him. Small objects levitated and hummed in sympathy with the kid''s raw emotion.


    "Naw¡­ you''re not magical, at all," said Murchison drily. "Mind toning it down, My Lord, before you burn the place to the ground? It isn''t much, but I like it."


    The elf nodded, jamming himself back under control. Left a scorched handprint on the joke counter¡­ but hey, that gave the shop some character.


    "Okay¡­ a couple of observations, My Lord. First, I need permission to speak freely; to call things as I see them, or no dice. I need you to not get offended whenever I tell you the truth. Deal?"


    Again, he could have been blasted for that, or for nothing at all. No one in Karellon was likely to prosecute a noble high-elf, student of Big-Whiz, himself, over the roasting death of one extra human. Dime a dozen in low-town¡­ but something told Murchison that the kid needed help, and that he was was willing to listen.


    "Speak your mind, Wizard. I shall not take offense. My oath on it," said the young elf, sketching the sigil for ''promise'' and leaving a glittering trail in the air.


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    "Right¡­ Thank you, My Lord. With that established, getting angry about the situation only helps them, not you, because it''s hard to think straight with hormones and rage in the driver''s seat."


    The elf blinked.


    "I¡­ my apologies, Wizard, but I did not understand the last half of your discourse. I know not this ''hormone'', nor am I driven. I misty-step or I ride my own steed, Dustroc. But the first bit, about controlling emotion, is well said. That, I can strive to correct. Your customary fee for instruction will be met, of course."


    The closest he seemed able to come to just asking for tuition rates, Murchison observed. Not just noble, but wealthy. Steeped in the privilege of race, class, ancestry and power.


    "Um, of course. End of the month, once you''re satisfied with the course and quality of your lessons, My Lord."


    "Val," said the kid, this time actually smiling a little. "I am Valerian Tarandahl ad Keldaran, of Ilirian, second heir. Of Karellon, a mere apprentice¡­ and not the most capable. I am not a wizard, nor do I seek to become one. I simply wish to survive my trials with honor intact, and not to bring shame to my family."


    ¡­Who''d invested a lot in this chance for their younger son, Murchison guessed. Never before had he learned a high-elf''s full name, much less been invited to use it, but Murchison was good at adapting on the fly. He said,


    "Well, we''ve got some work to do, but the raw power is absolutely there. You may not want to be a wizard, My Lord Valerian, but the mage life seems to have chosen you."


    "If by that you mean Firelord, possibly," allowed the elf. "He runs in our family. Ancestral, actually."


    Murchison heaved a deep, gusty sigh.


    "Great. There''s a god involved, too? Cool. Cool, cool, cool. Don''t suppose he''s an even-tempered lover of justice and mercy, by any chance?"


    Valerian stifled a laugh.


    "The Lord of Battles? The Shining One? He who never retreats or relents? Not especially, no¡­ although he has been known to show mercy to a worthy opponent. Once, but that was in providing clean flame to the corpse, and comfort to widow and orphans. He allowed them to flee, with all they could physically carry."


    "Uh-huh. I''ll do my best to stay on his good side. Not a fan of deep, fatal tanning. Moving right along, when do you want to start, and what shape will these combat trials take? Good preparation is half the battle, My Lord."


    "I have time before ball practice, now," said the elf. "Aunt Meliara is having a bad spell, and wishes not to see me, or anyone else. As to the combat forms, there are typically three encounters. One a direct battle with enchanted weapons, the second a mage war of sigil and word, and then, lastly, a treasure hunt, in which both sides cache and bespell their most cherished possession, while the other side strives to locate and capture it. Clever traps are encouraged. (Solara''s most cherished possession is no doubt the shriveled head of some previous, unfortunate apprentice, spelled to sing the hag''s praises, day and night.)"


    Murchison stroked his short beard (which had begun to show some grey at the corners, but was still mostly brown).


    "That emotion thing, Lord Valerian¡­? Yeah. Keep it under control, buddy, or she''s got you by the¡­ the, um¡­ heart-root."


    The elf-lord''s aura and face ripped through a series of rapid, barely detectable changes, but (to his credit) the kid got himself back in check pretty quickly. There was a good heart under all that hauteur, Murchison figured, seeing past Val to much long, loving contact with low-ranking others. Half-elves and even some humans, their influence huge on Valerian.


    "What is ''buddy''?" asked the young elf-lord, suspiciously. "I know not this term."


    "It is me being an idiot, and presumptuous," admitted Murchison, choosing the truth, but carefully. "It is a term of friendship, among my people."


    Valerian drew himself to full height for a second or two, then relaxed once again, as the promise-sigil flared back to life in the air between them.


    "You must tell me the meaning of any term that I do not recognize," he ordered, adding, "And I will endeavor to control my reactions and to make proper use of this¡­ unwanted gift¡­ which may be Firelord''s doing, come to think on it."


    So the lessons commenced, with Valerian being a much better student than Murchison had dared hope. He even got on well with Frixil, Larissa, Jazore and Drenn, the half-orc twins, kobold and human changeling; Murchison''s other tough cases.


    His weapon, Nightshade, was already enchanted, but the wizard added spells of true-seek and death-block, making it just about fight on its own. Not animate or intelligent. Not truly a blade of power, but still trouble for anyone else but a hard-core, committed warrior.


    Also taught Valerian the first of a series of sneaky, end-run battle ploys, helping the elf to change ''sword in the stone'' (great for establishing mortal kingdoms) to ''sword in the sheath'' (awesome for not even letting your unworthy foe draw her blade).


    For the spell throw-down, Murchison came up with ''Babble'' which would choke off spoken magic at the root by randomly scrambling syntax and stress. Just like computers, a good spell required correct, precise phrasing. Garbage in, garbage out. Sometimes disastrously so.


    Added to those, in later lessons, came ''Angular Momentum Transfer'', which was just plain fun, if a little bit mean.


    "You can spin things, Lord Valerian? On your finger, I mean, like a plate or a ball?" the wizard inquired, one afternoon in the workroom.


    "Lunch break. Back in two candle-marks!" already glowed in front of the shop door, along with a cartoon image of Murchison, downing a sandwich and patting his belly.


    "I am no mountebank," snapped the high-elf, dispelling the fiery lights he''d been idly juggling.


    "No¡­ but you are pretty gifted, athletically. Now, spill (which means tell the truth)¡­ can you spin something on your finger?"


    Looking surly, embarrassed, Valerian conjured a bright yellow courtball, tossed and then span it at the end of one finger. Not just upright, either. In whatever dang orientation the elf cared to point.


    "Cool, cool, cool," said Murchison, briskly rubbing his hands together. "Awesome. Now, take that motion¡­ that spin-momentum¡­ and transfer it to¡­ let''s say, the time-out chair, over yonder. Just be¡­"


    The wooden chair rose in the air with jerky suddenness. Then, as the ball on his fingertip stilled and glowed white, the time-out chair began to spin like a wild and wobbling ceiling fan, crashing and splintering against the wall, sending dagger-like shards in every direction. Those long, hissing splinters burnt up against Murchison''s warding spell like a hail of arrows, setting the workroom aglow. The ''class rules'' poster curled at the edges and began turning brown.


    "Okay¡­ sure¡­ needs some work, especially if you plan to use it on a living opponent¡­ but it''s got definite potential," the wizard enthused.


    All of the lessons did, for Val was a quick and highly motivated learner, far outshining his awed fellow students.


    One day, he showed up unexpectedly early, while the other kids were still practicing ''levitate object''. Didn''t bother to knock or announce himself. Just appeared, haloed in fire, his preset escape spell having chosen Murchison''s shop as a landing site.


    "OUT!" raged Valerian, shoving the other students at the suddenly crashed-open door with a rough gesture. "Leave us!"


    Frixil began to cry, but his sister (whose tusks and muscles were bigger) gathered him up in her arms. Jazore the kobold dove under a table, leaving young Drenn all alone by the threshold, uncertain what to do next. Having been raised in the Fey-wilds, Drenn found Valerian''s temper and antics familiar, but hadn''t the power to match or defend.


    "Early release," snapped Murchison, jerking a thumb at the broken and swinging door. "Practice object levitation on non-living subjects. Same time, tomorrow. Now, scoot!"


    They scooted, the kobold leaving a sizzling pee-trail. Murchison yanked at the collar and sleeves of his hoodie-robe before rounding on Val, who¡­


    ¡­was huddled in midair, knees drawn up to his chest, pulling in manna like an emergency fan vacuuming fumes in a chem lab. No longer angry, just miserable.


    Right. Sure thing. He was welcome to the magical power, which all but gushed from that floating bridge-pylon rear wall. His behavior, on the other hand, was completely unacceptable. Tough situation.


    Murchison considered and rejected three different responses before saying,


    "Let''s pretend that those blundering scamps are your classmates, My Lord. That maybe their combined, full tuition doesn''t match your lunch money¡­ but that it hurts their folks to scrape up, just the same¡­ and that maybe they deserve a whole lesson."


    Valerian muttered something unintelligible, not lifting his head. A small shower of silver pieces rained out of the air to land on the stone floor with bright, ringing chimes.


    Murchison sighed, summoning magical cleaners.


    "Keep your money, My Lord. I''ll just give them an extra, free session."


    It had been an escape spell, and it had dumped the kid here¡­ meaning that here was where Val felt secure. Sort of a compliment, that.


    "What happened?" asked the wizard, adding, "and please come down. I have a hard time talking to boots and a butt."


    That must have stung, because the elf uncurled and then settled to the ground with the airy grace of a dancer or comic book hero.


    "I apologize for the unseemly display, Wizard," he said in a flat, quiet voice. "It shall not happen again."


    Progress!


    "Good to know. Are you¡­ all right? What can I do to help?"


    It was very rare that Valerian made direct, sustained eye-contact, and the effect was powerful. For a long, heart-clutching moment, Murchison was drawn into a wild and disordered jumble of memories. Saw the proud Prince Attendant, Nalderick, confronting Sherazedan over being ordered to serve at table, again. Saw Valerian¡­ who could be truly, Homerically foolish¡­ back his friend instead of their master, getting recycled for his trouble.


    "Back to the womb," snarled the elf, breaking their contact. "In full consciousness, to relive all of my life choices. After thirty years, I worked out how to entrance myself to near coma, but it was humiliating. A nightmare! Naldo swears that once he ascends to the throne¡­"


    Valerian stopped talking, shook his head violently.


    "Nothing. Never mind. I am out of sorts and disordered."


    "Yet a steadfast and loyal friend," remarked Murchison, conjuring cider, bread, fruit and cheese; the usual classroom snacks. "Eat something, My Lord. You''ll feel better. Question is, have you learnt enough not to let something like this happen again?"


    Reaching for food with a summoning gesture, Valerian uttered a low, savage laugh.


    "I trust that you have had adequate opportunity to reconsider your actions, boy," he mocked, sounding (the wizard suspected) exactly like Sherazedan. "Only, Naldo is right," the kid exploded. "As Prince Attendant, he ranks nearly with the Old Lich and deserves respect, not common drudgery. He is my friend and my brother-in-heart, and one day he will be emperor. He was in the right, and I am not sorry!"


    Murchison conjured more cider.


    "Until then, you have to survive, both of you," the wizard observed. "And that means making smart, safe decisions." There had been an eldest prince, first born of His Imperial Majesty, long since exiled for treason. No one was safe from imperial wrath, no matter how closely related or loved.


    "A pox on safety," Val grumbled, finishing off a snow peach in two magically dripless bites. "Firelord laughs at safety."


    "Firelord is a god. He can afford to chuckle and leave off his seatbelt. You, My Lord, are mortal. Insanely long-lived, but not immune to death." said Murchison, firmly. "I have a vested interest in keeping my students alive. It''s good for business."


    Val snorted rudely.


    "For the sake of your line-bottom, Wizard, I shall work at maintaining a heartbeat¡­ but Naldo was right."


    "Whoof¡­ okay. Defensive magics it is, then, starting with ''Life-bond''. I''ll teach you how to forge a vital link between yourself and someone or something inaccessible or really tough to kill. Works both ways. So long as either of you is still alive, the other can''t fully die. Gotta be smart about who or what you pick, though. Oak trees and giant clams aren''t the slam-dunk most people think they are."


    Useful, if a touch necromantic. Val learned the spell, along with one that combined ''Meld with Stone'' and ''Stone Golem'', which Murchison dubbed ''Stone Waldos''. With it, a mage could open a locked room from the inside, or seize and manipulate its contents. Even look around, after a hazy, density-gradient fashion.


    Val learned everything the wizard could throw at him, becoming better and better at thinking things up on his own, from first principles.


    On the eve of the trials, final lesson, Murchison shook his head, saying,


    "What a loss to science. Shame you weren''t drawn to my world, instead, Lord Valerian. You''d have made one steely-eyed beast of a physicist." Added, "Good luck, buddy. Everything else is on you."


    And then came the day of the trials.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 Chapter Sixteen

    39


    His Highness, Prince Nalderick, rode northward from Karellon with a few friends and retainers, making much speed and very little display. His father, the scholarly Korvin, had offered advice and strong potions. His mother, Elyise, a charm of safe travel (particularly effective against ogres). His younger sister had wanted to join him¡­ but both heirs-attendant could not depart the City at once. Nor had she permission to do so. ''Little Vixen'' was Genevera''s nickname, however, and she''d promised him a non-stop itch, perpetual thirst and reverse map-reading unless he agreed to help her sneak forth.


    The fact that none of these calamities actually befell him should have been a relief, but wasn''t. Not if one knew Genevera.


    At any rate, he rode off with five loyal teammates, following Valerian''s trail. His friend had stopped here and there along the way, but seemingly just to change horses and (one fancied) to stretch his sore legs.


    Derrick was accustomed to hunts and sedate, gentle rides in the imperial parklands, not to long, cramping days spent in the saddle. Nor was he the only one in pronounced discomfort.


    "May the gods curse his unswerving, iron-clad fundament," snarled Marlie, both hands at the small of his back, as they awaited a fresh round of steeds. "I''ll slaughter Valerian myself, when we find him, just for the saddle sores."


    The town was Crownborough, a tiny flyspeck on the Emperor''s Way, at which Val had paused to eat and remount, spending enough money to bring a fond glint to the hosteler''s eye. The Prince summoned the proprietor to his inn''s courtyard for questioning, not deigning to enter the place.


    "Yes, Milord, he was here, sure enough," said the halfling, beaming. "Tall young feller; blond, in haste to be gone, and mighty free with his coin. Paid nearly twice what the beast was worth, in his hurry¡­ but we threw in free feed and tack, plus a chit for room and a meal, should he ever come back to the Traveler''s Ease." (A touch rushed and nervous on the last bit, for Derrick had started to scowl. It was beneath him to haggle or even to notice expenditure. His retainers saw to all that¡­ but he hated to think that Val had been cheated by mere, grubby tradesmen.)


    Dark-haired Sherlon, somewhat bow-legged and stiff, muttered,


    "He''s never had a great deal of sense. Terrific forward defender, though," his teammate went on. "Not much gets past him."


    "Except good advice," snapped Marlie, still aching and stiff. On top of everything else, he''d wagered a great deal of money on Val at the Open Casket, and soon would have to come up with repayment. Off of Valerian''s corpse, in a just universe.


    Brinn, Vashtie and Roreck had less to say, or else were too tired (or wise) to express it aloud. Anyhow, Nalderick was in charge, so it was for him to set matters straight.


    "You will therefore charge each of us half the worth of our steeds, Hosteler," ordered the prince. "And next time refrain from defrauding your betters."


    The halfling grimaced, but inclined his curly-topped head.


    "Yes, Milord. It was ill done, and I''m happy to make redress. Will¡­ will you be staying the night?"


    Nalderick shook his head, no, despite the hollow groans of his suffering teammates.


    "The war bells have rung and our business is urgent. We must press onward," said Nalderick, waving a servitor forth to make payment.


    The next town was Snowmont, up by the Talons. There the trail ended, and everything went wrong at once. Fortunate fellow, Valerian.


    They rode in through the town''s main gate to find the place in an uproar. Magister Serrio''s fair was packed with refugees, and Lord Orrin was now in disgrace; his mansion destroyed, his wife missing and his court mage freshly dismissed.


    Orrin was a Feen, an Arvendahl half-elf; once master of Snowmont, now on his way over the mountains to the human held lands, beyond. And, yes, he''d seen Valerian. Told Derrick as much in the deserted courtyard of his former manse.


    "He came into town at dusk last Threeday, alone. Acquired retainers, supped at my board and then helped to defeat an outburst of chaos, after which he and they vanished entirely, my lord," said Orrin, wary and tense. "Two other great ones appeared in answer to Snowmont''s bells. High Lord Arvendahl and the Imperial Court Mage, Sherazedan. Perhaps you might question them, as I know nothing further." (That he''d admit to, at least.)


    Nalderick had not declared his own rank. This far north in the bogs, he wouldn''t be recognized as Prince Attendant without obvious badges of station or the deference of his companions. He neither liked nor trusted his uncle, but hearing this fellow¡­ this surly Feen¡­ refer to the wizard without his title was galling.


    "His Imperial Highness is Valerian''s master, and may indeed have some knowledge of my friend''s whereabouts," said Nalderick, frostily formal, without making eye-contact.


    Others were nearby, as well. Chiefly one Filimar, who''d been given charge over Snowmont by his relative, High Lord Arvendahl. Smart lad, Filimar¡­ or else clearer sighted than Orrin, who rode off over the western march with just one loaded pack mule and no backward look.


    "There''s a man who merits a shot in the back or a sudden, tragic landslide, if ever I saw one," muttered big, golden Roreck, passing lightning from hand to hand as they watched Orrin slink off. "He''ll be trouble for someone, and soon. Mark that I said it."


    His twin, Vashtie, glanced over at Nalderick, a sly smile not quite piercing her usual calm.


    "A quick word and over he goes, Naldo¡­ missed by no one at all, guarantee it."


    Tempting. But Nalderick shook his head, no.


    "There will be strife, soon enough. I can feel it¡­ but there''s no sense rolling in blood or touching things off too early. Let him go. The poisoned waste is a well known solver of problems. Paved with the bones of exiles." Including, maybe, his lost uncle Telemun.


    Thus, no one struck out at former Lord Orrin, who soon rode over the pass and out of their ken, to everyone''s eventual grief.


    Here and now, Nalderick turned his attention to Filimar. The younger elf stood with three companions, all of them clearly aware of Nalderick''s rank and anxious not to betray what they knew, if disguise was His Highness''s wish.


    The young Arvendahl bowed so deeply that he might as well have dropped to one knee, murmuring,


    "My lord," and awaiting Nalderick''s signal to rise.


    Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    "What do you know of Valerian?" demanded the prince, without further preamble.


    Filimar smiled; the expression warming his pale blue eyes, as well as lighting his narrow face.


    "We met in the plaza, my lord¡­ then separated for a time at the fair, while I escorted Lady Salem. There was an¡­ erm¡­ public entertainment. A combat display in which Valno succeeded in besting a giant cat-warrior. It was a truly wondrous fight!"


    Off to one side, Solara snorted. Nalderick quelled her with a sharp look, then asked,


    "And, afterward?"


    Filimar, who''d been digging his friends in the ribs with his elbow, sobered right up once again.


    "We next had to split up in search of Lady Salem, who must have been overcome at the sight of blood and battle, for she disappeared in the midst of the action."


    Filimar looked upset at that, chiefly with himself, if Derrick was reading his aura correctly. A bit wistfully, the young elf went on with the tale.


    "It was Valerian who found her. At the fish park, I believe. Milady is gentle and sensitive. Such manly pursuits unsettle her deeply."


    Nalderick lifted an eyebrow, saying only,


    "And then?"


    Filimar made a face.


    "Then, as the Feen indicated, Valno was invited to dinner at the manse. It, erm¡­ was more impressive, back then."


    Not much more than a cellar, charred foundation stones and a blackened rear wall now, though.


    "Somehow," Filimar continued delicately (apparently wishing to keep any blame off of Val), "a swallowing void opened up. The war bells were sounded and we¡­ That is, Sandor, Kellen, Arien and I¡­ raced up to assist. We met Valno on his way down with Orrin''s entire household. He''d been charged with their safety, my lord. Wasn''t fleeing."


    Nalderick smiled a little, genuinely warming to Filimar.


    "Beside the fact that his god wouldn''t let him, avoiding danger requires common sense, an attribute that our mutual friend possesses very little of. The swallowing void was dispelled, I take it?"


    Filimar nodded.


    "Yes, my lord. Eventually, and at cost. Again, as Orrin mentioned, my uncle and His Imperial Highness, Sherazedan came in answer to the war bells. I¡­ well¡­ had some converse with milady and then she, along with the druid and Valno just¡­ vanished."


    "Druid?" probed Nalderick, tugging at this newest thread in the tapestry.


    "Yes, Lord. A woodling of Lobum, from his coloration and antler headdress. The plainsfolk are more tanned, bedecking themselves in polished seed-pods and antelope horn. This one was a northerner, evidently among Lord Valerian''s retainers."


    Derrick nodded, putting a few things together in his mind.


    "I see. And, have you any idea where Valerian might have gone off to, and why?"


    "No doubt spelled himself north to get out of trouble here and solve goblin issues at home," cut in Lady Solara, coming forward. She was as lovely and cold as Derrick remembered her. Every bit as attractive as a wind-chiseled ice floe.


    Nalderick hadn''t bidden her speak, yet, so he glanced over and then turned his back. To Filimar, he said,


    "Valerian deems you worthy of comradeship, and I trust his judgment."


    ("In some things," grunted flame-haired Marlie, causing the others to laugh. Derrick ignored them all.)


    "As you have descried, I am Nalderick Valinor ob Korvin, Prince-Attendant, and I am here at the behest of His Imperial Majesty." A very slight flex of the truth, but near enough not to trouble his conscience, at all. "To you and your set, simply ''Nalderick''."


    Filimar''s eyes widened. Behind the young elf lord, jaws dropped in unison, as all four bent the knee.


    "I¡­ this is a tremendous honor, indeed, My Prince," managed Filimar. "In any way that we can help to find Valno, I and my people stand ready. An Arvendahl, always, to the fray."


    "Nalderick," prompted the prince, amused by Filimar''s struggle to say his first name without adding a title.


    "Nalderick," repeated the Arvendahl, looking like he''d just been blessed by his holy god.


    It was then that the prince turned to question Solara. Didn''t get very far, however.


    "I bid you speak freely, milady. You have suggested that Valerian made his way north to Ilirian," said Nalderick, addressing the sorceress. Somewhat respectfully, for she outranked him in magical learning, if not in authority. "Yet, I sense him not. A few hundred miles further north would not hide him completely from ken or from scrying. Something else has occurred, and I believe that my uncle, your former master, may be involved in the matter. What do you know of this, Lady Solara?"


    She was dressed for travel in simple, warm robes, with a hooded grey cloak over all, and her pearl-topped staff in one hand. Face ironed expressionless, violet eyes carefully blank, she inclined her blonde head.


    "The dear, rustic lad does get around," she cooed, in a honeyed and cloying voice. "Perhaps his god has whisked him away on some quest of mercy to a nearby plane."


    Nalderick sifted her words for the truth. Just as Filimar and Orrin seemed eager to keep any blame for Snowmont''s troubles from Valerian, Solara was probably shielding her former master.


    "Oh, come on, Dickie!" chimed a sudden, impatient new voice. "Sherazedan did it, and everyone knows!"


    Genevera, morphing from footman''s cloak-brooch to runaway princess with a bright flash of crystalline light. Dressed up in boy''s clothes, armed with her knife and a bow.


    "Even you can''t be that thick!" she scolded, hands at her hips.


    Everyone froze but the petulant girl, who folded her arms across her chest and scowled at them all. Lifting her chin, she announced,


    "Yes, I am here. What of it?"


    Nalderick sagged, hand at his face. In a tightly controlled voice, he asked,


    "Did you seek an audience? Ask for permission to leave, Genna?"


    She sniffed, absolutely secure in her charm and her rank as an imperial princess.


    "Phooey. Why bother? It takes forever to see Gramperor, and anyway, he''s busy with his dumb old dragon. No. I just came along, Dickie. You worry too much."


    Nalderick cut her off with a gesture. Then, turning away from his brown-haired young sister, the prince murmured a connection spell and dropped to one knee in the windswept and rubble-strewn courtyard.


    "Your Majesty¡­" he began, as a contact-rift first pulsed, died and then reformed in front of him. No image came from the other side. Just a cold, distant voice, saying,


    "She is with you?"


    "Yes, Your Majesty," said Nalderick, as everyone else knelt and bowed, hand to forehead in deepest obeisance. Even Genevera, once he''d dragged her down with a hasty spell of compliance.


    "Did you take her?" demanded his grandfather''s voice, dangerously quiet and calm.


    Nalderick choked. To say ''no'' would be to place all of the blame for her desertion on Genevera. To say ''yes'' would mean at least banishment, for defying the emperor''s will. But,


    "No, Grandfather," said Genna, shedding her brother''s magic to rise. "I just decided to¡­"


    "Be silent," snapped His Imperial Highness, now a silhouette backlit by dragon''s egg gold. Genevera at once lost the power of speech, looking utterly shocked and¡­ for the first time¡­ afraid.


    "I am deeply displeased with you both. She should have been better watched. You, Nalderick, should have anticipated such willfulness on the part of your younger sibling. I have no further time to waste on this matter. Nalderick, her punishment rests in your hands. See that it is fitting and just, or face even worse, yourself."


    And with that, His Imperial Highness broke contact.


    "Well, that''s easy, then," chirped Genevera, who could speak once again. "Just tell me, ''no fruit ices for a month'', or something, Dickie. Problem solved."


    "Shut up," whispered Nalderick, as all the rest gathered, stunned and silent, around him. "Just¡­ shut up and let me think, Genna."


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Somewhat later, needing no formal audience, constrained by no checkpoints or guards, Sherazedan appeared in the Lair, at His Imperial Majesty''s side. Vernax the Golden was nearly translucent, now; most of its substance pulled into that pulsing-hot egg.


    "The child has been located, Your Majesty," murmured the court mage, bowing low.


    "She is safe?" asked Aldarion, tearing his gaze away from the slumped, fading dragon. Lines of exhaustion and care seamed his thin face. He was terribly weary, with the fight of a lifetime ahead of him.


    "She has come to no harm, having absconded the palace with Prince Nalderick, evidently in deep disguise," said the wizard, carefully hedging his truths.


    "He did not aid in her flight or concealment?" probed the emperor, combing through all of Sherazedan''s thoughts that the wizard allowed him to see.


    "No, Your Majesty. The prince was entirely unaware of his sister''s doings¡­ although¡­ perhaps he should have known better; arranged for a closer watch on her highness, who is not much past her naming, and is known to be mischievous."


    Aldarion grunted tiredly. Turning his attention back to Vernax, he said,


    "See to their punishment, then, Brother. I am otherwise occupied."


    Sherazedan bowed.


    "As Your Majesty requires, so shall it be," he replied smoothly. "May the egg hatch soon, and Vernax rise once again at Your Majesty''s side."


    "From your lips to Oberyn''s ears, Brother," sighed the emperor, hand resting gently on the dragon''s golden-scaled snout. "I cannot take much more of this waiting."


    "The realm watches and prays along with you, Majesty," murmured Sherazedan, bowing his head. For, the longer the wait, the stronger the reborn hatchling. The harder the fight for control.

 Chapter Seventeen

    40


    Facing his own troubles, Valerian had reached the top of that altered and mutating staircase. Had finally climbed to the lofty main landing. Beyond, glowing in lightning flash and brief, golden patches of sunshine, towered the cloud giant citadel. Its massive structures towered purple-dark and pearl white, haloed in brilliant aurorae.


    Beautiful. Titanic and ancient. Almost too much for eyes, brain and heart to take in. Better yet, streaming with legible magic. Just seeing all that branded him inside with power, showing the elf two separate transport disks. One, nearer, apparently meant for travel within the cloud giant citadel. The other, further back at the end of a miles-long plaza, intended for sending one pretty much anywhere.


    A three dimensional map of the stronghold appeared before Val, expanding, rotating and then sizing itself to suit him, with points of interest and comfort highlighted in gold and briefly described. Only two living inhabitants, he noted with relief; both of them seeming to be at mage-rest. Locked out of time and decay by sorcerous might. "Your basic Sleeping-beauty spell," as Murchison would have put it.


    No business of Valerian''s. He was here on no fairy tale quest for riches or power or love. Just¡­ wanted out. Wanted safely back home, with whole, unpierced hide and companions.


    The landing fairly bristled with traps, pits and snares. No one knew better than Frost Maiden, the tricks of a hunter. (Except maybe Hyrenn, Lord Winter.)


    Thanks to mage-trace and map, Val could see the possessed Tabaxi, waiting for him by some sort of magical fountain. No doubt, she could sense him, as well. Of Kalisandra, there was no sign¡­ but that was surely the point of a ranger.


    With only two strikes remaining, Valerian did not trust himself to that quiet, unpeopled landing. Instead of risking traversal, he formed another simulacrum, giving it just enough of his essence to make it move, look and act like the second son of Keldaran, down to the life and breath. It smiled and saluted him, then started forward, keeping to crevice and shadow, and¡­


    ¡­ the landing dropped, folded and slammed violently shut like a colossal book crushing a bug in its pages. He¡­ part of him¡­ was suddenly smashed to fluid and bits. Died between one magical breath and another, bringing Frost Maiden''s score to one and a half.


    Her silvery, mocking laughter still rang through the air when the high-elf recovered enough to try something different. Reversing gravity on himself with an emergency spell, he dropped to the underside of the landing, then sprinted along its nubby, convoluted surface. That shut her up, for a while, at least.


    Val was making best speed, applying court-ball style temporal evasion tactics; patchwork landscape for heavens, roiling vapor for ground. Was just about ready to cancel the gravity spell and swing himself topside again, where that helpful map said the landing ended. Then,


    "You flee like a deer before hunters, boy. Be, then, what you seem," hissed the goddess, in a voice like a wintery storm. And, unbidden, unwanted, he changed.


    Was transformed into a newly born, long legged fawn. The unexpected polymorph hit hard, as his size, shape and mass altered in moments; bones, joints and muscles flowing like wet clay in somebody''s powerful hands. His perspective and senses jumped, too, becoming alarmingly sharper and nearer the cloudy ground. Not so much painful as deeply confusing. Being pulled inside out and reshaped like a pair of rolled socks.


    Behind him, Valerian heard the blast of a horn. Heard thundering hooves and deep, phantom baying. His deer''s heart pounded wildly. His breath rasped and his newly-mobile ears flicked this way and that. He would have run, bolting from cover and fleeing that conjured wild hunt, only¡­


    Only, he couldn''t. Maybe the spiteful goddess had expected her spell to force him into the role of terrified quarry, but she was no more successful at truly transforming Valerian than he''d ever managed, himself.


    Deer shape, yes. Deer skills, deer ability to run fleetly on four graceful legs? Not at all. His mind and reflexes stayed Val, and the best he could do was to wobble like a newborn colt. There were some tricks left to pull, though, and Val tried them all.


    Another simulacrum, this one deer-shaped, was formed with hoof-scrape and mage-bleat. The shadow fawn glittered to life before him, flicked its white tail once and then bounded off like a true son of the forest, suddenly haloed by druid magic from somewhere nearby.


    The wild hunt, that troop of doomed, driven horsemen, roared past Valerian''s hiding place, which Karus and Gildyr warded together; their magic a shield.


    Val ducked his slim head on its flexible neck, for to make eye contact with rider, steed, hound or fleeing prey was the worst omen possible, presaging utter disaster. The deathless hunters were bound by Titania''s power to ride without ceasing, ever chasing the quarry that fey-lord or god put before them. Never to rest, until freed by Oberyn''s call.


    On foaming, bloody-mouthed steeds, following a pack of rabid and fear-maddened hounds, they thundered after that perfectly agile new fawn. Over the tip-tilted cloudscape, across the sky and away.


    The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.


    Valerian hadn''t realized that it was possible for the temperature to drop any lower, but only Firelord''s intervention kept him alive, now. Trapped in deer form, he wobbled up onto four spindly, self-willed long legs, made it back topside and reset his gravity.


    Not even Murchison had been able to fix his problem with staying himself, staying Val, no matter the shape he took on.


    "Yikes," the wizard had said (or something equally meaningless) after another failed transformation. "Oh¡­ and I cannot emphasize this strongly enough¡­ crap. This is a problem, My Lord. A genuine, crippling handicap."


    Truly, as he''d just had to save a drowning fish from the rainwater cistern, out in back of the shop. Chafing, warm drink and magic had helped to revive the young high-elf, who''d neglected to pre-set an escape spell. Miserably, gaze focused on his cup of hot day brew, the lordling could only say,


    "I am Valerian Tarandahl ad Keldaran, of Ilirian, second heir. Of Karellon, fairly useless apprentice mage. I cannot be other than that, Wizard." Not even to save his own life.


    In the here and now, with the hunt score at Valerian: two, Frost Maiden, one and a half, he had to do something clever. Think, as Murchison would put it, outside of the paper container. Push the wrapping. In other words, do something stupid and bold.


    Right. Taking an enormous chance on a buck-wild, reckless idea, he hoof-scraped and bleated forth a new, Valerian shaped simulacrum. Pushed so much of his life essence into the fake, that the fawn collapsed to the pearly ground, hardly breathing.


    It was a cute little thing, seen from outside¡­ and utterly helpless. Tan, with white spots and huge, long-lashed eyes. Seeing himself in both forms at once, Valerian struggled to keep his consciousness in the simulacrum. Inhabiting a magical construct felt like walking backward or breathing water with the spring stone in his mouth. He could do it. It just didn''t feel right. Took real concentration to maintain.


    Needing to leave in a hurry, he did his best to shield and conceal his fawn-self, which contained the genuine spark of Valerian Tarandahl. Made a cloudy den for the small creature, tucking it safely within.


    Scentless and perfectly still, except for those slow, shallow breaths, his transformed body was as well protected as Val could make it¡­ and still, he hated to leave; the silvery life thread that linked them, too precious to risk.


    Then Gildyr stepped from the lee of a cloud pylon, seeming to form out of vapor and shade.


    "Go, Milord," said the druid, making a gentle shooing motion with both tanned, calloused hands. "I will stand watch over your body. I promise."


    A simulacrum was a being of solidified spirit and manna; impermanent, fragile, but also able to see in ways that a flesh and blood person could not. Here and now, Val saw clearly through Gildyr. That he meant what he said, and that something of desperate importance lay behind his cleaving so close to an arrogant high-elf.


    Speaking aloud was difficult, in this form, but Valerian managed,


    "No longer simply retainer, but friend."


    Then he was off, darting from that acres-wide landing and into the cloud giant citadel, guided by map, his own senses and Firelord''s grace.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Meanwhile, back in a hellscape of slow-grinding tunnels and rat-stench, Lerendar Tarandahl staggered along like a puppet, increasingly chilled and exhausted. His vision had clouded to mist and shadows, with only the goblin-she burning ahead like a torch to guide him.


    She had slowed her pace, but that was bad, too. The injured high-elf needed shelter and rest. A chance to sleep off his possession and heal. The shades could not release him out here in mid passage, where not even the crutch would have kept him upright and moving.


    At last, though, they reached her goal; the lake cavern he''d earlier fled. Thought he heard¡­ felt¡­ others, but couldn''t be certain. Was too close to the ragged, bloody red edge of unconsciousness to do more than follow the urging of plucking, insistent small hands and whispering voices.


    Lost consciousness like shedding a heavy load. Like plunging down into black, icy water. So much for Lerendar.


    As for the goblins¡­ Some folk raise mighty stone obelisks or build lofty temples. Here in the lake diggings, five squealing kitts managed to lever his over-tall lordship safely off of his feet and onto a bed of warm furs. Didn''t scratch nuthin'' that wasn''t already injured, neither.


    "Blimey," grunted Dog Bait, one hand at the small of his twisted back. "Must be fifteen stone, if ee''s an ounce! Toljer ye packed too much in them meal bags, Pretty."


    "Don''t look like ee''s gonna be ''ealin nobody anytime soon, neither," grumped Squinty, who''d pulled a muscle in his shoulder.


    Twitchy and Snaggle stared at the fallen elf-lord in open wonder; eyes wide, jaws flapping loose.


    "Shut it, the lot o'' yuns," hissed Pretty One. Besides Grey Fang, huddled nearby on a bed of his own, only she saw the shades. Like a roiling spiral of darkness, they hovered just over Junior''s cold, unconscious form. "Ee ain''t alone. Keep a civil tongue in yer ''eads, or ''ave ''em shriveled ter coal."


    They''d all crowded into the cozy warm sleeping chamber; shaking with fear and worry and faint, gnawing hope.


    "All we ''as ter do is get word ter Grim Beard that ''is lordship''s alive an''... well, alive, at any rate."


    "Cor!" cut in Dog Bait. "Is ''ee supposed ter be glowin'' like that?"


    "Dunno," said Pretty One. "They glows when they be angry or wanderin'' memories¡­ so maybe when ''urt real bad, too."


    ¡­and Junior, son of Butcher, was definitely hurt. That leg was a swollen mess. Looked like it had been splinted by spin-drunken kobolds. He was feverish, too; covered in cuts and scrapes, which frittered away like frost on a sunlit grass-blade, as the goblin kitts watched.


    He overflowed two sleeping piles, having to be bolstered at blond head and snapped leg with any odd bit of rolled cloth or hide they could scrounge. Grey Fang and Black Gut had been pushed into opposite corners, in healing rest of their own.


    Pretty One had to snatch Twitchy and Snaggle back from daring each other to tap his lordship and run.


    "None o'' that," she snapped at the younger kitts. "Ye''ll rouse ''im before-time, an'' if there''s anythin'' worse than gnolls on th'' doorstep, it''s wounded elves wakin'' up in the ''ouse."


    She shook her head, watching as Dog Bait very carefully began chewing and packing heal-moss onto Junior''s shattered leg. Wistfully, the goblin girl said,


    " ''Ow can sumthin'' so beautiful be so awful?"


    And how could they get him to Grim Beard the Half-Elf, without being shriveled to ash, where they stood?


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 Chapter Eighteen

    Edited! I''m on a roll...


    41


    Reston Feen Tarandahl was the oldest son of Lord Galadin, a half-elf out of Lana Hightower, a wealthy cloth merchant''s daughter. She''d caught His Lordship''s eye as her father had intended, and ended up as part of Galadin''s entourage on his long fight northward.


    "An honor, and tremendous good fortune for the family," her father had assured the girl, while her mother just stood there and cried, helpless to alter the business transaction.


    Lana had never seen them, or her home, again.


    Not the most auspicious of beginnings, but Galadin was quite charming when he wanted to be; extremely attractive and patient. He gave Lana ample time and space in which to mourn. To be angry and frightened and homesick, merely requesting her presence at dinner, each night.


    All her long life, she held onto that. That Galadin had been willing to wait for her to come around on her own. It helped, a bit, and the eventual birth of her son helped even more.


    Reston vividly recalled camp life. It was paradise for a young boy. Living in tents and on horseback, constantly moving, watching his glorious elven father ride out to battle and come back victorious time after time. It had all seemed perfectly normal; good and right and the way things should be. The freest time of Reston''s whole life.


    He''d had younger siblings, twins born in due course. But Haldon had been taken by a reaver while still toddling about, and Sheera had been shot through the throat by a goblin arrow, fired from a thicket that Galadin burned to scorched, twisted glass in revenge.


    There were no more children after that¡­ but Mum celebrated the twins'' spring birthday in private, forever afterward. Reston still did the same, in her honor.


    He''d been there, on the saddle in front of his mother, when they came at last to the edge of a high granite cliff overlooking a beautiful lake. Gazing across those blue, sparkling waters, the warband had seen a mighty fortress. Gigantic in scale, tremendously ancient and seemingly carved from a single vast outcrop of jet, it looked like a mountain, but wasn''t.


    Even to Reston''s young eyes, the fortress crackled with magic. From the paired, floating islands that circled it, to the shimmering force gate in front and the magically up-falling watercourse, the citadel thrummed with deep, untapped manna.


    Reston had twisted about on the saddle to glance at his father, whose horse, Traveler, was just a little ahead of mother''s.


    "There," said Galadin, as a golden fire-lizard shifted and preened itself on his armored shoulder. "Tonight, we camp there."


    Skipper-the-first had barked excitedly, Reston recalled; dashing out to the edge of the cliff and then racing back to his usual spot between Traveler''s forelegs.


    Mother had sighed, murmuring something about "Sleeping under a real roof, for once,'''' which wasn''t exactly fair. They always bivouacked in winter, building walls of felled timber, setting powerful wards and constructing a stout wooden hall. There''d been feasting and hunting and tales by the fire, all season long, with Turn-of-Dark presents as the Serpent''s power waned and full daylight came back, at last.


    ¡­But mother would grumble about keeping house and family while out in the wilderness. She''d filled her surviving son''s head with stories of Karellon, but what could be better than horses and hounds and new sights, always around that next bend in the trail? Than truly believing that they were a family, and that nothing need ever change?


    They''d had to camp outside the fortress that night, anyhow, because it was filled on the first level with goblin altars and worship detritus. Bones, ashes, old bread and the like wretched trash.


    His mighty father, glowing like Firelord, had invoked the god, calling upon Alaryn''s power to blast and cauterize that vast and echoing space. When inhabited by Firelord, Galadin was almost too bright to look upon, but Reston had forced himself not to flinch or cover his eyes. That proud of his sire, he''d been.


    After that, little by bit, everything fell apart. It was mother who''d thought up the name "Starloft", after the single pale light that shone through the force gate. That was the name father used, when he slashed his own palm with a spelled knife, then ground the resultant fire and blood into the citadel''s stone.


    "Starloft," he''d announced, in more than just Galadin''s voice. "High seat of the Tarandahls. This is the blood that you shelter. This is the line that you serve, forever after."


    Something inside of Reston had tingled and sparked at that, though mother and most of the warband had not felt a thing.


    Life in one place did not much suit Reston, but that was the least of his troubles. It turned out that father had an elvish wife; a great and sorcerous lady, back in Karellon. That, as soon as Starloft was made ready and the goblins pacified, she would be coming north to join her long-absent lord.


    "Matters between us must change, boy," said Galadin, that final night by the campfire, when they''d last gone hunting together. "I have allowed too much familiarity. That was poorly done, and I regret the pain its cessation must cause. Please believe that I am sorry, and that I will miss you as my son. I will provide for your mother. She, and you, will not be without honor or sustenance¡­ but the Lady Alyanara is my wife, and hereafter, I am your lord."


    Words that cut terribly deep. To this day, the sound and sight of a campfire, a certain cast of the stars and scent on the wind could bring it all crashing back.


    It might have helped if he could have hated Alyanara, but she was bewilderingly, stunningly lovely. Handmaid of the Dawn, having been wed to Galadin straight from the end of her childhood service at Oberyn''s temple.


    Mother was given to Sigismund Thain, the first shire-reeve of Starloft''s growing village, whom Reston politely hated. And he¡­ was no longer noble. Was no longer acknowledged as Galadin''s son. Caused trouble in Starshire for which he could never be punished, because everyone knew, and no one could say.


    Being a half-elf, he aged and matured more slowly than a human, but far swifter than any elf (except under tremendous stress, when¡­ like their godly ancestors¡­ elvish children had been known to shoot up and flower in heartbeats).


    His mother mourned, but did not grow bitter; excusing Galadin all of her days. And Reston¡­


    Began writing things down in a magically expanding journal. The book had been left for him on his name day by a hooded and cloaked silent figure that everyone else pretended not to see. Reston had wanted to rush forward. To force a confrontation. But his mother''s slim hand on his trembling shoulder, her whispered¡­


    "Please,"


    ¡­locked him in place. Over the years, until his father''s death at sea, there was always a present. Always a briefly appearing, cloaked figure. No matter where, in angry rebellion he''d wandered off, Reston could not escape father''s silent visit and gift.


    One year a clasp knife, one year a fine colt, eventually a sword of good quality, if not noble lineage. From someone who plainly cared, but would not alter a decision, once made. Not for sorrow or love or regret. Not for anything.


    Time after time, Reston went back to the journal. Father, he recalled, had always written the day''s thoughts and activities, the next day''s goals, in a book of his own. There, by mage glow and firelight, out of his armor for the night, Galadin would work out his spells and strategies.


    Reston had learnt his runes and his letters sitting on father''s lap as the elf-lord wrote. Often, the boy had been allowed to scribble, draw stick figures and practice his own writing there, adding his childish bit to father''s record of events. Writing brought comfort and something like peace.


    Still, Reston left home for a time, driven out past the Talon Mountains and into the poisoned waste by the birth of his brothers. Keldaran was born to Lady Alyanara and declared heir. But (maybe worse) mother gave birth to an utterly human scrap of a boy whom Sigismund proudly named Kristof.


    Amidst all of the celebration, Reston stole off, taking only his horse, sword and journal. Thought of provisions, as well, taking great pleasure in side-walking through the locked doors of Sigismund Thain''s storehouse and seizing as much as his faerie pockets would hold. Including his stepfather''s hidden pipe leaf and brandy-wine stash.


    That first night away, he made himself sick on pipe weed and liquor, but rose up stronger and more determined to leave, anyhow. He traveled far, surviving some harrowing brushes with goblins and trolls and the dark things that haunted the woods beyond Galadin''s borders. Stayed for a time in Lobum. There was a wood-elf lass, there, with tawny skin and hair of thick, springing green. Andara, daughter of one of their druids. There was, at eye-contact, that rushing together of hearts. That increased pulse and altered breathing, in tandem, that meant: This one. This is the one you''ve been seeking.


    Not at first, of course. Reston had spent many nights in a cell. Comfortable enough, if terribly bored¡­ until the suspicious woodlings decided that he wasn''t a threat. Was, in fact, "Just passing through."


    Andara was beautiful, if not much given to talk¡­ but Reston left, anyhow. He wanted no family. No woman and child to love and betray.


    He turned his back on her and on Lobum. Scaled the high mountains. Spent some time at the Constellate among the paladins of Oberyn, but their stern, chilly brotherhood could not hold him, either.


    Honestly would have died, lost and wandering the poisoned waste, had Ashlord not come to him. Rising from the embers of the last fire he''d strength and fuel enough to kindle, a tall, smoky figure had taken shape. Seemingly formed out of glittering ashes and smoke, grey-haired, pallid and gaunt, the Silent One had gazed at, then healed, young Reston. Hunger, thorn-venom, thirst-craze had all vanished with a gesture, leaving the half-elf alive, hale and clear-headed.


    The healing was free. A gift, Reston sensed. The god of waiting, of patient strategy and long-game revenge did not demand service. He merely offered, wordlessly, something that would not break or betray. Someone whose mind and heart would not change throughout all of time.


    As further inducement, the Silent One drew a party of desert rangers to his campsite. Good folk; mostly human or half-breeds like Reston, himself. They neither knew nor cared about his past. Gave him the nickname "Scrivener" over his incessant writing.


    Raedmund the Apostate was their leader. ''Be the good you keep praying for'', their motto. Made up of those who''d turned their backs on something or someone, forever, they patrolled the wastes, saving whomever they could.


    Reston joined them, learning to battle the darkness and find those wandering lost in the desert. Stayed with the rangers for several years, feeling almost as free as he had on the campaign north with mom and his father.


    Then, one night after patrol, as he sat near the fire, recording the day''s events, a sentence wrote itself out in Galadin''s bold, flowing script.


    ''Your mother lies dying,'' it read. Then, underneath, ''If you would see her, come soon.''


    It was then and there that Reston the Scrivener¡­ later the Grim¡­ gave himself to Ashlord, entirely. Wrote the sigil, cut the tattoo and seared it with smoldering embers, asking only,


    "Get me there, Silent One. Lord of the Aftermath, let me reach Mother in time!"


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Cycles later, in the great court of trial, Reston''s young nephew prepared to face his first real opponent. Murchison''s tricks had been thoroughly practiced and learnt, the spells preset and ready to fire with gesture and thought.


    Valerian''s contest was not first or last. He was up third, after Nalderick and then Maissa. Both of the other apprentices won their engagements, which were meant to be mostly formality; a chance for the senior apprenticeship hopefuls to display what their master had taught them.


    Solara Alfrit had planned something different, though. Partly through malice, somewhat in genuine strategy, she intended to make a laughingstock of the younger apprentice; meaning to boost her family''s standing at court. They were new to Karellon, hailing from somewhere over the ocean, and hadn''t many connections. Thus, the big show.


    All of the junior apprentices waited together in the tiring chamber, listening for the long, rolling tone that indicated a predecessor''s success, of the sharp whine of fumble and failure. Either sound meant that the next candidate''s turn had arrived to head through the door and into the great amphitheater. Invited guests and the entire Council of Mages were gathered to watch, as one after another, each junior apprentice strove with a patient journeyman wizard.


    There would be three trials. One, a fight with enchanted weapons. Two, a spell-war. Three, a treasure hunt for each other''s hidden most cherished possession. Safe and traditional, proof¡­ it was thought¡­ against serious harm to the candidates.


    Naldo had bidden him "Luck". Then they''d performed the Imperial Team''s complex handclasp and parted. In the tiring room with five waiting others, Val could see and hear nothing of what passed, outside. He sat through two contests in silence, too tense to eat or drink, obsessively reordering his faerie pockets and pre-loaded spells. Promising life-debt to Firelord, even.


    First Nalderick, then Maissa won, announced by their victory chime. Then it was Valerian''s turn. The other apprentices were not Sherazedan''s, having been taught by lesser mages. They offered good wishes, though, which Valerian accepted, returning the luck with a brief, nervous smile. Out through the eastern battle-door, then, and into a structure that altered in shape and dimension at need. Broadly hemispherical at the moment, it had its root in the chaotic fey wilds, where nothing was quite what it seemed.


    Valerian cleared his throat, cycled one more time through his spells and his items, just to be sure they were ready. Then he strode along the candidate''s path across what seemed empty space, to the floating disk where Solara stood waiting.


    She was formally dressed, which surprised the younger apprentice. He''d played to his strengths at Murchison''s suggestion, wearing a fresh and unmarked version of his court-ball attire. Black and gold, still, but without the dragon-in-glory emblem, his number (3) or spiraling, mage-lit team name.


    Solara wrinkled her slender nose, pretending that he stank.


    "Did you not at least wash before coming hence from the athletic yard, Rustic?"


    That was ill done. They were meant to show courtesy, always. Before, he''d have grown angry. Now, after much tutoring, the younger elf simply bowed.


    "Lady Solara, I greet you, and hope that our match honors those who are gathered to watch."


    "Not likely," she sniffed. "But do let''s get on with the thing. I have plans with my family, once you''ve been quashed."


    A sort of slow-burn resentment enkindled itself down deep in Valerian''s gut, but he managed to stay polite.


    "As you say, Milady. I wish you luck."


    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    ¡­but not too much of it.


    As challenger, Val got to choose their first setting. Again, he played to his strengths, saying,


    "Mixed-platform playing field, variable time-flow and gravity."


    At once, the dark, hollow amphitheater converted itself to an open sphere containing many small, floating platforms on helical orbits. Four drifting goal rings appeared; one above, one below and two more at north and south. Waves of eldritch time-shift pulsed away from an orb that spun at the sphere''s exact center, as did ripples of altered gravity.


    If you knew what you were doing¡­ had played this game from early childhood¡­ the setting was more familiar than far-away Starloft. If you were new to the field and smothered in stupid, starched robes, you might be very much out of your depth. Or, so Valerian hoped.


    He waited until Solara snapped, "Swords!" Then he vaulted onto a passing high platform, drew Nightshade and released his first spell."Sword in the sheathe," he said, inscribing a complex sigil that expanded to fill the whole arena before fading to motes. By changing his stance, he caused the platform he stood on to reverse its orientation.


    From his point of view, the sphere rotated around so that the floor was now overhead; the long, curving struts and mage glows, underfoot. Old stuff, for one who played court-ball, and not at all disorienting.


    He was now directly over Solara, who was struggling and cursing as she fought to unsheath her weapon. It was a crystalline-hilted, needle-fine rapier. More shining toy than real sword, and he''d seen it before. Bee-sting, she called it.


    Given time, the flustered journeyman might have unraveled his spell and freed her blade, but Val didn''t give her the chance. Upside down and above, armed where she was not, he had a tremendous advantage. Could have played, but did not.


    "Get in, get out, get the job done. No grandstanding, no boasting, no excess." Murchison had told him. "Strike fast, while your opponent''s still flexing, and they''ll never see you coming." Advice he intended to follow.


    Wielding Nightshade very carefully, Valerian lifted and slashed a lock of Solara''s sculpted blonde hair. As those sparkling strands drifted and twirled through the air, Val said,


    "Point," then rode his platform''s spiraling path well out of her physical reach.


    Magic pulsed from the arena''s fey wild root, converting it back to its neutral rest-state and returning the combatants to their original positions. Val felt a surge of elation, but ruthlessly squashed it. Celebrate victory with the crown in your hands and your teammates pounding your back, not before.


    Solara''s face had gone white as scraped bone and rigid with badly-suppressed rage. All to the good, because unchecked anger (as he knew from painful experience) made it very much harder to think.


    Resheathing Nightshade, he bowed to the journeyman sorceress, rubbing salt and live coals in the wound with,


    "I thank you for the match, milady."


    It was now Solara''s turn to choose their setting. Determined to win this one, she went for something surprising.


    "Fey wild enchanted glade," snapped the beautiful, hard-eyed sorceress.


    Again, the arena converted itself, placing the two at opposite poles of a truly magical clearing. Surrounded by whispering trees and their towering shepherds, the glade was a high crag crowned with opaline standing stones, beneath a fast-changing sky.


    Like everything else in the fey wild, each stone and tree had a visible, indwelling spirit that flowed and pulsed like gem-colored blood. Small shining motes rose from the ground, forming whirlwinds of manna. The air was so pure, so rich, that just breathing it topped up and fed those who dwelt here.


    The sky overhead was striped in deep, cerulean blue; pocked with wandering stars and the low-hanging fruit of bright planets. So close that it seemed a good leap would have put him on Charr or Aqualia.


    ¡­But Val had no time to gape at the sights like a changeling. Beyond a swift and wondering glance, he stuck to the plan. Warded off Solara''s lightning blast with strong shielding, then inscribed and thought, "Babble".


    Doubly insidious because, not only did the spell confuse the mage-speak of its target, but it disguised itself, preventing Solara from realizing what had gone wrong. As far as she was concerned, her sigils and key-words were flawless. Only, none of them landed.


    Again, given a few free moments to think, she might have worked out what he''d done¡­ except that the sigil was entirely original, contained in no grimoire, and utterly foreign. Also, Valerian gave her no peace.


    Conjuring a gold coin, he thumb-flipped it into the air, caught it on the tip of one finger and set it to spinning, then uttered the momentum-transfer spell (larded with safety features, per Murchison).


    As that courtball had done, back in the classroom, the coin turned white and stopped moving. Solara, on the other hand, rose into the air at his gesture and began to spin violently; a screaming dervish of satin skirts and loose, golden hair.


    He stopped her motion before she could reel like a top into the nearest standing stone. Used mage-hands to catch her as she collapsed to the velvet-green lawn. Even murmured a cleansing and healing spell, for she''d been ill, and was clearly out of the fight.


    "Point," he announced, shifting their setting once more back to neutral. Did not remove ''Babble'' until they were on their floating disk and facing each other, again.


    "That is two out of three, milady," said Valerian, keeping the gloat out of his tone with all the self-discipline he could muster. "Will you yield the last contest?"


    "No!" she snarled. "This one, for all."


    "As you will, Lady Solara," he said, adding, "Starshire village, the Sacred Grove," as his choice of setting. Not according to plan. He''d been supposed to choose the Imperial flower gardens in upper Karellon; a place he was allowed, but that Solara had never been. Only¡­


    ¡­Only he very much longed to see home, and here was his chance, so he took it.


    The sun was well up overhead, pouring gold onto workshop and croft, field, pasture and lowing herd. The water wheel churned along by the mill in its spell shifted stub of broad river. The perfect place to hide¡­ folded into a clam shell¡­ a few of his personal treasures.


    Geese and ducks sailed like leaves on Lake Irilan. The air was warm and soft, perfumed by mown hay, ripe fruit and late flowers, all woven into a tall, graceful harvest mannikin; effigy of the goddess.


    Over it all towered Starloft. Mighty, impregnable. A stone giant fortress adapted by elves, it fairly crackled with ancient magic. The massive transport gate out front was quiescent, displaying its lone glowing star.


    People came and went on their various errands; riding or walking or crossing the lake in ships that could steer themselves, piled high with tribute and food for Karellon.


    Home. Or, close enough to it to steady the nervous young elf.


    At his back lay the sacred grove, that twin row of giant oaks which held the great altar. The place where Val and Sandy had long ago been betrothed. It was bustling, now, as folk brought their good-harvest offerings. Another fine place to hide treasure, and maybe Solara would think so, to.


    She did not bother to conceal her scorn at the countrified setting; lifting her skirts from the ground and levitating as though afraid to step in a pile of manure. She''d recovered her composure enough to lift her dainty nose.


    "I suppose this explains a great deal, Rustic¡­ but exposing your humble past shall gain you no mercy."


    At her back, a tower of mithral and pearl shot from the suddenly boiling lake, shedding water and magical steam as it thrust at the sky. Waterfowl took to the air in sudden wild panic, honking alarm calls. All through the village, people stopped in their tracks to point and stare at this (to them) translucent apparition.


    Valerian wrestled his temper, casting the briefest of glances at Starloft to help mislead his opponent. Let her think that he''d hidden his treasure within the great fortress. Let her waste many candle-marks searching its chambers and passages. It was what she''d expect, having chosen tricks and traps over concealment, herself.


    Val bowed politely, getting a snort and a frigid nod in return. ''This time for all,'' she''d said, meaning to crush him somehow in the last third of their contest. Well, he''d been lucky so far, and very well coached.


    As Solara whisked herself off to the fortress, looking neither right nor left, Valerian strode to the northern jetty. Here were tied up a number of small, open boats. Built for fishing or pleasure, they were spelled not to cross the sorcerous ban that defended Starshire. No problem for Val, as he didn''t intend going that far.


    With gesture and word, he loosed a boat then leapt lightly from pier-side to thwart. Made of silvery wood and painted with eyes at the bow, her name was Wind-on-the-Water, and she quickened to life at his touch. There were oars and a tiller, but Val didn''t need them.


    "To the tower, Wind-on-the-Water," he told her. "But stop short about twenty feet out."


    Solara had surely set snares, and he did not wish to risk the small boat. They set off at once. Water churned and foamed at the bow, casting sparkles of light as Wind darted forward. She skimmed and bounced on the wave tops, Valerian shifting his stance with the ease of one who loved being out on the lake.


    The breeze kicked up by their passage was bracing and brisk, drawing a smile from Val despite his stretched nerves. It died down when he ordered a halt, well enough out from Solara''s conjured tower to not (he hoped) spring any traps.


    Levitating smoothly up and off of the boat, he said,


    "I thank you, Wind-on-the-Water. Return to your place, with my blessing of fleetness and strength."


    The small boat obeyed, turning smartly about and heading back to the jetty. Valerian hovered some twenty feet out, about ten feet over the water; its unstable surface causing him to bob in the air like a cork.


    The tower was conjured and therefore impermanent, but impressive, even so. Lady Solara was powerful, and she despised him. Reason enough to be very cautious.


    Looking like crystal and silver and pearl, the tower was an airy creation without obvious entry except for a lone, narrow opening near its lacy top. A slender staircase candy-striped its way up the tower, but Val wasn''t stupid. As well kneel at her feet and say "Kick me".


    He levitated further instead; rising ten feet at a time, as he did not yet know how to fly. Came a bit closer, too, watching as one deadly surprise after another was sprung by his nearness.


    Poison gas, blade wall, laughing death, outer banishment, all exploded to life as he rose through the air¡­ and that was just one side of the wretched construction. Firelord alone knew what he''d have tripped had he tried walking his way up those very hazardous stairs.


    She''d put a lot of thought into this trial, placing only the lightest of reins on the spells'' severity. They wouldn''t have killed him. Quite. Mostly. But, he''d have been injured or terribly crippled; needing immediate healing.


    Coming level with the apparently innocent opening, Valerian studied the tower''s filagreed top. There had to be another way, as only a blind, trusting fool (having made it this far through all that) would accept Lady Solara''s wide open welcome.


    "You''re not that clever, and I''m not that stupid," he muttered, rising the rest of the way to hover over the shimmering spire. The opening, an illusion, simply winked out of existence, leaving nothing but poison-spiked stone in its place.


    Nice. Lerendar never had troubles like these. Females fairly threw themselves at Val''s older brother, who seemed to have something that the younger Tarandahl very much lacked. Problem for another time, though. Here and now, he had to gain access to the murderous hag''s greatest treasure (some potted demon or rotting ancestral corpse, he was willing to bet).


    Noises from Starloft indicated that she''d triggered a few of the fortress defenses, which warmed his heart. Smiling, Valerian decided to make his own way inside rather than subjecting himself to the rest of her bloodthirsty arsenal.


    So, channeling manna from the arena''s fey wild root and from Starloft, both, he inscribed the sigil ''Stone Waldoes'' and linked himself to the tower''s lacy roof.


    Instantly, his perspective changed, from hundreds of feet in the open air over water, to the ceiling of a smallish stone chamber. He was now a bas-relief figure shaped like Valerian, formed of the tower''s own substance. In this guise, he did not see with light, but detected changes in density; solid stone, fibrous wood, hollow air all standing out in his golem-sight.


    There was no door. No access at all on walls, floor or ceiling. She hadn''t meant to let him get in. Right. So, Val just took off the roof.


    Extruding great arms of crystal and pearl, he peeled back the tower''s top floor like a dead-walker shredding its grave. Chunks of conjured stonework went flying to strike the water below with loud, gouting splashes.


    Light streamed into the chamber. Fallen rock thudded and crystal shards chimed. Things that he felt rather than sensed directly, until he dispelled Stone Waldoes and brought himself, blinking, back to midair.


    Had to dodge a number of last-ditch horrors¡­ banshee''s kiss and killer frost chief among them¡­ but finally drifted down into the cracked-open chamber, landing amid all the rubble.


    There were treasures piled everywhere, Valerian saw, many of them regrettably flattened by great chunks of fallen stone.


    "Should have put in a door," he said aloud, shrugging. He had.


    Started looking around, walking here and there picking up this and that glistening object. Trying to think like a handmaid of death.


    "Now, if I was evil and twisted, subsisting upon the blood of slaughtered puppies, what would I cherish?" he wondered aloud, just in case she could hear him.


    Jewelry, heaped coins, animate tapestries¡­ These felt too obvious, and to choose incorrectly was to lose the match. Irresolutely, Valerian turned a full circle, looking with regular vision and mage-sight, for Solara was a mistress of tricks and illusion.


    On the bright side, at least there was food. A peach, blushing gold and enticing beside a flask of bright-tinted wine. He was hungry, anyhow, having skipped breakfast and refreshment from sheer, tangled nerves¡­ but he honestly couldn''t have resisted the fruit if he''d wanted to.


    Nothing inside here was dangerous. He sensed no more traps and only the lightest veneer of illusion, intended to misdirect, rather than cover, say, a puddle of toxic goo.


    She was probably hiding her treasure as wadded-up vellum, or something. In the meantime, wandering through the sunlit chamber, Valerian scooped up the peach, bounced it once in his hand and then took a bite, suddenly hungrier than he''d ever been in his life.


    If there was a divine ancestor of fruit, a model from which all other peaches took lesser form, this was it. The first bite went down like mildly stimulant honey, spiked with manna and life-force. He was instantly energized. Bite number two made him subtly glow, dredging out all the mid-world physical silt that turned an elf solid and mortal.


    It was at this point that Valerian figured out what he was holding, and why it was here. He stopped walking around and stared at the peach, which had already begun to regenerate, erasing his bite marks and filling back out.


    "Oh. Erm¡­ Right," he whispered, seeing past the illusion of peach-ness to the truth. He was holding one of the seven last apples of life, plucked from Pomona''s tree before Andrax the Reaver burned it to cinders. A genuine treasure, and surely the most valuable thing that Solara''s family could own.


    "Point, I think," he said to the air. "I believe I have found milady''s most cherished possession."


    (And eaten half of it, like an idiot.)


    A long, mellow tone sounded at once, as Starshire, tower and bright summer day vanished like smoke. Val stood on his candidate''s disk, facing Solara, in a once more empty and dark amphitheater.


    Then the lights came on and sounds were let through, revealing the council of mages and dozens of gathered observers.


    Solara stood holding a slime-coated clam, but she hadn''t got into it, yet; much less found a certain, very poorly embroidered old shirt. Clearing his throat, Val bowed first to her, then to the council, who observed all this from an ornate balcony.


    "I have been tested three times," he said, "in contests of weapons, spell-craft and wit. I¡­ believe I have won through each of my trials, Master and worthies. I await your decision."


    Then, as he was still holding that softly-glimmering peach¡­ which had probably been intended as a princely gift to the emperor¡­ Val approached Solara. Bracing himself for a scathing attack, he wafted the treasure back to its rightful owner.


    "Milady," he said. "I believe this is yours."


    The immortal fruit blinked out of sight halfway between them. Whether spelled into a faerie pocket by Solara or taken by someone of higher rank, Val couldn''t say¡­ but he''d seen kinder expressions on the demon masks of the Night-folk (among whom he would have felt safer). She was rigid and white, her eyes suddenly all glowing iris. Like it physically hurt her to do so, she hissed,


    "I find you worthy, apprentice." Then she bowed very slightly, turned and melted away. Sherazedan spoke next, saying,


    "I concur. You are hereby raised to the rank of senior apprentice, Valerian. However¡­ there is some feeling that your victory involved unknown spells and outside tutelage. By the council''s decree, you shall have no further contact with this Murchison, else he shall be stripped of his access to manna, and left to die. Do you understand?"


    Valerian jammed down a whole awful flood of emotions, and nodded.


    "Yes, Master. I understand, and will neither seek out nor contact the wizard Murchison." But he did not add ''forever'' or ''ever again''.


    "Then leave here victorious, for there are candidates waiting their turn," said Sherazedan, to which the other mages added mostly kind smiles and encouraging nods.


    "Thank you, Your Highness," said Val. He would have sought out Solara, maybe even offered to teach her a few of those spells, but the journeyman sorceress had vanished from ken, and he wasn''t much driven to seek her. Instead, he bowed once again, turned and left through the victor''s door.


    The first to greet him outside was his brother.


    "Lerendar!" Valerian blurted, overcome with surprise and delight. "You''re here!"


    His brother smiled broadly and hauled him into a rough, fond embrace.


    "It was meant to be all of us, Halfling. Dad and mother would have come, too, but there''s been the normal unrest in the usual quarters, so they sent me with money and gifts."


    Lerendar was unfashionably dressed, his long golden hair in a simple warrior''s plait, almost without ornament. Serviceably armed rather than elegantly so, but then, Val himself was still in his modified game wear. A few quick spells saw to all that, rendering both of them passable.


    Lerendar stepped away to examine his sized-up new finery.


    "I''m beautiful," he remarked, with a contagious laugh. The brothers embraced once again, but didn''t get much chance to talk.


    The Prince-Ascendant, Korvin, spelled himself onto the walkway beside them, looking intense and alert.


    "Lord Lerendar," he exclaimed, interrupting Val and his brother before they could kneel. "Never mind all that. I''ll take it as read that I have your everlasting love and respect, etc. Let''s talk about Starloft. It is a stone giant citadel, I believe? In excellent repair, as well? What secrets the place must hold, and how I would love to see it, myself. Alas, that only my mind is free to explore. My lord, will you walk with a prisoned scholar and indulge his tiresome questions?"


    Lerendar''s blue eyes were very wide, his expression stunned, but he managed a nod, saying,


    "Yes, Your Highness¡­ of course."


    Got hauled away to the gardens by dark-haired Korvin, who''d already conjured vellum, scribers and ink to record their conversation. Then Nalderick showed up, along with the rest of the team.


    "You''ll have to forgive father," said the Prince-Attendant. "Giant archeology is one of his ruling passions, along with moldy old legends and myths. He may let your brother go by suppertime. If not, my condolences¡­ And what in Oberyn''s name was that stone-arm spell? Or the spinning one? And did you really eat half an immortal fruit?"


    Val was hustled off, too, but not to the gardens. When Naldo decided to celebrate, the wise locked up their doors, their wine and their women, as the saying went.


    As for Solara, her family''s bid for fame and the emperor''s favor had crashed to ruin, thanks to one simple northern apprentice. She and they couldn''t do anything about that. Yet.

 Chapter(let) Nineteen

    Cleaned up for public appraisal!


    42 (I think¡­)


    Down in lower Karellon, where crimes were planned and money changed hands in clattering streams, the day of the trial had come and gone. Murchison waited, there in his shop, but the young elf-lord did not reappear. Nor could he find anything out by asking around, for who in Low Town followed the doings of their far-off and well-shielded betters?


    Even the Oracle had vanished, having moved from her quarters between dawn and morning, before Murchison knew she was gone. Then, about a fortnight after the big day, a group of young elves strolled into his shop.


    Jumpy, concerned, the human wizard came hustling out of the back, took one look, and immediately dropped to one knee. From the vision that Valerian had once shown him, he recognized the Prince-Attendant, His Imperial Highness, Nalderick Valinor ob Korvin.


    Just a bit shorter than Valerian, with long brown hair, vivid green eyes and an angular face, the prince seemed terribly cold and disinterested, glancing around like¡­ Well, like elven royalty in a small, musty joke shop. There were five others with him; four strapping males and a sleek, electrically beautiful female. The Imperials court-ball team, he guessed.


    Murchison''s heart sank, for Val wasn''t among them. He dared not speak unbidden, nor make direct eye-contact, and expected only the worst of possible news.


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    But Prince Nalderick surprised him. In that near-music speech of theirs, he announced,


    "A mutual friend has been completely¡­ hilariously¡­ successful in his ascension trials. So much so, that he is no longer permitted outside tutelage or contact with human wizards. He sends his thanks, Mortal, and regrets not being able to tell you all this, in person."


    A spell globe wafted from Nalderick, shining like a bubble of angry fireflies.


    "Here is the replay, should you wish to peruse it and laugh. Henceforth, you may add ''Servant of His Highness'' to your titles and adverts. You may now speak, if you would send any message to my right-forward defender."


    Murchison pondered a moment, forgetting himself long enough to actually glance up at Nalderick (still distant and diamond-hard, but waiting).


    "Yes, Your Highness. Thank you. Please tell him¡­ I''m very proud, very glad that he won. I''ll miss him... But I get it. I understand the situation. And, um¡­ thank you for coming by to tell me what happened, Your Highness. It''s very good of you."


    The elven prince cocked an eyebrow.


    "Yes, it is, rather," he admitted. "I''ve been after him to teach me some of those spells, but he insists that I must ask¡­ of you¡­ permission, first."


    Murchison stifled a grin.


    "You''re welcome to all of it, Your Highness. Good advertising."


    Someone, a husky redhead to the left of Nalderick, snorted,


    "Wait till the spells get used on the playing field," he joked slyly. "We''ll have all of Karellon ringing."


    Nalderick actually smiled at that. Then, inclining his head, he said,


    "Our business here is concluded. Good day, Mortal. I shall pass on your words to my teammate."


    They left as a jostling group, chattering in elvish, very much a team of young athletes, already thinking of other things. But the ease that they''d brought was real, and the deed mattered.


    It would be a very long time before Murchison saw his young student again, but when he did, everything changed for the trapped human wizard.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 Chapter Twenty

    Again, with the edits!


    43


    Elsewhere and when, in another plane entirely, Reston''s youngest nephew fought to survive. One further hunter lay between him and the cloud giant stepping disk, Valerian sensed.


    The mage trace he''d placed on her cloak pinpointed Salem, as did that luminous city map. Until Frost Maiden blurred it, that is. Well, cheating, thy name is angry deity, as the saying went. Valerian pressed onward without that magical chart, passing giant buildings and hulking constructs whose purpose he could only guess at. What, he wondered, would the place have been like when crowded and bustling; filled with the long-gone great ones who''d built and peopled it? Just so, a moth might enter a temple and cock its antennae, with about equal comprehension. Out of his depth, and never one for philosophy, Val took refuge in action.


    Some things were easier as a simulacrum. He was much swifter; able to dart, vanish and reform himself many times in rapid succession, crossing in mere moments what would have taken whole candle-marks in a fully physical body.


    Magic was simpler, as well. As a being of manna and will power, he could work spells at a thought. Turned out to be a very good thing, too.


    He''d intended to confront Salem directly, assuming she did not have a city map of her own which pinpointed him¡­ but the wretched Tabaxi outfoxed him.


    There, at near dead-center of a vast stone plaza, was not Salem herself, but her discarded cloak, puddled like ink on the cloud-marble floor. His first response was a very offensive curse. His second, inspired by Alaryn Firelord, was to recycle himself.


    With a sharp thought, Valerian sent his consciousness clear back to the moment he''d awakened in bed at the high-elf encampment, after his battle with Kaazin. Twice.


    Completely ignoring whatever ridiculous nonsense his embodied self was pulling (over and over) his ride-along awareness planned, readied magic and charted several routes to the transport disk, using the memorized map to guide him.


    So, when the Tabaxi¡­ not just possessed by that Fox spirit, but seemingly loving it¡­ When Salem yowled aloud and launched herself from a drifting arial bridge, Valerian twisted aside. She crashed hard, feeling that drop even through all of the totemic magic that filled her. Probably meant to break her fall and his bones all at once, only Val wasn''t on the right spot when she landed.


    In this form, he could not wield the spelled arrow. Instead, Valerian sank himself down into the cloud plaza, abandoning physical substance. Easy enough, when you were mostly just magical force. Then, invoking the ''Stone Waldoes'' spell that he''d learnt from Murchison, Val raised two mighty stone hands to seize and pin the stunned Tabaxi. With a noise like tons of clattering gravel and thunder, giant grey hands shot up from the plaza to clasp Salem tight.


    Well, it should have been that simple, only Fox created and shuffled many false images of Salem. Not being embodied, though, Valerian was harder to fool with illusion, and only one of those limping cat-rogues had breath that misted the air. His massive stone hands plowed around through the plaza, quickly ferreting out the actual Tabaxi.


    She writhed, bit and scratched at those giant stone hands, but could not harm them. Nor could Val release his grip. Not while Salem was still possessed and seeking after his life. Near-score and block, if not game; leaving the fading elf flat out of ideas.


    Then, overhead, Mirielle and her Hawk-totem swooped into view, banking and wheeling, gleaming in sunlight and glorious flight. Better yet, they stooped low enough to safely drop Kalisandra, who landed, rolled and came up on one knee, bow at the ready, arrow nocked. ''What a woman,'' he thought.


    A bow string sang.


    Sandy fired, sending the last of her spelled arrows through Fox and Salem, ripping the totem beast clean out and away. At last, Val was able to release his stone-waldo grip on the suddenly limp Tabaxi.


    Meant to reform the simulacrum, but¡­ felt cold¡­ exhausted¡­ confused. Unsure who, or what, he was meant to be shaping. Dangerous, stupid, to have released his form like that and melded with cloud-stuff.


    "Valerian, here," whispered Kalisandra, leaving her bow in midair to squat down and press an ungloved palm to the plaza''s cold surface. "To me."


    Why? Easier to drift and let go. Stop worrying, let someone else pick up the ball, his part done and dusted.


    Only¡­ Kalisandra was thinking of him. Reliving each act and emotion from their first meeting to telling him the worst, most terrible secret of her life. He saw himself through her eyes and heart and memories. Valerian Tarandahl ad Keldaran. Stupid northerner. Good-looking idiot¡­ and maybe the one that she loved.


    First as a cloud-stone hand, then drawn up and out as himself, Val''s simulacrum rose once again from the floor, gripping tight to Kalisandra''s own hand. There were tears on her face, sparkling frost-bright and cold. Her blue eye and her brown one were equally lost and uncertain, gazing at this manna-formed shade of Valerian, for whom she''d just sacrificed everything.


    He owed her a speedy end to this nightmare of unwanted, forced choice. Lifted a hand in farewell rather than trying to speak, then turned once more to dash and misty-step across many long acres of frozen-blue cloud giant plaza.


    Mirielle and Hawk kept watch from above, preventing attack through the air, though there was little enough of that. The citadel''s defenses were aimed at much greater, far larger quarry, and would not be triggered by such a tiny opponent. Instead, the sweeping, swatting and cleansing systems came to life, emitting roller-mounted golems, electrified nets and clouds of vile, poisoned spray.


    Buy him a drink, sometime, and Valerian would tell you all about leaping away from a swooping net while blasting a shower of toxic vapor with burning hands. Made quite an explosion, melting most of those rolling metal golems and causing his map to flicker awake.


    On it, Val saw that the two sleeping dots had changed color. Trouble, most likely, but a problem for later. Now, on a two-elf-height curb before the transport-disk chamber, a figure appeared. Frost Maiden, herself; armed and enraged, woven from hatred and snow.


    Val skidded to a halt and changed direction like a magical puck on a frozen pond. Came to rest at the base of a massive handrail. Not that she couldn''t see him. Not that he had to get into the huge transport chamber through its actual doors. There were small ventilation grates and cleansing ports in plenty¡­ only, he wasn''t a rat or a thief. Meant to go in like a Tarandahl, or not at all.


    Mirielle and Hawk landed on the ground at his back, held off by Shann Frost Maiden''s sudden, snarled wind wall. Gildyr and Salem arrived, too; the druid in wolf shape, the Tabaxi stepping from shadow.


    Val risked a glance backward, meeting slit-pupiled, furious eyes. Even money who was angrier; Salem or Frost Maiden. Val cleared his throat. Tried to, anyhow. The new simulacrum possessed few internal details, as he hadn''t been concentrating very well when Kalisandra drew him up from the clouds.


    "My apologies, Milady," he managed to whisper at Salem. "That was poorly done and unworthy¡­ but you were trying to smash me."


    Exhausted all of the spell-body''s wind and got hissed at for his trouble. Well, he''d make it up to Salem, too. He''d make everything up to everyone. Somehow.


    On the other hand, no one ignores a goddess. Not even when wolves turn back to battered wood-elves, tiny fawns held tenderly close in their arms.


    "Why," raged Frost Maiden, keening like wind that snapped trees and sapped life. "Should I just let you win?!"


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    His actual body was behind the wind-wall with Salem, Gildyr and Mirielle, but its near presence granted him strength. Of Kalisandra, he could see no sign. Not even as a dot on that flickering, pallid city map.


    But the petulant child-goddess expected an answer, leaving Valerian no time to think. He would have inhaled sharply and expelled a long sigh, had he possessed the means to do so. Instead, mostly manna, he said,


    "Because those are the terms as you set them, My Lady. I am mortal, and very much in your hand¡­ but I did try to play by the rules."


    (With a few small adjustments, but still.)


    "You cheated!" she howled, stamping a bare, shining foot.


    Then others began to manifest in the plaza, taking whatever form suited them best. Firelord, tall and resplendent with light. Ashlord, grim, dark and hooded. Hyrenn, antlered and garbed for skiing and battle. She-of-the-Flowers, dressed in not much at all but drifting blossom, mist and her own long, waving hair.


    A quorum, and not on Frost Maiden''s side of things, either. Firelord''s communication was only a fraction in sound. Imagery, multiplanar timelines and world-altering energy made up the rest that Val could detect, its force all but crushing the watching mortals.


    Frost Maiden shot back with something more like a chaos-tempest than argument, only to be silenced by She-of-the-Flowers, whose voice was sunshine and springtime and ''come make me fertile''.


    To be clear, this was no battle. The gods were merely bickering over a minor diversion, but one which was all the world to Gildyr, Salem, Mirielle and both of the current Valerians. The mortals could do nothing at all but huddle and wait, in the grip of forces too mighty to comprehend.


    Val kept his focus on Alaryn Firelord, internally swearing himself to the god, who¡­ winked at him, then looked very directly at a smallish (for giants) grilled vent by the titanic chamber doors.


    ''Your foe is distracted,'' said an amused wisp of thought. ''Go,''


    And just like that, the plan was changed. Not glorious victory at all, but a sly end-run. The bit of Ashlord''s thin face he could see beneath that dark hood showed a slight smile. Well, there was pride and there was good sense. When the gods offered you a hand, you didn''t argue which one.


    Valerian passed into shadow, misty-stepped to the vent and then side-walked through its sharp metal grille. Made it inside, but he was too small to set off the lighting spells or the air circulation. Everything remained musty and dark.


    About a playing field away though¡­ there shone the stepping disk, gleaming in many dimensions and utterly alien magic, set about three elf-heights off the main floor. A giant would have had to step up just a little to access it.


    The high-elf merely burnt through his manna misty-stepping onto the artifact. Hurrying, because he sensed all at once that Frost Maiden had noticed his absence.


    He got there ahead of the furious goddess, slapping an open palm down onto its smooth, icy surface as though he were scoring a point on the goal.


    "Game!" he exulted, unable to help himself, just as the doors blasted open and Frost Maiden flowed/ shrieked/ blasted within, no longer in person-shape, but a column of sheer, divine rage.


    The walls, ceiling and floor expanded outward in directions where madness lay. All at once very much roomier (if held together in mid-explosion by nothing but godly will) the transport chamber now hosted Firelord, Ashlord, Hyrenn, She-of-the-Flowers, Frost Maiden, Hawk totem and all of the mortals.


    His own two halves were rejoined in a flash, deer and simulacrum once again elvish and whole. Val straightened up, expecting to die. He recycled himself in a rush to ready some last magic protection for his innocent friends. Seemed pretty feeble against a quorum of gods, but he had to try. Only, Frost Maiden grew suddenly calm.


    "Very well," she wind-hissed, branch-creaked. "It seems you have won, boy. You may live."


    Being stupid¡­ stubborn¡­ Every bit the idiot that Kalisandra thought him, Val dropped to one knee, saying,


    "And a boon, My Lady. You set no conditions on what I might claim, should I win. I¡­ ask a boon of you."


    Everything grew quiet, at that. The other gods, who''d apparently thought it all a fine joke (might have had bets on the outcome, even) drew closer. Interested.


    Frost Maiden''s moon pale eyes narrowed.


    "And what," she rasped, hands at her slim hips, "do you wish of me, dust-mote, speck, less-than-a-dying-whisper?"


    It felt very good to have physical reactions like deep breaths, again. Not so good to be shaking, though.


    "I ask that you take Kalisandra back as your handmaid and sword-arm, My Lady."


    The young goddess scowled.


    "Why should I?" she pouted. "That one chose you over me. Besides, she has thrown herself over the side, intending to die. I hold her in stasis, to be dealt with at leisure."


    His once more present, chilled gut clenched. Think¡­ think harder than that, he urged himself. Firelord would not interfere, for Sandy didn''t belong to him. The other gods were enjoying the spectacle, but had no reason to salvage Frost Maiden''s cast-off follower. Then, inspiration struck. Lowering his head, Valerian said,


    "No, My Lady. She came to the aid of helpless, fleeing prey¡­ as you''ve taught her to do, from infancy. She saw me beset, facing a mighty, unbeatable foe, and she intervened. She acted as Frost Maiden would, on behalf of the weak and defenseless. Take her back, spare her life, please. I release her from all claim or connection. Just¡­ don''t let her suffer for trying to help me." First time in his life he''d ever begged.


    There was some talk among the gods. Some rumble and noise outside. Valerian looked up to see¡­ well¡­ Kalisandra appeared with a pop and bright flash, and Frost Maiden had altered. Grown suddenly older, in the manner of gods. He tore his gaze away, because it is never wise to look at a goddess and wonder what it would be like to reach out and brush a strand of dark hair from a beautiful face, trace a delicate jawline, unfasten a clasp. No, not safe, at all.


    Frost Maiden gestured idly.


    "Fine," she said, in a clear, chilly voice. "Your boon is granted. I find that I care not at all for this tiresome mortal vow. Work it out between your gnat-selves¡­ And it is no fault of mine if all of this ruckus has awakened the prisoned last-ones. Be warned, and make haste. They come."


    With that, she vanished. They all did, allowing the chamber to collapse to its normal dimensions once more. Leaving Gildyr, Mirielle, Salem, Kalisandra and a very out-of-sorts, still-kneeling Val alone in the dark, dusty transport room.


    Mirielle rushed forward to throw herself at him. He ought to have pushed her aside, maintaining decorum, but actually welcomed the distraction from having to look at the others.


    Valerian surged to his feet again, instinctively lifting and boosting the child onto his shoulders. He felt very small and ashamed, having needed help every step of the way, and then having humbled himself before all of them. Mirielle hugging his head and drumming her heels on his chest did nothing at all for his tattered dignity¡­ but he let her remain.


    After a moment, he got himself together. Cleared his throat and said,


    "Given time enough, I shall work out how to reset this transport disk for Starloft. I may even be able to place each of you, separately, where you prefer to be. Salem, I am sure, wishes to find Lionel¡­ Tristan, that is. Gildyr would doubtless wish to return to his grove, where matters of import await him, and¡­"


    The druid stepped nearer, then, flexing and shaking out arms still sore from cradling a helpless young fawn.


    "Are you¡­ embarrassed, Milord?" he asked, honestly seeming perplexed. Which¡­ just made everything worse, so far as Val was concerned.


    Next, Salem flowed over, ears still flattened a little bit sideways.


    "Enough of this, Mage-knight," she spat. "Setting aside the tricks and low-blows¡­"


    "Which you have not," he interrupted, dryly.


    "Setting all of that aside, you won an unfair game, while taking care not to¡­ much¡­ harm those who could not help attacking you."


    All very well. They weren''t of his rank, any of them. Kalisandra¡­ however she felt about past events in Lindyn¡­ was. Valerian looked her way. Not asking aloud, just very slightly bumping her thoughts with his own. Just, you know, checking.


    The ranger spoke without coming nearer, rubbing left arm with right hand.


    "I have just lost and regained everything," she mumbled, looking deflated and lost. "I need time to sort matters out. Would appreciate being left alone, for a bit." Then, glancing sharply at Val, "But first I, and now you, have tried to discard our families'' pact. So be it. We are freed of contracted attachment. But not, I hope¡­ not of past friendship, My Lord."


    A sudden thump and rumble from the plaza outside interrupted whatever Valerian would have said in response (no doubt a very good thing, as it would most likely have come forth sounding stupid and eager).


    The ground shook. Through that grilled vent came the sudden stench of hot metal and char. More than that. With slow, ponderous footfalls, something strode their way at a mile-eating pace.


    "Um¡­ Val?" prodded Gildyr. "Maybe you''d like to hurry along with that transport setting, Milord?"


    The high-elf squeezed Mirielle''s hands, then swung her off of his shoulders and over to Salem. Saying,


    "I can manage this," he recycled himself yet again, meeting previous layers of consciousness. Did so repeatedly, less than an eye blink expanding to months of deep meditation, while his body and top mind replayed their unchanging past.


    Starloft was another giant construct, having a transport disk of its own surrounded by deeply-carved address runes. All Valerian had to do was find a way to work those runes in a hurry, to send them all out of the citadel, away from this new mortal danger.


    On top of that, with all the time that he cared to expend at his disposal, Val came up with magical gifts. Things he figured would help to make up for this waking nightmare. One for each of his waiting retainers.


    Outside, through the barred vent, copper scales flashed. In the distance, coming nearer by mile-long strides at a time, hurtled a very colossus of metal, vapor and leathery flesh, jetting mist at each step. It was wreathed in sleet, cloaked in lightning, hooded in gleaming aurorae and steel. Typhon, itself. Not just a titan, but an ancient weather lord, somehow brought into now.


    Something shifted and rattled, outside. Great wings unfurled with the twin snap of sails catching wind. Shadows moved, and then a great orange eye peered in through the grate.


    "Not from around here, are you?" purred the dragon, in a disturbingly familiar voice.

 Part Two, Chapter One

    Sword and Sorcery, Part 2


    1


    The prisoner''s cell was empty, except for a pillar of raw stone that projected from floor to ceiling, containing the corpse of a low-ranking gnoll. Someone had already chewed off the victim''s projecting muzzle and forearms, leaving blood to trickle sluggishly over pillar and ground. The cell reeked of kin scent, early decay and fear.


    Thartaar Gash, warlock of Mother Dread, trailed a clawed finger through the black and gelatinous gore, then brought it to his mouth. Not as good as elven, he thought, but tasty enough.


    The cell had ceased drifting, as if pinned in place by that magically lifted spire. Being a gnoll, Thartaar alone would have struggled to interpret what he saw, but the Mother''s insight made everything clear. Only a goblin mage had the power to do such a thing, her whispers informed him.


    Thartaar examined the faint shower of magical runes still spiraling up and down the stone coffin-pillar, snuffing for more information. He''d been a goblin himself, before being raised. Had been one of the first three who''d performed the old rites, down in the deep-deep, where no light ever shone, nor ever would. He retained enough of his goblin-self to recognize the hand that had drawn those shimmering symbols.


    "Grey Fang," he rumbled aloud, through crusted, uneven sharp teeth. The guards behind him stiffened and clutched at their weapons. They were his clan sisters, or he''d have eaten them. Might do, anyhow, to keep the knowledge that there was a renegade mage on the loose, to himself.


    Thartaar sniffed deeper, inhaling the bone-littered cell''s rank stench. Grey Fang was dangerous, but enough of his blood had been spilled here to betray a deep wound. Meanwhile, the prisoner was gone. Not killed or eaten, because he was shielded by cursed elf-magic.


    ''No,'' explained the Mother, cold and dark in his head. ''Escaped on its own, or rescued by the mage.''


    Thartaar growled, low and deep in his long, corded throat. Broke into a shrill, see-saw giggle at the end, letting the Mother soothe and command. It was just another move on the gameboard, she assured him, to be countered by her strongest, most valuable piece, Thartaar.


    Her power flowed through him, channeled by ancient sigils and spilt elvish blood. They''d wanted to bathe in it, down in that far deep and ever dark cavern. Allowed a mouthful of blood apiece, each, but no more. There could be no real feast, for the stolen child''s carcass had to remain in place at mid-sigil. Otherwise, the Mother''s will and her dark manna could not reach and empower her devoted slaves. Otherwise, there would be no more gnolls.


    It was possible that Grey Fang meant to take the prisoner down to the cavern of summoning, casting foul light and removing the child''s body. This could not be allowed. Nothing must threaten the Mother''s rise.


    Her will had entered the plane through Thartarr and Slagard and Whinn¡­ strengthened further by the drow outlander, Kaazin. Not her physical presence, though. Not yet, because a suitable host must be found, first. Not a gnoll. Not a goblin. Something grander. Unscarred and powerful.


    The matter was too complex for Thartaar, but thinking of bodies gave him a sudden idea. Coming to a decision, the warlock sketched a sigil before him, leaving an oozing green trail in the air.


    A tendril of magical force reached into the stone pillar through the trapped one''s gnawed muzzle, then pulled forth his body as dribbling slime. Some of the goo splashed onto Thartaar, who lapped the stuff off of his spotted hide. Slow death in terror added tang to the juices, but the gnoll disciplined himself not to overindulge. What he had in mind would require a great deal of magic and physical mass.


    Instead, with rough sigil and snarled key-word he sculpted the ooze, blood and bits; forming a hulking, headless monstrosity. The two guards sensed peril, dropped their weapons and tried to run, voiding their bowels as they raced for the cave-mouth. They didn''t make it. Thartaar held them in place with a barked "Stop!" Keeping them still as the developing flesh golem tore them apart for raw materials.


    At last, sated and swaying, spattered with blood, the creature turned to stand before Thartaar. No head, yet. Just a great, ragged vertical maw in its chest, fanged with splintered sharp ribs.


    Vomiting armor and gore, it panted aloud, slowly gaping and pinching its misshapen mouth. A circle of eye-spots surrounded the maw, able to detect light and motion, but not much else. To effectively hunt, the beast needed more.


    Thartaar had a solution for that, suggested by the Mother, who was very pleased with his newly-formed toy. Reaching up, he unfastened the severed head he''d been wearing atop his own for days, now.


    Holding the head in both of his hands, he first spat on it, then turned it around to face the right way. Next, he stepped up to his flesh golem and set the head atop the thing''s lumpy shoulders.


    A growled spell bonded the two together, causing sudden green corpse-light to flare in those sightless grey eyes. It looked at him, enough of the original soul still present to make for enjoyable vengeance.


    Thartaar stepped backward to assess his handiwork. Good, thought the gnoll. Aloud, he said,


    "By the blood I have drunk, the flesh and bone and still-beating heart I have eaten, I am your master. I command you: find the goblin and elf you scent here. Undo your magic and kill them both. Bring back their torn heads, as proof."


    The golem resisted, but could not disobey the one who had eaten its flesh. Thartaar gave vent to a long, shrieking laugh as that which had been Keldaran set off to find and slaughter its missing son and the wounded mage.


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    As for the other, young elfling; the Mother had placed her shape-shifters onto its trail. Switching planes would not conceal the scurrying elf-mage, whose body might work as the Mother''s host, if retrieved uninjured and whole.


    "The dark one will rise," Thartaar snarled. "She will douse every light, choke every breath and freeze the last heartbeat! Her will is all!"


    He would make sure of it.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Elsewhere in that tangled and shifting cave system, Lerendar bolted awake with a sudden, shocked gasp. Would have scrambled upright, ready to fight or retreat, except that one of his legs wouldn''t move. It was pinned between pieces of wood, wrapped in cloth, packed with something that shifted and probed and itched like a very pox.


    Had he possessed any real magic, he would have incinerated half of the lake cavern, there and then. Instead, Lerendar scrabbled backward on cushions and fur, kicking at pots and a drowsing figure as he fought to get up.


    Then one of the shades brushed at his thoughts. Tendons, whispering,


    "Peace. They have kept faith."


    ¡­And they''d splinted his leg into the bargain, it appeared, though the means were itchy; unsettling.


    "Something moves in the binding," he said, forcing himself not to shake. "What is inside of it?"


    The goblin girl darted over from tending another patient, her eyes glowing ember-red in the dark.


    "Tis ''eal-moss, Milord," she squeaked, helping the one he''d kicked over back onto its feet. "It binds an'' cures, eatin'' away at corruption or poison. We ain''t done ye no ''urt, I promise. They wouldn''t ''ve let us."


    Through Bony, Tendons and Legless, he saw all that had taken place while he lay unconscious. How the goblins had worked to cleanse and rebind his broken leg, threatened all the while by hovering ghosts who''d have frozen their hearts had the vermin done anything wrong.


    One of the creatures sidled up with a flask and a round of flat, greyish bread. Another carried a platter of fish.


    "Food, yer lordship," whispered the hunched, furtive creature. "Fish, made just th'' way ye likes it."


    Ragged chunks of lake trout were burnt black on one side, mostly raw on the other, Lerendar observed. Exactly the way he''d earlier bungled cooking his own hasty meal by the shore. Well, they paid attention, at least.


    The wounded high-elf relaxed a bit. Ignoring the prickle and creep of that wretchedly misnamed heal moss, he said,


    "My thanks for the food."


    Couldn''t say it looked good, or terribly appetizing, but he did accept it, breaking his fast on mild, fizzy wine, bread and fish.


    "Much more of this and I''ll turn out like Shorty," he said, to break the stiff, anxious silence.


    "Shorty?" asked the goblin girl, after a moment.


    "Aye. Short-stuff. Halfling. My brother, Valerian. Eats fish like an otter. He''s been off in the City, studying magic."


    The girl''s small face clouded.


    "Sparks, that''ll be. The fire mage."


    The others¡­ three crouching close, two abed, one outside standing watch¡­ murmured charms against evil, making signs with their spindly fingers.


    Lerendar swallowed a scratchy mouthful of bread, washing it down with more wine.


    "Well, he isn''t an ogre," began the high-elf, noting looks of genuine fear in their yellow-red eyes. "Just a little quick-tempered, is all."


    Then, to change the subject,


    "When do we leave? You said that you could show me the way out of this place. I am rested enough to move on. Let us proceed."


    "Yer lordship is not the only concern," came a faint, creaking voice from one of the other beds.


    "Grampa, no!" gasped the young female, leaping to her feet. "Rest quiet! Ye''ll end yer healin'' afore time!"


    But the speaker had levered himself up and off of his pallet of furs, pulling the bandage and moss from his face with one hand. With the other, he summoned a wizard''s staff.


    Lerendar felt the shades close in around him. Didn''t try to stand up because, even sitting, he was at eye level with the tottering goblin mage. The creature was horribly scarred, Lerendar saw. Deep claw marks had gouged the flesh of his pinched, wrinkled face. One eye was missing, replaced by an eerie blue mage glow.


    "I be Grey Fang o'' the South Cavern," rasped the creature, as though moving his face muscles hurt. "And this be what''s left o'' me kin. Naught but kitts, but stong an'' smart, fer all that. ''Tis them brought us ter safety an'' saw t'' our ''ealing, milord."


    The old goblin was dressed in a robe of rough brown cloth. His mane and arm hair were wispy white, and he seemed to be more supported, animated, by manna than wielding it. Said Lerendar, after battling a gutful of tense reactions,


    "You are in charge here, I take it. Then to you I put the same query. When do we leave? It is urgent that I reach and warn my folk of the gnoll threat."


    Grey Fang drew himself a little more upright, using his bone-and-bit-laden staff for support. Waving the girl away, he said,


    "We must wait until Black Gut c''n safely travel. Yer lordship pegged ''im with a sling missile not long back, snappin'' ''is collar bone."


    "T''were a clean break, at least," interjected the girl. "No splinters or mess ter mop up."


    Lerendar shook his head. Started to complain that his aim had been off, then thought better of it. After all, the goblins were his hosts. They''d sustained him in captivity and healed his injury. Mostly. He would have torn off his own bandage and moss like Grey Fang, if only to stop that pestiferous itching¡­ but didn''t want to be left with a hideous scar. Beatriz wouldn''t like it, he felt sure.


    Instead, cycling through his faerie pockets, the high-elf dug out his cracked, fizzing amulet and spell scroll; the one on which someone had scrawled a few dirty jokes and a map.


    "I must admit to not ever learning my runes," he remarked, holding the scroll out to Grey Fang. "Never much cared for the classroom, but maybe there is something here that might be of use to speed healing." He did not bring forth Snap, though. Let them think him unarmed.


    Lerendar''s pronouns and tone were lofty, as one would speak to a balky animal, but he was trying. To be talking at all was a giant leap forward.


    Unperturbed by Lerendar''s rudeness, Grey Fang accepted the items, studying them with meat and mage eyes, together. He unrolled the scroll with a gesture, correcting one or two things on the map, shaking his head at the jokes. As for the spell, he said,


    "This be powerful work, Milord, buildin'' ter sumthin'' of true might, but th'' bottom edge or next page be missin''. Might be I c''n adapt it fer use in healin'' or transport¡­ but I can''t say fer sure without tryin''."


    The leaking amulet he wreathed in a muttered incantation, saying,


    "Death spell, an'' in parlous condition, at that. Would most likely ''ve kilt off you an'' three generations o'' yer kin, if ye''d tried invokin'' it."


    Uh-huh.


    "I was saving it for a momentous occasion," said Lerendar, very much out of his depth and hating it. "Suppose it is just as well that I never used it," he grunted, feeling restless, impatient and eager to leave. Worse, his entire left leg burned and stung as thought he''d fallen asleep on an ant hill.


    No. Fresh candidate for worst; he''d somehow lost most of his sense of contact with Val, as though his brother was terribly distant.


    "Ye ought not ter lose ''ope," said the goblin, appearing to sense Lerendar''s depression. "We be, all of us, tilted our own way, as the great ones ''as made us. Ye survived, yer lordship. Ye got loose, an'' brought yer finds t'' them as could ''elp yer make use of ''em."


    Lerendar didn''t want or need comfort from a withered old goblin. Nevertheless, hauling anxiously at his too-small blanket, the elf mumbled,


    "Your help, and that of the shades, made it possible. Adapt the scroll and repair the amulet by all means, Mage, but hasten. I feel very much as though we need to escape this place. Soon."


    ¡­because something was coming.

 Part Two, Chapter Two

    Some misspellings corrected, better words sought, details added for clarity. =)


    2


    As for Reston feen Tarandahl, back in that long ago, desperate time, the half-elf had left for home in burning haste. He''d taken his leave of the Desert Rangers and blazed away east, across wasteland, mountain and forest. Had traveled as fast as he could, thinking only to be there in time to see his mother as more than a mound of cold earth.


    Sigismund''s folk did not hold with the burning of bodies to release a trapped soul. They would immure her in darkness, forever; pinned beneath dirt and stone till the end of time.


    So he made speed, feeling Ashlord''s hand upon him the entire way. Scarcely halting for sleep, food or to rest his mount. Had avoided wood-elf territory on his way back through the forest, not wanting conversation or comfort. Not wanting others, at all.


    Dodged sentries and ward stones as he crossed the border wall into Ilirian, his father''s realm. Here, it was early spring, with small purple blossoms pushing their way through the lingering frost, as She-of-the-Flowers brought life. Newly arrived birds were just beginning to twitter and call in the branches above him. Higher still, the sky was overcast iron, torn between drizzle and snow.


    Reston himself was half-grown and scruffy, with a reddish brown beard just starting to show. Had most of his father''s height and quick, implacable temper. A bit of his mum''s depth of heart. Her strength and her loyalty, too.


    The way was direct, but not easy. There was only one town in Ilirian, other than Land''s End up by the wild northern coast. No paved, warded roads, even had Reston''s purpose been entirely licit or his presence at all welcome.


    He did not use the overgrown trail between Lobum and Starshire. Too much risk of detection or hostile encounter, there. Neither side trusted the other, and goblin troops lurked in the forest, lying in wait for lone travelers.


    But Reston had become more than they had teeth for, able to raise clouds of glassy, lung-shredding ash, conjure smothering fumes and hurl lightning. After one or two disastrous trials, the vermin made haste to avoid him. Having sworn himself to Ashlord, body and soul, Reston had no mercy at all. Accepted no pleas. Just drove himself onward, crossing the border and Galadin''s wall some twenty-one days after he''d set his back to the desert.


    Starshire was still a mere village. A cluster of homes, fields and pastures in the shadow of mighty Starloft. Its folk¡­ mostly human, some half-elves¡­ were just setting off for workbench or plow, when Reston rode up to the Shire Reeve''s hall. There he paused and drew rein, for the structure boiled with magic, locked away from the rest of the village by a great and powerful ban. Not Galadin''s doing. No mortal spell at all, but divine.


    Sigismund hurried up to meet Reston, as the young half-elf slid from his saddle and onto the muddy ground. There was a hut erected nearby. Evidently, the reeve had been staying there, unable to force a way through the barrier but unwilling to leave.


    "Reston! Thank all the known gods and forgotten ones!" the man babbled, rushing forward. He was shorter than Reston remembered him, with less blond and more frost in his hair, muscle now running to fat. Pitifully human, and openly weak with emotion.


    "Your mother and brother are still inside," he said. "She is sick, and Kristoff is just a boy. Please, son, if there is anything¡­"


    "I am not your son," Reston clarified, avoiding Sigismund''s hand and his pleading gaze. "Nor is Kristoff any relation of mine. I am here to see Lana, my mother. Stand aside."


    Something of his father''s command authority¡­ something of Ashlord''s veiled might¡­ must have impressed the reeve and the gathering crowd. They got out of his way as Reston approached the long wooden hall.


    It shimmered and wavered in stasis-lock, twisted half an arc out of the plane by Ashlord. Reston went to the barrier, which enveloped Sigismund''s hall like a globe, piercing ground, air and objects. In one case, half a dead goat.


    "Ashlord¡­ Silent One¡­ I thank you," he whispered, lifting a hand to that bubble of force. "This is surely a small thing for you, no effort at all, but it means all the world to me. At your will and by your leave, my lord, please let me in. Let me see her again."


    An opening spiraled into existence right before Reston, like a spider''s web unweaving itself. The young half-elf stepped through, leaving chilly dank air and the smell of that closely packed crowd behind him. Sigismund tried to follow, but the door would not work for him.


    Reston did not glance back to see how his mortal stepfather reacted. Just went into the longhouse through its flung-open doors.


    All within was silent and still, with even a sparrow, flitting from roofbeam to window, frozen in place. A young serving maid sat by the central hearth on a low wooden stool, small Kristoff held on her lap. Reston turned away, feeling his stomach lurch at the sight of this unwanted, surely forced from his mother, young sibling.


    "None of mine," he muttered, stalking past to where Sigismund''s private chamber lay screened in the back.


    There were a few other folk here and there. Mostly servants, frozen at their work. The fire glowed very dimly, but shed no heat. A large iron pot on the tripod above it gave forth no savory smells. Just a wisp of ice-sculpture steam, coiled like the head of a silvery fern.


    Reston pushed his way through gummy air, passing between embroidered curtains that might have been made of stone, for all the give and sway they exhibited. Inside the Reeve''s private chamber, his mother lay on her low bed; covered in blankets, a mug on the carved wooden clothes chest beside her.


    Someone had tied up her beautiful, long auburn hair with a blue ribbon, to keep it away from her face. Reston drew up a three-legged stool and sat down.


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    All the time that she''d been with his father, Lana had aged scarcely at all, seeming always just out of first blossom. These last few years as the wife of a mortal had been hard on her, Reston saw; putting threads of silver in her dark hair and lines on her beautiful face.


    Reaching out, he touched her hand, whispering,


    "Mom, it''s me. It''s Reston. I have come back."


    And, just like that, time started up again. People coughed and spoke. The fire crackled and surged as it ate up its piled sticks. A small bird completed its flight, cheeping and fluttering. The maid servant sang to young Kristoff, who fretted and whined for his mamma.


    Reston hardly noticed, keeping his gaze on Lana. Hearing his voice, his mother fought to open her blue-grey eyes. Managed a smile, whispering,


    "Hullo, baby-boy. How big¡­ how handsome you''ve grown."


    She tried to sit up, but he wouldn''t let her. Bent low, instead, to kiss her forehead. Then Sigismund burst into the curtained chamber, Kristoff held in his arms.


    "Lana!" the man called out, rushing forward.


    Reston surged to his feet, causing the stool to tumble into the clothes chest, spilling mum''s drink.


    "Get out!" raged Reston, rounding on Sigismund, not caring at all that he''d frightened his tiny half-brother. "Can''t you see what you''ve done? You''re killing her!"


    ¡­because, away from Galadin''s magic, time and illness could reach and corrupt her.


    "Please," begged Sigismund, almost crying. "For the boy, let me talk to her. Let Kristoff see his mother!"


    But Reston wasn''t listening, as an unhappy youth hardened into a cold, bitter man. He stooped down, taking Lana, blankets and all, into his arms.


    "I''m bringing her to Starloft," he announced, to those who had crowded into the Reeve''s wooden hall, attracted by spectacle. "Get in my way, delay me at all, and I''ll kill you."


    By all the gods, he would force Galadin to do something. Make his father heal her.


    Reston carried Lana halfway to the fortress, with most of the villagers trailing along on holiday in his wake, Sigismund at their head, cradling Kristoff. Then, with a sudden burst of pale light, Galadin appeared, stepping out of a conjured gateway to stand on the wagon path.


    Very tall, his silver hair caught back in a golden circlet of rank, dressed as though fresh from the council hall, Galadin blocked his son''s way; utterly calm, perfectly glacial, unreachably noble.


    "Enough," he said, folding both arms across his ceremonial breastplate. "You will cease this unseemly display. Slow time," he added, causing everyone else but Reston, Lana, Sigismund and poor, whimpering Kristoff to grow still.


    "Your mother does not wish to outlive her mortal lord or their child," said Galadin, adding, "She has lost three, already."


    Reston forced himself to meet the elf-lord''s gaze. Refusing to back down, he said,


    "I have returned to her. She has me, again, and I will not leave her. I know that your healer can restore her to health¡­ My Lord."


    "Or, I can," said the Lady Alyanara, weaving herself out of breezes and light to appear on the path between Reston and Galadin. This time, the young half-elf did look away, ducking beauty that smote the heart and brought hopeless yearning.


    "If you trust me to do so?" the sorceress asked Reston, reaching for Lana.


    "Yes. Yes, please, My Lady," he whispered, hugging his mother, then holding her out just a bit.


    Alyanara touched Lana''s forehead with the fingers of one slim hand.


    "Ah," she said, after a moment. "There is a growth. An eater, within her belly."


    Warm light flared from the elf woman''s hand, pouring itself into Lana, who twisted and writhed in Reston''s grip. Kristoff was crying aloud, reaching for his mamma with both outstretched arms. Sigismund could barely restrain the boy, who did not understand what was happening.


    "There," said Lady Alyanara. "It had spread through her body, but I have got it all. These things, once established in mortals, often attempt to return. I shall require the aid of our chief healer to block the dark eater''s resurgence."


    Looking away from Lana, who''d settled into exhausted sleep, Alyanara said,


    "She is mortal. She will die over soon, by our measure¡­ but it need not be now. Stay, child, for your presence brings joy that she badly needs."


    His mother''s limp form was lifted from Reston''s arms by Alyanara''s mere gesture. The young half-elf met the gaze of that mighty sorceress¡­ his father''s official wife¡­ but saw in her crystal eyes only compassion and strength. None of the burning anger, the choking resentment that had so long tormented Reston. He bowed his head in assent, allowing Alyanara to vanish away with mother.


    Galadin spoke up then, first clearing his throat, then saying,


    "Walk with me, boy. I would speak with you."


    Sigismund stirred, perhaps wishing to join them, but was stared into silence by Reston and High Lord Tarandahl, both. They turned and continued up the wagon path toward Starloft, leaving the shire reeve clutching his son; a light drizzle hiding any tears the unhappy mortal might have shed.


    Reston wanted so badly to speak to Galadin. Call him father. Have everything somehow made right, again¡­ but it wasn''t to be. Instead of welcoming Reston back as a son, the elf-lord said,


    "I find myself in need of a horse master and chief groom. The last one was trampled to death. Unfortunate. Perhaps¡­ you would consider accepting the post. It comes with a large stipend, food and living arrangements in Starloft. As for Lana¡­ she may please herself. Remain with the mortal, or join you up at the fortress."


    Reston shifted his gaze from the chill, soggy landscape to study his father''s stern profile. Galadin did not make eye-contact, resolutely keeping his grey eyes trained forward. He clearly expected a reply, however. It would have been churlish to turn and stomp off to the village in furious silence.


    ¡­and something was better than nothing at all. He could feel Volmar Ashlord pressing him to accept this scant bit of recognition, rather than hold out for a return to what had been lost; the two halves of the twin god seeking quick resolution.


    Reston sighed and looked back out at the path before them. At Starloft, rising from drizzle and mist like a mountain.


    "I thank you, Milord," he said. "I will stay, and accept the position. Whatever my mother wants, I shall honor, to the end of her days."


    And so it was.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Somewhat later, Galadin Tarandahl sat on a porphyry bench, one of several scattered around the smaller of the two floating islands that circled Starloft. The Lesser Shepherd, it had been nicknamed, for the ceaseless circuit it made ''round the great fortress. The other, Great Shepherd, was farther out, with a wider, less regular orbit and a higher, magically augmented view.


    Galadin often came here to think, making it easy for one who knew him¡­ could use misty-step or the sigils of transport¡­ to locate Ilirian''s Silmerana.


    Alyanara did so, now, seeming to form out of golden torchlight, itself, just behind and to the right of her wedded lord. Galadin exhaled deeply. Asked, without turning around,


    "She will live?"


    Alyanara inclined her blonde head.


    "It appears so, although much with mortals depends upon mood and loving companionship." Then, changing the subject, "My Lord, you were wed to a child, fresh from her bonded service at the Temple of Dawn, free to whomever would claim her."


    "A child half-goddess," Galadin muttered, looking slightly her way.


    "That is the rumor," she admitted. "What matters is that I knew nothing of being a wife. Of making conversation on any subject but incense and offerings¡­ and you could not teach me. You soon lost interest in trying."


    Galadin shifted aside on the bench. Patting its surface with one hand, he invited Alyanara to join him.


    "I was wrong," he said. "I apologize to you and to She-of-the-Flowers. My family and your goddess chose this union¡­ but perhaps we can still make it work. I would¡­ start again, Aly, if you''ve patience to make the attempt¡­ and I thank you for saving Lana."


    Alyanara sat down beside him. She said nothing at all, but took Galadin''s hand. And maybe something else dying was saved that day.

 Part Two, Chapter Three

    3


    Gildyr had pressed himself to the metal air grate, along with Salem and Mirielle. Unable to tear their eyes away, they stared in shock as a vast and ancient copper dragon burst away from the citadel and into the air; twisting, roaring and trailing flame like a comet.


    Its thundering flight shook the plaza and transport chamber, which already rumbled and swayed, pounded by massive footfalls. Something was coming, almost too big and moving too fast to make sense of. A colossus of flesh, metal and vapor lurched nearer, a mile at a pace. Wreathed in lightning, flanked by tornadoes, it rushed at the dragon like a volcanic mountain collapsing downslope in a blizzard of rock dust and ash.


    Fire lanced from the dragon, which eluded a vast, swinging fist to score on the titan''s grey chest. The stench of burnt flesh and hot metal filled the air, was swept away by a sudden, acres-wide cyclone, snaking its way up from the clouds to envelope that banking dragon like a bathtub toy. Whipped the beast into a flat spin, over the ridgeline and far out of sight.


    Folk in the few scattered dwellings below saw a hurtling copper fireball cross the sky, then slow down and spread its wide, filmy wings. Saw it belch flame and magic as it shot up through the clouds and back at a towering figure of metal and fog and fried meat.


    Maybe no one believed in the war bells, but they rang them anyhow, snapping old ropes and raising a storm of corrosion, for this was a war between monsters, and nowhere was safe.


    High overhead, Gildyr turned to look at Valerian, who seemed to be frozen in place.


    "Milord, I don''t mean to interrupt your meditation, but we''re bang in the kettle, no matter who wins."


    And, dragon or no, the giant was still heading their way. Val did not seem to hear, caught up in his second or third recycle. Not even Cap''n shrieking and pulling his hair got a reaction.


    Kalisandra stood away from the others, irritable and aloof. Clutching her bow, she battled a tide of emotions too strong to express without physical action.


    "He can hear you," she growled, "But he''s occupied working the target sigils. No sense arriving as a thin film of paste, or not at all, Druid."


    She had little use for wood-elves, who had never once come to the aid of lost Lindyn, her former realm. Gruffly, she ordered,


    "Keep watch on the doings, without. We will risk a blind leap, if we must."


    "If it comes to that¡­ to being pressed flat by a giant or burnt with the flame that never goes out, I will leap," cut in the Tabaxi, smelling of crouched-down-low apprehension. "But otherwise, not. And I would prefer hearing these things from Mrowr, She-elf. I do not trust you."


    Kalisandra snorted a bitter, small laugh, then shrugged and moved off, seeking a better vantage point. Sometimes an arrow, fired from cover, hitting just the right spot, could work battlefield miracles. She''d have to remove a grating first, though.


    A sudden, brief simulacrum of Val appeared at her side, then, passing over a spell of greater opening and¡­ a pointed stick. Roughly arrow-length, but unfletched.


    ''More than she seems,'' he hand-signed, adding, ''I love you,'' then popping away like a bubble.


    "Idiot," Kalisandra muttered, taking up spell-globe and stick. Moments later, a bit higher up at the other side of the chamber door, she spotted her hunting blind and started scrambling upward. No joke when the transport chamber was not just shaking, but rocking now like a ship in wild seas.


    The dragon had returned. This time, it did not strike at the weather titan directly. Instead, the rumbling beast burnt away at the cloudscape beneath the giant''s feet.


    The colossal monster bellowed words in a language so old and pure, so close to the Song of Creation that the earth shook for hundreds of leagues all around. It thrust out a massive, spread hand in the dragon''s direction, launching a spell of unmaking. The motion caused violent pressure changes and sudden, wild rain as that enormous limb rent the air.


    The dragon spiraled aside, spewing the flame that never goes out. Lost part of its tail to the spell, which gained enough purchase to begin eating upward, chewing and frying for the wyrm''s heart and head.


    The dragon retreated long enough to snap off a length of its own copper tail, which fell to the cloudy ground of the plaza. There, the length of scaled muscle writhed and flopped, jetting blood from one end, unmaking-runes from the other. Dragon''s blood and shreds of raw manna shot into the transport chamber, blocked by hasty shielding from Gildyr.


    The weather titan took hold of a cloud-stone spire and snapped the thing free of its building with a noise like the uplift of continents. Wielding the shaft like a club, it smashed at the injured dragon. Only, the wyrm had spells of its own. With a furious shriek, it generated dissolving rain, along with a hundred darting, swooping simulacra.


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    Great chunks of building and cloud-stone crashed to the plaza, smashing the fountain to bits. Gouts of bright dragon flame consumed whatever it struck, leaving nothing behind but ashes and char.


    The makeshift club struck part of the dragon''s wing, tearing the membrane. Those hundred conjured doppelgangers massed their flame in response, aiming for the titan''s metal-clad head.


    A sudden gale sprang up, scattering false dragons like so many shining dried leaves. Vapor jetted from vast round ports on the giant''s shoulders and acres-wide back. The white-hot divine steel of its hood cooled at once. Then, like an ember at first, growing like a newly-birthed star, a single eye opened up in the depths of that metal cased head. Radiating primal energy, it swept a blinding white trail across the plaza and sky.


    Like a finger of the first, shattered god, the light altered or uncreated everything it touched. Statues gained life and sentience, becoming monstrous beings that dropped like meteors onto the ground, far below. Cleansing golems popped out of existence or transformed into startled, winged horses.


    Meanwhile, the dragon had nearly completed burning away the clouds beneath the colossus. Sensing its peril, the giant began a thunderous chant of levitation, raising itself, along with nearby mountains and mortal villages.


    That ray still burnt across cloud and sky, aiming for the dragon, but cutting fast at the transport chamber, as well.


    Kalisandra wiggled into a higher position. Used Valerian''s spell-globe to loosen the grating and then kick it out.


    "All right, ''More than she seems''," the elf muttered, managing to nock that sharpened stick to her bowstring. "This is your moment to shine. Nothing else in my quiver is going to do any good."


    Only¡­ where to aim? Whom to strike? The most immediate threat seemed to be that titan, whom the druid was attempting to entangle with magical vines raised from the ground below. Piercing the clouds, these lightning-grown briars struck at the giant''s legs. Managed to slow, but not stop its advance. One more step would obliterate the central plaza and transport chamber. One sweep of its primal ray would destroy them all, or convert them to gods-only-knew.


    Kalisandra inhaled deeply, drew and took aim at something that flashed and pulsed on the advancing behemoth''s chest. Not a fleshy thing. More like the blazing red gem on an idol¡­ only the size of a mountain lake.


    Lightning flashed from thin air to strike at the dragon. The stick in her firing grip pulsed in time with the titan''s energy bursts, as though attuning itself.


    "Go get ''em," whispered the ranger, as she always did when loosing a shot.


    Released, the dwarven-forged weapon developed a sudden barbed head and sleek fletching. It flew like a godly thunderbolt, nicking the dragon''s other wing. Then, rampaging onward, it buried itself in that pulsing red mass.


    There was a single, bright chiming noise, followed by a sharp crack. The titan flailed, momentarily. Long enough for the dragon to finish searing away the cloudscape it stood upon. The ray flickered out just short of their transport chamber, leaving a smoldering trench in its wake. All of the magically levitated objects twirled like leaves to the ground, only partly supported now.


    The weather giant staggered, missed its footing, then stumbled down through the burnt-away gap. What would have been a fatal drop for elf or human just tripped the monstrosity, which landed with a rumble like bowling with mountains for tenpins and the moon for a ball. It fought to recover its balance, almost succeeding.


    Then the dragon, swinging around at full speed from behind, struck the giant''s back with a resounding BOOM and explosion of flame.


    The monster fell forward onto the ground. No doubt quickly, from its perspective, but so big that it seemed like forever to those who watched, gnat-like, above.


    It wasn''t dead. Began using splayed, giant hands and one knee to push itself upright. Only, the dragon came around for another pass, aiming for the giant''s neck. With talons extended and jaws gaping wide, the beast struck hard, took hold, then savagely ripped out a huge mouthful of metal and spine.


    Shaking its head, the dragon tossed the ragged chunk high into the air, jetted fire into the wound, and then tore out another great mouthful of sizzling flesh. Its victory roar shook the heavens, sending violent tremors through cloudscape and ground. Nearly drowned out Valerian''s sudden words, as the high-elf ended his fourth recycle.


    "I think that I''ve got the sigils properly set," he told them, "but does everyone wish to leave all at once, or¡­"


    "I think that would be advisable, Milord," said Gildyr, remarkably evenly, all things considered.


    Kalisandra leapt back down from her perch on the air vent.


    "Yes," she said. "Now would be good. We can sort things out further, at Starloft."


    Valerian nodded, picking up on their urgency, if having missed out on most of the reason.


    "Very well," he said, waving them over. "I can send everyone wherever they''d like to go once we''ve some breathing room. Onto the disk, all of you. Quickly."


    He boosted Mirielle, who had darted over the instant he spoke. Lifted the child onto the glimmering transport surface, then offered a hand up to Salem, who butted her head against his shoulder as she went up and past.


    "I do not trust her," hissed the Tabaxi, apparently meaning Kalisandra, for that was the direction those slitted gold eyes were stabbing.


    "I do," said Val, briefly scratching Salem''s velvety ears.


    Gildyr got up there his own way, then extended a hand to Valerian, who accepted, though he didn''t need help. Kalisandra leapt up like a panther, scorning assistance from anyone. The stick, Val noticed, was back in her hand.


    Everyone was present, and the sigils for Starloft wafting about in the directional sphere. He had only to speak the keyword to send them all forth. But first, Val invoked Firelord, saying,


    "Shining One, great harm has been done to this place by the battle of those who were locked here. Part of the fault for their waking is mine, for having entered the cloud giant citadel. For that, I am willing to pay¡­ but not these, who had no say in my doings, and not the folk of this plane, who have helped us. Please heal the damage, with as many as would join you."


    Gildyr added his own plea to the spirits of woodland and moor, invoking recovery. That done, looking suddenly tense, the wood-elf seized Valerian''s arm.


    "There''s something I have to tell you," he said. "You''re going to be angry, but¡­"


    The druid took a deep, ragged breath and then plunged hurriedly onward, riding his courage as long as it lasted.


    "I know where your brother is. Have known for some time. You can kill me or help me to save him. Your choice, my lord."

 Part Two, Chapter Four

    4


    Writing his journal and focusing on horses helped Reston to stay in control all those long years, keeping a fragile situation from developing any more cracks.


    He made no more trouble and did no more wandering. To everyone''s eye, a calm and respectful young man. The ideal, high-level servant. Even when his mother chose to move back to Starshire with Sigismund and Kristoff (and later on, little Schwanli) Reston held his peace.


    She was alive. She visited often. The rest, he put on the page or shoved into far-away corners of thought, determined to show nothing, ever.


    Time passed unevenly. Then, one afternoon in late spring, as he was down in the stables, currying one of His Lordship''s fine horses, something happened at last. Another game piece was moved. Someone strode in, looked around and then headed across the long stable; a young elf with red-golden hair and grey eyes. Keldaran, it was; the son of Alyanara and Galadin.


    Reston inclined his head, expression carefully neutral. Motes of hay danced in the warm, sunny air, stirred by the breeze of Keldaran''s fast walk.


    "Good afternoon, Milord," said Reston. "Shall I saddle your horse?"


    But the slender young elf did not answer directly. Simply strode to the stall door and looked over at Reston, frowning slightly.


    Where Kristoff was already a rheumatic elder and Schwanli a portly matron, Keldaran appeared to be still in his late adolescence. Reston was somewhere between; a grim and unsmiling young man. Handsome, quiet, devoted to his work¡­ which presumably Keldaran was there to demand. But, instead of snapping an order, the elf said,


    "You are my brother," almost accusingly.


    Reston blinked. Maintained outward calm, although he faltered a moment in combing Shira''s hay-dappled coat. The black mare snorted and shoved him with her delicate head, urging greater attention to detail. Sadly for her, it wasn''t to be.


    Reston misty-stepped out of Shira''s stall, into the stone-floored passage, beyond. Fetched up facing Keldaran, but angled aside, as custom and courtesy dictated. With a deep bow, he said,


    "Young lord, the subject is a fraught one. There is very little I can say without giving offense. But¡­ I did not choose to be born as an insult." Nor was he the only Feen working at Starloft.


    "You knew all along, and you never said?" Keldaran demanded, coloring slightly. "I''ve had a brother for years? Not just a sister?"


    Reston shook his head. Rubbing at his itching, oft-shaven chin with one calloused hand, he corrected the boy''s error.


    "No, Milord. I am not of rank to claim kinship with you or with Lady Meliara. Lord Galadin¡­"


    "Who is father to both of us," put in Keldaran, aggressively.


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    "Who is your father and¡­ and mine¡­ has arranged matters as he sees fit."


    And there was no gainsaying High Lord Tarandahl. Keldaran''s grey eyes narrowed, turning suddenly fierce in that perfectly beautiful elven face.


    "You are my brother," he repeated, stubborn as ever a Tarandahl could be. "Someday, I will be Silmerana, and things will change," promised Keldaran, extending a hand.


    A layer of stillness and ash covered all of Reston''s emotions. Had done so for all the many long cycles since his mother''s death. The boy meant what he''d said, though. Reston saw the truth, and he knew.


    After a brief, heart-frozen moment, he extended his own hand to clasp that of Keldaran¡­ his brother.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Much later came that black, awful day when a raiding party of goblins lured forth an elven warband. Splitting their forces, one half led by Lord Keldaran and Lerendar, one half by Reston, the elves had meant to crush the raiders from two sides of a deep, rocky valley. The notion had been advanced by one of their older and quieter fosterlings, Garrin Alfrit.


    Only, somehow, the goblins had known of their plan. The wily vermin laid traps and obstructions to delay Reston''s advance, leaving Keldaran and his warriors to arrive at Dry Valley''s east end without reinforcement.


    Blocking the vale''s west mouth, an ancient, accursed stone forest had been webbed with illusion and shape-shifting monsters. The creatures struck hard and fast and then melted back into the darkness, seeming to boil up out of the petrified ground, strike and then vanish away.


    Reston fought onward, for he could hear the shriek and crump of firebolts, the screaming of terrified horses from the vale''s eastern end. Goblins swarmed the landscape, dropping out of the fossilized branches in numbers too great to count or successfully battle.


    Small by themselves, and poorly armed, in a mass of ten or twelve they could bring down an elf and his or her plunging mount. The goblins were maddened with fear, driven on one side by hulking, cloaked figures while facing sure death on the other from searing flame or lung-choking ash. They perished in droves; burnt alive, hacked to bits or coughing up blood and lung-shreds as they writhed on the ground.


    ¡­but the elves died, too, overwhelmed by sheer numbers and treachery. By powerful alien magic and¡­ unintentionally¡­ Reston, himself.


    Unable to wait for the rest of his struggling warband, hearing the shouts of trapped, dying elves, Reston misty-stepped forward, meaning only to reach Keldaran and Lerendar. He materialized in the midst of great slaughter, amid smoldering heaps of burnt goblins, scattered body parts and dying horses.


    Keldaran was sorely injured, one arm torn halfway out of its socket, great-sword somehow still balanced and deadly in the blood-spattered other. Lerendar was pinned beneath his own fallen mount, fighting wildly to free himself.


    "Reston! Brother, get out!" shouted Keldaran, distracted. Did not see, could not block, the sword-cut that took off his head from behind, as last magic blasted outward, sending Reston back to his own scattered warband


    By the time they regrouped and reached Dry Valley''s eastern mouth, there was no one to rescue and nothing left there to fight. No bodies to recover, either, for all had been carried off.


    Somehow, Reston got the battered remains of his war-party home. There had been a single, brief contact with Lord Valerian, then nothing, for fear that his nephew would be traced and attacked in the City.


    Worse¡­ the spot in his mind and heart that Keldaran had filled was dark now, and empty. Ripped apart by the death of his brother. His first and only real friend.


    Reston blamed himself for Keldaran''s murder. He''d been the one who had counseled acceptance of Alfrit''s mad battle plan, deeming it sound. He''d been the one who''d distracted Keldaran and then watched him die.


    In the dark weeks that followed, the half-elf systematically destroyed every goblin he could turf up or run down, making tremendous slaughter. Male, female, child¡­ just didn''t matter. Riven by sorrow and guilt, he took revenge as completely and pitilessly as possible, recording it all in his journal. Numbers, locations, methods; as if more death could stanch the deep, awful wound inside that wouldn''t stop bleeding. As if he could ever pay back what he owed.

 Part Two, Chapter Five

    5


    Some days later, he just couldn''t wait any longer. Didn''t dare. There was a saying: Like wind through the ruins of Ahn. Meant that something evil or dangerous, just barely sensed, had risen to trouble one''s mind.


    Less of a wind in Lerendar''s case than a shrieking gale. Very dangerous. Very near and coming closer, fixated firmly on him.


    "I have to go, now," he said to the goblin girl, whose name turned out to be ''Pretty One''. (Yes, they had names, and he hadn''t entirely avoided learning them.)


    The reddish-brown hair of her arms rippled flat, which was a sign of distress.


    "You ain''t in no shape ter be runnin'' about on yer own, Yer Lordship," squeaked the goblin, looking up from the pot she''d been stirring. The bubbling stuff inside smelled¡­ Well, it smelled. "Another sleep or two, at least," she advised him.


    But Lerendar didn''t listen, driven by a sense of such urgent haste that he had real trouble breathing. Tried to explain, though. Owed them that much.


    "It has come after me, and you will not be able to stop it," said Lerendar, as the shades filtered in to help him arise. He bumped his head on the low stone ceiling, muttered a curse and then got himself sorted. Nor was he the only one up.


    "Tis follerin'' both of us, Yer Lordship," said the old goblin-mage, Grey Fang. "B''lieve I''ll be taggin'' along on yer outing, meself."


    Even money, who was in worse condition, the scarred wizard or the crippled elf-lord, but¡­ maybe they''d manage, together?


    "On the bright side, I''m not that hard to keep up with, these days," grunted Lerendar. "And I suppose that some sort of magic wouldn''t hurt. We can at least try to lead the hunter away from here," he continued, reflexively checking his faerie pockets for so much gear and equipment that just wasn''t there, because he''d always had servants for that.


    "Move, if you''re coming, old man," ordered Lerendar. Then, his voice dropping to a mutter, "I''d suggest that everyone else leaves, too. And¡­ anyhow¡­ good luck. I thank you for helping me."


    The goblin kitts¡­ Pretty One, Dogbait, Twitchy, Snaggle, Squinty and Black Gut¡­ stared at the high-elf in genuine shock. It was very hard for him to separate them from the tide of squeaking bodies that had overwhelmed him in battle that day, just as it was difficult for the kitts not to see him as simply a towering, murderous demon.


    ¡­but they''d made a start, all of them. Accepting a final packet of food and wine, Lerendar stooped through the digging''s low doorway and limped off, Grey Fang stumping along behind him.


    The mage cast a spell of concealment, the best he had, over the goblin kitts. After that, at a safe distance, he joined Lerendar in leaving the broadest possible trail; all but venting their stream and scrawling "come find me" in the dirt.


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    At that point, the hunter was less than two candle-marks away.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Earlier, many slow-winding tunnels to the west, what passed for a council had come to a boil. The freshly healed albino drow was just a bystander, watching silently as Thartaar Gash met with two other high-ranking gnolls, those who had "taken the blood". They''d met in a formerly wandering prison cell, now pinned in place by a mighty stone pillar. Their assembly wasn''t a peaceful one, by any means, making a council of drow¡­ which normally ended in bloodshed¡­ seem like a high-elf cotillion.


    Whinn Sniffyip was a priestess of the Mother, veiled in reeking, flayed elf-hide and long strings of rattling bone. Slagerd Dreg was a hulking and brutish warrior, always just this side of completely berserk; his armor a patchwork of mismatched trophies, mostly too small for the eight-foot lummox, who threatened to burst its thongs with each rasping, foul breath.


    A meeting, Thartaar had called it, but the gnolls did more snapping and growling than talk. Had maybe a third of a brain between them, if that, Kaazin figured.


    He stood in full, dusky armor, crossed swords at his back, letting none of the scorn and disgust he felt show on his face¡­ though the Mother sensed it.


    ''They are tools, pale one,'' she assured him, combing long, icy claws through the drow''s mind. ''They shall be broken and cast aside once their usefulness has ended.''


    No doubt the same thing she was telling them about Kaazin, who wasn''t a fool. He was new here, torn from his own plane and healed up after a disastrous fight with an elven warlock¡­ but he hadn''t dropped with the last rain, either.


    "Prepare the rituals," growled Thartaar, cuffing the snarling, crouched priestess. "Our Mistress must be embodied, or her presence among us will fade!"


    Whinn ducked most of his swipe, slashing back with poisoned talons.


    "The ritual place and tools are ready, Thartaar. Where is the promised host? Will it come from your crusted rump, like all your best thoughts?"


    The gnoll mage aimed another attack at Whinn, using his staff as a club. Only left off because the new high-elf head that he wore atop his own¡­ a replacement for that of the day-walker''s sire¡­ started to slip.


    "No fight!" roared Slagerd, nearing peak frenzy, again. "Foe blood, not clan blood!"


    Which, for a gnoll berserker, was fairly sensible. Kazin was unaccustomed to dealing with such squalid, chaotic trash, and the sensation was very disquieting. Every bit as enjoyable as wading hip-deep through a sewer to get past the city gates. The Mother''s drug-like soothment went only so far.


    To the towering Slagerd, Thartaar yapped,


    "Raise up an army of ratlings and lesser gnolls. Attack the elf stronghold! Destroy it!"


    Slagerd grinned, showing a crocodile''s mouthful of fangs.


    "Good! That is good fight! They will die, and Slagerd will feast!"


    The mage had orders for Kaazin, as well. Pulling a sort of magical slave collar and key from his robes, Thartaar thrust them at the waiting dark-elf.


    "The younger one comes," snapped the gnoll. "The Mother has shown me. You will find and capture him, bringing him unmarked and unharmed to the dark cavern, drow."


    At which they fell to squabbling, once again. Kaazin took both items and spelled them safely away, backing slowly out of the pinioned cell.


    The Mother laughed in his thoughts, teasing the drow with visions of himself being eaten alive by her moronic pets. They usually started with the belly, first, slurping innards long before killing their meal. Nice. Not that he hadn''t done the same thing, himself¡­ just sensed that the neighborhood was becoming unhealthy. That it was time for a smart lad with no conscience at all to seek lodging, elsewhere.


    Well, there was always a bolt-hole, in Kazin''s experience. Always another way out. He just had to find and convince it, while keeping Lady Death out of his deepest thoughts. And he''d always enjoyed a challenge.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 Part Two, Chapter Six

    Great, big edit! (Not sure how I missed that, the first time through...)


    6


    All of a sudden, everything around them slowed to a vegetal crawl. Valerian glowed, sparking at the edges like he''d been cut from a different, badly-fit piece of reality. Hearing Gildyr''s sudden confession, his expression turned utterly bleak, hard and suspicious. As though he''d expected betrayal and meant to do something about it.


    Meanwhile, the rumbling sound of that oncoming dragon stretched and slowed to the throbbing groan of a land-quake. Over it, barely discernible unless one was elvish, Valerian spoke.


    "Explain," he demanded, hand at the hilt of his dueling sword. As Arondyr had predicted, days ago by a campfire, the proud high-elf was very much ready to kill.


    Gildyr sucked in a ragged lungful of syrupy air. It hurt to breathe, was tough to speak, but Grey Fang and all of his kin depended on Gildyr to sway the mind and cold heart of a furious elf-lord.


    Forcing speech, the druid said,


    "Lord Lerendar is a prisoner in the goblin tunnels, but not of the goblins, themselves. He is being held by¡­"


    "Gnolls," interrupted the high-elf, mist grey eyes never leaving the druid''s face. "The vermin have summoned dark powers and opened themselves to this evil by slaying a child." Then, "I have learnt all this lately, from Firelord, but¡­ you knew all along, and said nothing?"


    The elf-lord''s glow was becoming painful to look at; his features hard to make out.


    The time-slowed others were turning in Val''s direction, now, moving like sleepwalkers trapped in dense mud. With only scant moments left to convince Valerian, Gildyr stuck to the unvarnished truth.


    "Milord, there was never a chance to tell you! When have you ever stopped to actually listen?" A risk, and a cold-water shock, but effective.


    Valerian broke off his murderous stare. He looked aside, breathing heavily, like one struggling to maintain self-control. After a moment, the high-elf inclined his blond head slightly, admitting,


    "Your words are just, but I had cause, Druid. I avoided speaking because I intended leaving you, the Tabaxi and Mirielle in some safe, sheltered haven. I did not wish to expose a child, a noble lady and a wandering beggar to further risk. But¡­ had I known the true situation back in Snowmont, this entire disastrous plane-shift might have been avoided."


    Gildyr shook his head, broadening his stance to ride out a series of slow moving ground swells.


    "There are very few genuine accidents in life, Milord. Our coming here brought me back to Karus¡­ gave Mirielle the strength of her other self and escape from servitude¡­ and your god a chance to show you all that has happened. Hard medicine burns going down, Valerian, but it cures, all the same. Would you truly have rather not seen your lost¡­"


    Too far, that. The elf-lord held up a blocking hand, literally stopping Gildyr''s next words in his throat with a flaring sigil.


    "Speak not of my family, Druid," he snapped. "Or of what my coming here has cost them. They shall be picking up the pieces long after I am gone. It may be that I can use the Starloft transport disk to return to this place and help." His shoulders sagged, briefly. "...though I might not be very welcome, after all this."


    Then Valerian straightened again, resuming that hard, icy stare.


    "But my brother lives, and he is no longer a captive. He has escaped the gnolls, and wanders their tunnels, no doubt causing tremendous slaughter, for he is a warrior of great renown."


    News to Gildyr, who began to worry for Grey Fang and the others. Had Valerian''s god shown him nothing of them?


    By this time, that low, deep bass rumble had become a city-shattering roar. The temperature catapulted, oven-like even through slow time. Cloud stone evaporated outside, fizzing to nothing across the wide plaza. The dragon was coming.


    "Onto the sigil," ordered Valerian, jerking his head at the platform, which Kalisandra had ponderously started to leap from.


    Gildyr had much more to say, but possibly now wasn''t the best time for further chat. Nodding assent, he scrambled up like a squirrel, seizing the ranger''s arm and pulling her back onto the sigil with bone-wrenching force.


    Next turned to offer a hand to Valerian. Only, the elf-lord had misty-stepped back to that glowing hot vent. Unbothered by high temperature, Val spoke some final spell at the dragon, then returned to the transport disk, backlit by raging flame. In that finely-minced sliver of time, Valerian gestured, and all of them jolted violently out of place here¡­


    ¡­to reappear there, with a flash like the sunrise and a deep, belling chime. It was not a pleasant transition, leaving Gildyr wanting to vomit. On the bright side, he was no longer hot, and time had returned to normal, letting him finally draw a deep breath.


    The Tabaxi hacked up something fibrous and moist with a series of guttural coughs, while Cap''n blearily clung to her fur, gasping aloud.


    Mirielle wobbled over to Valerian, who steadied the child with a hand to her trembling shoulder. As for the ranger, Kalisandra had turned her face away, hiding any discomfort she felt from the others. Not a soft woman, at all.


    They''d been moved, Gildyr saw, but this could not be Starloft. At least, not the one that he knew of. This place was a titanic and long-empty ruin; an abode of spiders and owls, with no sign of elvish habitation.


    Long shafts of pale sunlight slanted from giant windows to light up a floor the size of a prosperous farm. Wind sighed through massive doors warped open by time and disuse. Brown, withered vines wound through everything, their dropped leaves having all but buried the transport disk. A constant cold breeze rattled and shoved at the dead vegetation, making a skittery sound. Other than that, and the newcomers'' small motions and mutters, there was no noise at all, and no dragon.


    Val, Gildyr noticed, did not seem surprised by their surroundings. In fact, something close to relief crossed the high-elf''s stern face.


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    "An uninhabited half-plane," Valerian explained. "Better for planning and safer for everyone else, should the wyrm attempt to follow our leap."


    Gildyr rubbed at his dryad arm with the original meat one; a habit of his when confused or uncertain. Shuffling through the dust and droppings of centuries, he made his way to the edge of the disk and leapt down.


    "This is the safe haven you had in mind?" he asked Valerian, glancing around at a chamber so vast, there were clouds at its ceiling.


    "There is no one here to attack you," said the high-elf, moving slowly, with the distracted air of a youngster sorting through multiple, badly-packed faerie pockets. "You will be safe enough, until I return. If I do not, then the three of you can surely manage to reset the transport sigil and try again. I''ve left an instruction globe."


    By this time, Salem had got herself back together. Leaping from the disk, she landed lightly beside Val, saying,


    "I choose to remain with you, Mrowr. My curse will permit nothing else." Lashing her tail, ears flattened, the Tabaxi went on. "I am ill fortune made flesh, Mage-knight. But how that tide of disaster flows may be aimed. Controlled. I am compelled to stay with you by forces that will not be gainsaid. Only, I do not yet know where to strike. Thus far, I have eliminated two shape-shifters and an orc who pursued you, but that surely is not all my task. Do not look so surprised, Mrowr. I am capable of great stealth, and take pride that you never noticed their presence or deaths."


    Kalisandra shot him a mutinous glance, coming over to growl something similar.


    "You already know. I got myself into this mire, I''ll find my way out. Frost Maiden¡­" her voice broke slightly with joy, pain, or both. "My lady will help."


    (A genuine relief, as nobody wanted to face the Bane of Hunters again, on opposite sides of the game board. Once was more than enough.)


    Mirielle simply seized Valerian''s hand, looked up into his face and said,


    "You promised."


    "I did," he admitted, letting the child keep hold. The Tarandahl long sword glowed at his back in apparent approval, lending Gildyr some hope for his cause. Val sighed.


    "Very well, then, since no one is content to remain here in peace, receive the gifts I have prepared. Milady," he bowed to the Tabaxi and held out a spell globe. "This transport charm will take you to Serrio''s fair, from anywhere at all in our home plane. There, you may attempt to bargain for Lionel¡­ Tristan, that is."


    She accepted the shimmering globe with forward-pricked ears and a rumbling purr, saying,


    "I bargain for nothing. Cap''n and I shall steal back Clan Master Tristan¡­ perhaps with your aid, Mage-knight."


    Valerian bowed again, hand at his heart.


    "If I live and my quest permits, Milady, you may count me among your fellow conspirators." At which Cap''n mimed wild applause.


    Her sleek, dark-furred head bumped Valerian''s shoulder, and then Salem stepped away, tucking the spell globe into her belt pouch.


    "For the little one," said Val, handing Cap''n a purse of three coins that would ever return when spent. "To help keep him honest."


    Next, Val pulled out two items for Mirielle. The first was a small, polished opaline gem, the size and shape of a sparrow''s egg.


    "This is the Spring Stone," he told her. "It is my journeyman quest. This gem is the genius spirit of some long vanished river, lake or dried well, for all I know. The old lich wouldn''t say. Just that she''d been stolen away as a manna source. What Murchison calls a ''battery''. I was bidden to find its bed, pour water onto it, and thus return the goddess to her rightful home. Don''t bother searching Karellon. I have already exhausted every possibility within a ten-mile radius of the City. If I do not return from this venture, Mirielle, I rely upon you to complete my quest and free the goddess. Also¡­ if you hold the stone in your mouth, you can breathe underwater¡­ though you will still feel the pressure and cold. But do not try to speak, or you''ll drown."


    Very wide-eyed, the girl held the Spring Stone cupped in her hand.


    "What if I never find the right river, Lord Val?" she fretted.


    "Then you will be in excellent company, as I have not managed the thing, so far, myself. Sherazedan is a harsh taskmaster. But that is a charge, not a gift. Your present is this, and I hope that you will find it useful."


    He''d fished out a small hand mirror, too, from one of his faerie pockets. Handed it over to Mirielle, saying,


    "It is a transformative focus. You have only to gaze at the mirror and decide what you wish to see, in order to make it so. Half of my recycle time was spent upon forging this trinket, and it should be able to alter your semblance to¡­ well¡­ anything you choose."


    The half-drow looked up at him wonderingly.


    "Anything?" she pressed.


    "Anything," he confirmed, smiling a little. "Only, the effect is purely cosmetic. You may ask for, and get, a set of fine wings, but they will not function to help you fly. I am no wizard. Unfortunately, the change only goes so far¡­ but it will not fade nor fail until you choose to alter it."


    Which seemed to matter not one scrap to Mirielle, who gazed into the mirror and gave herself cat ears, then rainbow-striped hair and other such childish delights, shrieking with glee all the while.


    Turning next to the scowling ranger, Valerian said softly,


    "My gift to you was peace with your lady. Whether or not this changes my standing with you is¡­ not for me to decide. There was no need to throw yourself over the side of the stairs, though, Kala. I had a plan. I knew what I was doing. Do you think so little of me? Have I earned no trust at all?"


    The elf-maid stayed silent for a moment. Then, she said,


    "I swore that I''d see this through to the end with you, Fisher, and that I shall do. Beyond that¡­ you have surprised me. Having you shift from inevitable fate to an interesting possibility is¡­ confusing. My life is my own, to live or cut short as I see fit. I am not Lady Kalisandra, but I don''t yet know how to be anyone else¡­ and whether or not you and I remain together rests in the lap of fate."


    She touched his hand lightly with her own, then turned away and strode off toward the distant main door, a walk of several acres. Valerian watched her go, radiating more happiness than Gildyr had ever seen from him.


    Then the high-elf sobered once more, pivoting to face the druid, who took a nervous step backward. If Valerian had prepared a gift for Gildyr, he did not bring it forth.


    "You have my entire attention," said the young elf-lord, tightly. "What more have you to say to me, Druid?"


    "Perhaps that he has allied himself to the goblins, your enemies¡­ and counts one of their mages as his dearest friend, far surpassing any warmth he may cherish for you," drawled Sherazedan the subtle, forming himself out of winter-pale sun glow and sparkling dust. "Unless it is that he''s been stringing you along for nearly a month, Boy, intending to barter your sibling''s freedom for a peace treaty with murderous vermin. Unsurprising, really," continued the now-solid mage. White-haired and tall, holding a silvery staff, he said, "Woodlings are duplicitous, as is often the case with inferior species. You, however, are an utterly heedless fool."


    Flaring suddenly wrathful, the wizard seemed to rise even taller, glowing like lightning made flesh.


    "You could have been powerful!" he snapped, eyes blazing. "You might have won a part in the greatest work of the age! Instead, you waste time in these drained, worthless planes, saving the humble, amusing mere brats and doing the bidding of phantoms!"


    Sherazedan gestured then, summoning the spirit of a badly mangled and pleading young man. It held out its torn arms in mute appeal, but Sherazedan merely waved a hand through the shade, dismissing it back to its wandering.


    "Ghosts are fifty a copper, Boy. I use them to power mage-glows. It is a complete waste of time to resolve their tedious problems or seek after their mewling revenge."


    Valerian''s stance was rigid, his face ashen-pale as he defended his actions.


    "They seem not tedious, nor worthless to me¡­ Master Sherazedan," argued the journeyman. "Where I can, I help. What else is power for?"


    Gildyr, Salem and Mirielle gathered close in support of their friend, while the ranger moved nearer through shadow, bow in hand, seeking a likely shot. Not unseen, however.


    Sherazedan noticed, and froze her in place with a negligent wave of his hand.


    "So be it," he said, lifting a slender eyebrow. "I remove myself from the board and from exerting further influence. Follow your course as you will, Valerian. Survive this fiasco, and we will speak of your future. Perish¡­ and I will find someone still better. Return," he concluded, in the old Empyrean speech of the gods, sending the lot of them out and away. Leaving this relic of Starloft to wind and to scudding dry leaves.


    ¡­at least, until a bellowing roar and the thunder-clap boom of great copper wings shattered the emptiness.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 Part Two, Chapter Seven

    Edits acquired!


    7


    "Shut up and let me think," Nalderick had told his young sister, who shouldn''t have been there at all. Standing in the cold, ruined courtyard of Snowmont''s grand manse with his teammates, retainers and Filimar¡­ with Lady Solara¡­ the Prince struggled to find a solution. His penalty for failing to control Genevera was to find and enact a fitting punishment for her. He should have known better, for a future emperor left nothing to chance. Now he and Genevera both would pay the bill for his carelessness.


    She''d defied imperial decree, leaving the capital in secret and in disguise, despite being third in line to the Dragon Throne. As an imperial princess, a potential life-bearer, she''d all but thrown herself away on a madcap whim. Genna must be made an example of, he knew, but not killed or permanently removed from succession.


    Her fate for deliberately flouting His Imperial Majesty''s will must be such that no one else would be tempted to copy her foolish actions¡­ while not destroying her utterly. No death, then. No exile, nor permanent maiming. He could not show partiality, for a future emperor must act with decision and dispatch, above mere emotion, for the good of his realm. Lose the individual piece, win the game, as Sherazedan had often remarked.


    ¡­but it hurt. Nalderick avoided his sister''s gaze as he wracked his memory for ideas. Only one thing came to mind, though he hated to do it.


    "The Temple of Oberyn," he began, speaking into that tense, anxious silence, "accepts maidens and youths that have lost the protection and standing of family."


    The fate of many a royal by-blow.


    "She who was princess shall be conveyed there, to serve forty years at the altar. Then¡­"


    "Dickie, no!" blurted Genevera, green eyes wide with shock and disbelief. She reached for his arm, but Nalderick pulled away. Throat gone terribly dry, he said,


    "I have spoken."


    "But not yet proclaimed, Highness," said Filimar, rushing forward to kneel at Nalderick''s feet. "Please, my prince¡­ there may be another way."


    Derrick did not look down at the Arvendahl lordling. He was too busy fighting himself. After a moment, he whispered,


    "Say on."


    Filimar nodded, gulped a bit, and scraped up his courage. Then,


    "Ilirian is very far north. Far enough that it might be considered a place of exile, Your Highness. If the princess were to be wed to one of Ilirian''s heirs¡­" the Arvendahl faltered, thoughts tangling as he tried to recall the older lord''s name. "To¡­"


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    "Lerendar or Valerian," said Nalderick, glancing at Filimar then at his sister. "There is precedent. The Lady Elisindara was so married off, when her father, Prince Arvin, attempted to poison His Majesty''s chamberlain."


    And had wound up killing his lordship''s pet dog and chief cook, instead. Another sad¡­ yet highly instructive¡­ tale. Genevera had gone very still, very pale, but her chin was up and her eyes diamond hard. Derrick was suddenly proud of her.


    He shifted his gaze to Vashtie, then to Solara, asking,


    "Provide the benefit of your counsel as females, my ladies. In the princess''s stead¡­?"


    Sinewy, lion-eyed Vashtie looked across at the mountains. Taking a deep breath, she said,


    "I had rather be nobly wed than immured in the temple for forty years, Your Highness. Who knows what footpad of half-orc scum might be waiting at the gate to claim me and my dowry, afterward? I''d have to cut his throat and escape."


    Roreck, her twin, nodded feelingly.


    "I concur," said Lady Solara. "A husband can be managed. Oberyn''s priests, not at all. Better to rule in the north than serve at the altar."


    Nalderick slowly released a pent breath, feeling his gut unclench just a little.


    "She will require retainers. Ladies in waiting. Vashtie, Solara, will you attend the princess, on her way north?"


    A formality, but one that mattered. His mischievous sister was not discarded trash, and might yet be recalled to the palace, at need. Said Vashtie, bowing,


    "Of course, Your Highness. I shall teach her defense and endurance."


    "And I, a bit of useful magic," put in Solara, smiling obscurely.


    "So be it, then," proclaimed Nalderick.


    "Fine," snapped Genevera, stamping her foot. "I''ll get married¡­ but he better not try to kiss me!"


    One corner of Nalderick''s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but getting there.


    "You have my permission to strike him, if he does," said her brother.


    A swift, golden dragon-sign flashed in the air, then, proclaiming His Majesty''s approval. Inside of him, Nalderick went suddenly weak with relief. On the surface, however, he remained very much an imperial prince. Looked down at the kneeling young elf and said,


    "Rise, Filimar, Lord-Protector of Snowmont. To you and to your heirs, in perpetuity, belong the town, its mines, its chattel and its increase, until Oberyn''s call. So may it be."


    Filimar wobbled and lurched to his feet, too shocked to be graceful.


    "Thank you, My Prince," he replied. "My sword and those of my household are yours, forever more." A fact witnessed and sealed by the hearty assent of Sandor, Kellen and Arien, who would rise in rank with their lord.


    Nalderick smiled fully, this time.


    Inclining his head, he said,


    "Your quick wit, your courage and compassion for one in trouble are much valued, Filno. Be at ease and¡­" Nalderick looked at the gutted mansion, shaking his head. "You may want to do something about your overly-drafty living arrangements. There are dwarves in town, I believe. Put them to work, once you''ve resolved whatever ails their accursed copper mine."


    Newly wealthy and powerful, Filimar managed a nod.


    "It is done, My Prince," he assured Nalderick, who had already turned to his team, his sister and Lady Solara (opaque, as always).


    Then, as he usually did at the start of a game, the prince rubbed his hands together, saying,


    "Let''s get this spectacle rolling. We''ve ground to cover¡­"


    "...and goals to score," finished Marlie, Roreck, Vashtie and Sherlon.


    All was ready, the way forward clear, which was why the sudden, spell-cast arrival of a female Tabaxi (hissing and spitting, wild-eyed and angry) came as quite such a head-snapping shock.

 Part Two, Chapter Eight

    8


    Sherazedan''s spell was a mighty thing, and extremely abrupt. Felt like being uprooted whole and tossed over the garden wall; with broken fibers and dirt still clinging.


    But they got there, transported sideways and further along in a direction without any name. The family transport sigil glowed to life in Starloft for the first time in many weeks. Villagers, diplomats and fosterlings shot to their feet and scattered in response, afraid that some new attack was about to be launched at the heart of their refuge.


    Those with weapons, mere children themselves, pushed others to dubious safety behind them. Then the sigil''s glow faded into a swirling shower of sparks, revealing a druid, a disoriented cat-person, a ranger, a half-elven child and someone they''d just about given up hoping for.


    "Lord Valerian!" cried the oldest of those rear-guard warriors, a red-haired young girl. Then, bowing deeply, "Sire!"


    A salutation meant for his father, Keldaran, or Lerendar, but which Val tried hard not to tarnish. Stepping forward, keeping his feelings off of his face and out of his voice, he said,


    "Well met, again, Group Leader," for it was this plane''s version of one he''d seen in the high-elf encampment. "How stand matters in Starloft?"


    Her face shone as she straightened to face him, saying,


    "All of the villagers and castellans are accounted for, My Lord, save for one missing child and¡­ and¡­"


    But he already knew that. It was why he was here, with the emptied husk of Smythe at his back.


    "Those who have fallen will be avenged," he promised. "Those who yet live shall be rescued."


    He looked through the gathering crowd as he spoke, searching for someone in particular, but not willing to ask for her outright. This was the noble family''s home, made over to hold the most honored and important of Starshire''s refugees. Others were crowding in, though, having heard the electric rumor that their young lord was returned from the City.


    The wood-elf ambassador claimed his attention for a time, her tattooed face grim and insistent.


    "Lord Valerian, my condolences. All Lobum mourns with you in this difficult time, Milord. In the name of the lost ones, we must strive for an end to hostilities," she urged, placing a hand on his arm. "A negotiated peace may still be possible."


    "Most assuredly," replied Valerian. "Once the goblins have safely returned my father, my brother, and all those who rode out with them."


    Not just goblins. Gnolls and an ancient goddess, as well, but this wasn''t the place to speak of still darker threats. He sensed Gildyr stiffen, behind him. Didn''t care, for he''d found the one he was searching for, newly come in through an elf-sized door in the vast chamber wall. A servant''s door.


    Val made a hasty excuse and broke free of the woodling ambassador. Began striding forward, apologizing to those he collided with on his way. Took the last few steps at a dead run.


    She hadn''t meant to cause a disturbance. Had only looked in to see for herself, but Valerian took hold of Katina and lifted her into the air, swinging her once around. Set her back down in a swirl of skirts, his hands at her shoulders.


    "I''ve come home, Nana," he said to the half-elf, who reached up to touch his face. Her hair was still copper and her eyes bright bronze, for half-elves age very slowly. Her face was thinner and paler than he remembered; contorted with mingled grief and deep, burning joy.


    "So you have, Little Love. So you have. Here, let''s have a look at you, then," she said to him, laughing and crying together. "Stop city traffic on a m- market day," whispered Katina. Then, unable to maintain the pretense of normalcy, she threw herself at her nurseling. Val returned the embrace, his face pressed to the top of her head.


    A very long time ago, he''d promised his milk-brother, Tam, that he''d look after Mum. That she''d never want for a thing, or be passed on from the family to strangers. So far, he''d managed to keep that promise, though Tam was long gone.


    Those all around found other business to occupy them, somehow all turning their backs at once to form a privacy barrier. The open emotion for one of such humble station was unseemly¡­ but perhaps they had beloved servants, too.


    "I''ll tell you everything as soon as there''s time to talk, Nana," he told her, stepping back a bit. "I have to find Lerendar and get¡­ find¡­" he didn''t finish the sentence. Didn''t have to.


    Katina brushed his cheek with her hand.


    "He lives in you, My Lord, and all of us will do what we must to help bring them home."


    An instant later, Beatriz, too, was there, with a tangle-haired scamp in tow. Valerian embraced his brother''s woman, promising her and the child that Lerendar soon would be rescued.


    "...if he doesn''t just walk home himself, first. He never could stand to wait."


    Zara he scooped up and placed on his shoulders, saying,


    "Halfling, there is someone I''d like you to meet. I think that you will be very good friends or arch enemies. Fun, either way."


    Zara did her best to crane her head upside down and around to look at his face. At such an extreme angle, her blue-eyed stare was alarming.


    "It''s gonna be alright, isn''t it, Uncle Val? Papa''s gonna come home, too?"


    She was dusky-skinned, like her mother, but with Lerendar''s summer-sky eyes.


    "I am here to be sure of it, Halfling," said Val, swinging the girl back down to her mother. Beatriz was human. Had no magic at all but lingering beauty and love.


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    "He has the best of all reasons to stay alive and come back to you," he told them. "I am just here to help things along."


    Beatriz nodded, biting her lower lip. Wanting so badly to hope.


    "Just¡­ please¡­" she faltered, putting a hand forth to clutch at his sleeve. "Be safe, you as well. I just want you both to come back, Valerian."


    He smiled at her, as Zara climbed up and fished through his faerie pockets, searching for treats.


    "I have brought friends, and Kalisandra. The goblins will not be prepared for such power," he assured Bea, who chose to believe.


    Then someone else hurtled into the grand upper chamber, looking anxiously about, scanning the crowd with fierce eyes. Reston Horse-Master, feen Tarandahl.


    Val took his leave of his dear ones, hurrying across to meet his uncle.


    "My Lord," said the tall half-elf, seizing Valerian''s shoulders. "What a joy and relief to see you! The way was long, and we feared that¡­"


    "I had assistance," Val told him, nodding at Salem, Kalisandra, Mirielle and Gildyr, who''d come up to join them. "The Tabaxi is a noblewoman. The druid¡­ has contact with rebels among the goblin ranks. Milady Kalisandra you already know. The child is my page."


    And quite a head-turning one at that, with golden skin, black hair and the alert, mobile ears of a horse. That she was transformed was obvious. From what, no one could tell. Reston bowed at each of them in turn, and then went on speaking.


    "We are holding the enemy back with mage-ward and force of arms, Milord, barely. I can detail some warriors to help you assault the goblin stronghold, though, if¡­"


    "No need," said Valerian, shaking his head. "I plan to get in through the tunnels connecting Starloft to the storage caverns."


    Reston smiled briefly, at that, his grey eyes crinkling.


    "Always up to mischief, where you weren''t meant to be," said his uncle, a slight break in his voice. "May it serve you in good stead now, Milord. I will create all the diversion I can."


    Valerian nodded. Then, reaching back and around, he unbuckled Smythe; sheath, sword-belt and all.


    "The tunnels are no place for a great-sword," he said, "and I would not have our family''s blade fall into their hands, should something go wrong."


    He was, after all, the last full-blood heir.


    "Take the sword, Reston Tarandahl ob Galadin. You are next in line. I call upon all here to witness my words."


    Reston stared at him, utterly stunned. The chamber was snow-fall silent for a moment. Then, a few at a time, Katina first of all, the crowded people said,


    "It is witnessed."


    Once all had spoken, Reston bowed his head. With great difficulty, the half-elf said,


    "My Lord¡­ I¡­ Just come back to us safe and victorious. I seek no honor higher than serving my comrade and friend, Sire."


    There passed between Reston and his nephew news of the altered goblins, of the gnolls they''d become after summoning darkness and slaying a child. Of how only the steward''s son, a three-year-old boy named Elrin, was missing.


    At Valerian''s command, Reston took up the great sword, but he did not put it on. Not yet. Nor would he, until all other hope was extinguished.


    "Vesendorin and Starloft await the return of their Silmerana," the half-elf insisted. "Good luck and good hunting, My Lord." As they clasped hands, Val said,


    "And to you and your warband, Uncle."


    Arms and armor were brought, of the sort that would be of most use in the darkness and dust of those shifting dark caverns.


    To keep Mirielle from trying to follow, Val shared a memory with her, of the almost-last-time he''d seen Tam. No more than a child he''d been, less well-grown than Mirielle, when he''d pelted up to the northern wall after his milk-brother. Tam was grown to young manhood by then, red-haired, with a beard just coming in and bluish-grey eyes. Dressed for travel and armed for the hunt, he''d removed the Tarandahl badge from his cloak and flung it onto the ground.


    He''d turned back from vaulting the low stone wall that afternoon, surprised and displeased at the sight of his hurrying milk-brother.


    "Val! What''re you doing here, Scamp? Go home! I mean it!"


    The very young elf had his faerie pockets stuffed and kept losing things out of them, for his skill and power were still very childish. With his small bow, sling and practice sword, though, Val thought himself ready for any adventure.


    "I am coming with you, Tam," he announced. "I can help stand watch and hunt. Two is safer than one. You always go with me, so I''m coming with you." And right confident he''d been of that, too.


    Tam picked him up and embraced him, fondly mussing his pale-blond hair.


    "Listen to me, Val. It''s important. You''re so young, and maybe you won''t understand what I''m saying now¡­ but someday I hope it''ll make better sense. I have to go. I will not serve where I could lead, if I weren''t just a human. Right now, Scamp, you''re my brother, but time will pass, and then I''ll just be your servant¡­ if I even live that long. We''ll be master and man, and no longer friends. I can''t stay and watch that happen, Val. Can¡­ Do you understand me?"


    The child''s lower lip thrust out.


    "No, because then I''m not staying, either," he said. "I''ll go with you and we''ll always be brothers, forever."


    Tam sighed. Set him down on the sun-warmed stone wall.


    "And then what will become of Mum?" he asked. "She will lose both of her boys in one stroke. Would you break her heart like that, Val? See her turned out of Starloft to wander, alone?"


    The child shook his head. He hadn''t thought of Nana, at all. But Tam wasn''t through talking.


    "I need you to stay and take care of her, Scamp. She''s going to be very sad, and you''ll be the only light she has left."


    "But I don''t¡­ Tam, I don''t want you to go! I could say ''Tam, come back right now!'' and you''d have to! I could make you come back."


    Tam smoothed his young elven milk-brother''s hair, wishing that they were not just the same age, but equally grown.


    "You could. You have that power¡­ but I hope that you love me too much to do that, Val."


    The little one fought very hard not to cry.


    "Will you ever come back?" he whispered.


    "I''ll try," promised Tam. "You take care of Mum, and I''ll do my best to come back and visit, after the year-and-a-day have passed. Look for me then, at Serrio''s fair."


    "Did he come?" asked Mirielle, as the memory faded and Val looked away. "Did you see your brother again?"


    Valerian nodded.


    "Yes. Twice, in secret. After that, no longer. I like to think that he met an alluring hedge witch and settled down to the doing of deeds and the raising of warriors. Tam, son of Ragnar¡­ surely a man of renown."


    Mirielle touched the griffin badge that she wore on her cloak.


    "This was his?" she guessed. "It was Tam''s, that he left behind?"


    Valerian nodded again.


    "I have always kept it, so that no one would know that he''d turned his face from Starshire on purpose. They thought him just lost, not absconded."


    He''d squatted down to her level to make eye-contact and share the memory. Now, mussing the top of her curly head, Valerian stood up.


    "I need you to remain with Beatriz and Zara. You are a healer, and maybe a cleric of Shan Frost Maiden. Your gifts will be most useful, here."


    She hugged his waist, but listened, only scribing all of the protection sigils he''d taught her over his spirit and body.


    To the others he said,


    "I do not ask you to come with me¡­"


    "That is good," interrupted Salem; tail lashing, ears forward, pupils wide. "As we would not have awaited an invitation. Your master has removed his protection, so you have all the more need of companions." The chase-scent, the hunt-lust, was strong. No mere wisp of the past would keep her away.


    Kalisandra grunted morosely.


    "You''d get lost or fall down a pit in the first half candle-mark without me," she shrugged. "Might as well be there to haul you to safety again, Northerner."


    That her words might have cut Valerian''s pride never occurred to the ranger, who was barely aware of her own feelings, much less anyone else''s.


    There was a moment when Gildyr, too, might have spoken, but Valerian went rigid and cold, looking slightly away when the wood-elf approached him. So, the druid stayed silent and the moment passed, trust being a very hard thing to restore.


    Shortly thereafter, as well prepared as Reston and magic could make him, Val set off with Kalisandra, Salem and Gildyr, following one of the access tunnels he''d explored as a child. One that led out past the storage rooms, down and away from Ilirian.

 Part Two, Chapter Nine

    Freshly edited! =)


    9


    Casting mage light and silence, Valerian led the way through Starloft''s extra-dimensional tunnels. Always more bold than cautious, he''d slipped off to play here a lot, as a young child. Sometimes with Sandy, often alone.


    The stone-giant fortress sensed his presence, answering to Tarandahl will and true blood. He could not get lost or be hurt by its shiftings. But the others? Kalisandra, Salem and Gildyr? Tough to predict, and a definite risk.


    Making plans, he guided them as far as the narrow gate, beyond which lay only the delvings of rock-wyrm and dwarf. Cast of meteor steel, the gate was well warded, but a likely point of attack. After all, if he could get out, something armed with dark magic could surely get in. A sentry was needed. Someone to stand watch and prevent incursion, from the gate''s safe side.


    Valerian made up his mind and he acted; doing at last what he''d always intended to. Turning to face the rest in that tunnel of glittering stone, illumined by golden mage-light, Valerian sketched a quick sigil, saying,


    "Slow time."


    At his word and gesture, everything dropped to a syrupy crawl. Could have just blocked the way and departed, then, but he owed them an explanation, if not the chance to protest.


    "My apologies. Only terror, dark magic and death lie beyond, and I mean to spare you the peril. I will find Lerendar and return as quickly as possible, but the three of you are safer and more useful, elsewhere."


    Facing the Tabaxi, he said,


    "Milady, you are a visitor here; under my shield as your host. I cannot place you in danger, by guest-right and meal-bond."


    Retrieving the transport spell from her belt, he invoked it, saying,


    "Go to Snowmont, to the place where your presence will serve the best good." And she vanished from sight, leaving only a few drifting black hairs.


    Next came Gildyr, whom Valerian had to force himself to look upon, so violently did he wish to loosen some teeth.


    "There are already a few of your people here, wood-elf, but no other actual druid. I have seen what you can do by way of defense. Protect my stronghold and people, Gildyr. Awaken the forest. Build towering walls of briar and thorn. Keep them all safe until I return with my brother." Then, because the matter still rankled, "Yes, I am angry. You concealed the truth and allied yourself with my enemies¡­ but you have also saved my life. I wish I had learnt of your plan another way, from anyone else besides Master Sherazedan¡­ but my wishes rarely count for much. We can thrash it out, later. For now, use your arts. Fight for Starloft as you would for Lobum."


    Then, hardest of all, he turned to the time-mired ranger, whose two-colored eyes were beginning to flicker with outrage and fury.


    "I said you were free and I meant it, My Lady. You are beloved to me. There, I have admitted the feeling aloud, before another. But I will not be your burden to rescue and salvage, like a helpless child. I would be husband, lord and love to you, not¡­ not something you have to take care of."


    Suddenly recalling the healer''s heart-gift, Valerian got it back out of his pocket. A small box, wrapped up in glittering paper of Arvendahl green, crowned with a spell-bow of gold, it could only be opened by Val. He did so, now, to find within a simple gold charm shaped like a stylized heart, inscribed with the runes ''Remember me''.


    "I shall, to the end of my days," he promised her. "You are Sylvia, and you matter. May your love shield my former betrothed, for the way is dark, and she will be angry. Furious, actually."


    It was slow time, not stop, and the ranger could certainly decipher his speeded-up words. Nevertheless, despite her threatening scowl, Val kissed her forehead and placed the charm in her slow-clenching fist.


    "Accept this gift and all its protection, Kala. Care for my people, as you said you would, me."


    Tweaked her nose, then, because she couldn''t prevent it, and bowed. After that, darting through the narrow gate, he raised such a wall of enchantment and stone that only a giant or tunneling rock-wyrm could have got through it.


    Called upon Starloft''s magic to shut it to all except Lerendar or Val, himself. Even misty-step and shadow-walk were forbidden, by all the arts at the elf-lord''s disposal.


    "There. That will hold them," he said, with mixed satisfaction and sorrow. Then Val turned and set off, again, pushing emotion very far back.


    Thoughts fixed on Lerendar, on the blood and friendship that linked the two brothers, Valerian made his way downward and west. At first, he knew his path from childhood escapades. Sealed a few side passages as he went, for this one fetched up at the stables¡­ that one at the kitchen cellar (with all the sugar and candied fruits one could pinch)... while the other wound itself up to a floor drain in the palace laundry. Smelled soapy and pleasant, and he sealed each one very tightly, for his uncles and aunts were up there, with little defense against goblins or ravaging gnolls.


    But soon enough, the passage grew rougher, showing the marks of acid-breath, chiseling scales and the drag of a gem-crusted belly. Dragon-spoor, but terribly old. His child-self would have been thrilled, and Valerian perked up accordingly.


    "I knew there was one down here," he said aloud, adding, "Told you!" to the Kalisandra he kept in his heart.


    One of his oldest faerie pockets still held the magic bridle they''d fashioned on one of her summer visits, intending to capture and ride a black dragon. He cycled it forward because, after all, one never knew.


    More importantly, there was something else down here, according to childish rumor. Just as one could dream one''s true fate by chewing bitter-leaf and then falling to trance in the windy cave¡­ or find treasure with two crossed sticks and a rhyming spell¡­ or summon chaos by spitting into a bone-dug hole at midnight¡­


    There was a Shop of True Need down here. A sort of nexus, intersecting all planes and times, at once. Lerendar dismissed the idea as pure, childish nonsense, but Katina swore that she''d seen it once, through the laundry room grate. Gone by the time she''d squirmed through and reached the spot, but said to still wander the underrealm.


    There, if anywhere, he''d find what he needed to raise the corpse of a sacrificed child. Of Elrin, the palace steward''s small son. Val had a name, and a few small belongings, got from the sorrowing parents, but he wasn''t a wizard and knew very little of necromancy. That sort of spell was tremendously difficult without further death, and its ingredients didn''t come cheap. No joke shop or fair booth would carry what he needed most, now.


    Val had never asked what Katina wanted so badly from the Shop of True Need. Something very important, though, or the store would not have manifested itself, even at a distance. He might ask about Tam, if he found the place himself, but nothing was certain. Princes had brought their whole treasuries and walked away empty-handed. Widow''s daughters had blundered into the shop with three dried beans in their apron pocket and come away with noble beasts or enchanted weapons. Much depended on courtesy, courage and luck.


    Valerian was pondering these matters, sifting the air currents for rumors of Lerendar, when he reached a great intersection; a sort of roundabout from which a shifting number of other tunnels branched off.


    The ceiling was high, dotted with glow-worms and long, trailing filaments. The ground was stony, scuffed by many feet; some booted, some bare. There was a shallow depression at the center, not unlike the rubbed-down rock nest of Vernax the Golden, his majesty''s dragon. Good place for a predator to lie in wait, Valerian reasoned. Nor was he mistaken.


    Further west, across the broad circle lay the goblin tunnels. Nearer to hand (first passage to his right, actually) glowed the opening of a shop, somewhat blurred by its powerful warding spells. Almost directly in front of that, standing unarmed and alert, a faint smile on his pallid face, was the drow slaver, Kaazin. Fully healed and highly amused, it would seem.


    "I''ll wager you didn''t see that one coming," mocked the albino, bowing slightly. "But then, you''re a hero. Why should you think, at all?"Valerian half-drew Nightshade, feeling a surge of pre-battle tension that swept everything else from his mind. His enemy was unarmed and had offered no threat, but the sight of Kaazin brought back so much sorrow and rage that the drow''s un-weaponed state didn''t matter.


    "No surprise at all," the high-elf shot back, stalking forward. "One expects to find flies on a dung-heap. Naturally, gnolls would consort with garbage like you."


    Kaazin shook his head. He was lightly dressed, wearing tight black breeches, boots and an open vest. His chest was bare, displaying the scuffs and faint scars of previous fights. High on one pectoral he''d gashed and burnt a foul sigil.


    "The Mother''s kiss," he told Valerian. "Through it, I am her creature, and will do as I am bidden¡­ except at a place like the Shop, where no compulsion may hold. Unfortunately, her kiss also bars me from entering. The mark''s power will consume me utterly, if I try."


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    "Most enlightening," said Valerian, moving closer. "Arm yourself, corpse-fly. I mean to finish what we started."


    "No doubt," scoffed Kaazin, moving to stay between shop and high-elf. "And perhaps I might even win, as you are alone, and here the influence of your patron is much reduced¡­ but I have in mind something else."


    "I have in mind avenging the folk that you murdered," said Val. "You are a killer, a taker of slaves and a cannibal."


    Kaazin''s smile broadened.


    "Seriously? Cull the weak, strengthen the herd, day-walker," he quipped with a shrug, adding, "You eat animals, we eat you. Why quibble because we prefer to dine a bit higher up on the food chain, and we like our meat fresh? It''s all the same in the end, sun-lover. But move a bit closer, into the shop''s aura, where we can talk in private."


    "I don''t want to talk," growled Valerian, feeling the call of spilt blood and fouled innocence.


    "No, of course not. You want to slay me, like a good little playing piece, for the delight of your god and his cronies, watching on high."


    "What? " blurted Val, stalking forward. "No. I want to kill you because you deserve to be dead. A thousand times over, had I the spells and the patience to manage it."


    "You really are single-minded, day-walker," sneered Kaazin. "But, does it never bother you? Do you never want to lift the mid-finger at those who repeatedly set you up and place bets on the outcome? Are you truly content to be paraded around like a prize bull at a fair, wreathed in garlands and draped in silk, until put out to stud by your owner?"


    No one had ever spoken to him like that. Dared to insinuate that Firelord''s influence on his life was anything but a proud honor, borne by Galadin and Vesendorin before him. Val whipped his second-best sword out of its faerie pocket and all but hurled it at Kaazin.


    "Take the weapon," he snapped, the air around him shimmering and dancing with sudden heat and bright sparks.


    "No," said Kaazin, allowing the second-best sword to fall at his feet with a dull clatter. "I will not. You are favored. Random events will conspire to let you triumph, always. Me, not so much¡­ but I intend to alter my fate, day-walker, and I shall use you to do it. Here, alongside the Shop, I cannot be controlled by the Mother. I may choose my own way. I am not a fool, firefly. Once I have captured you and brought your unmarked shell to the gnolls to serve as the Mother''s host, my usefulness to them is ended. I will be next on the menu, served hot, fresh and cursing. But¡­ if I help you to upset the Mother''s plans¡­ you might be induced to slip me past the Shop''s door and away, to a plane where the Mistress of Dread holds no sway. For that, I require help, as she prevents me from consciously entering."


    Valerian stared at the drow.


    "I don''t want to help you. I want to kill you," he said, bluntly.


    Kaazin sighed. Then,


    "Let me try again, in terms even you should be able to grasp. You''re a hero," said the drow. "So, be heroic. Aid one who has asked for your help and offered no battle."


    He pulled something out of a faerie pocket with a slight, mocking flourish. An iron control collar, with the Mother''s ugly sigil stamped onto its rough, dark metal.


    "With this, I was to bring you unharmed to Thartaar, Whinn and Slagerd."


    Another flourish produced a flat disk of metal inscribed with runes that flickered and spider-crawled.


    "This is a key. It will grant you access to the cavern of summoning, wherein lies the dead child you must¡­"


    "Return to life, after which I can unmake the dark sigil," finished Valerian, beginning to feel a few cracks in his absolute certainty. But¡­ Lady Alfea, Little Bean and Lord Orrin. This smirking trash had killed them slowly and had fun doing it. Sensing his hate and disgust, the drow started talking, again, asking,


    "Why stamp on the puppet and vaunt your success, while the puppeteer watches and laughs?" Kaazin reasoned. "Here is your chance to end the one responsible for all this."


    Val shook his head, feeling his confidence calving big chunks like an oceanside glacier.


    "She is a goddess of the hungering dark. Nothing I can do would truly end her¡­ just seal her away from this plane."


    "Which I can help you to do, thereby slipping the noose of my undeserved fate. The folk you swore to avenge are dead. It is not in me to lose any rest over that. Nor will killing me bring them to life; not without part of their bodies and more dark magic than you''ve got packed up. Instead, try something different. Give them true peace by putting a stop to the Mother. Then¡­ look me up in my new abode, day-walker, where you are not so protected. I shall await your arrival with eagerness."


    Of course, he could kill the drow and take the key outright, mused Valerian¡­ only that wouldn''t be very honorable. But, against one such as Kaazin, did honor even signify?


    "You''ll run away before I can find you again," Val objected, slowly approaching the drow, reaching forward as if for the key.


    "No, actually. It will be most refreshing to face you once more on a level playing field, without interference from either side. Just me and you, day-walker, winner take all. Now¡­ have we a battleground accord? Safe passage into the Shop in return for my key and the control collar? Even the gods bargain, sun-lover¡­ and that which cannot bend, breaks."


    Valerian gave it a moment''s hard thought. Then he struck, as the woodling paladin had, back at the elf camp. Only punched Kaazin once, but had the tremendous satisfaction of smashing his nose, freeing a bloody shower of teeth and dislocating the slaver''s jaw. Kaazin dropped like a stone, along with the items he''d offered in trade. Those and his second best sword, Val scooped up and spelled into pockets.


    Next, taking hold of the drow by the back of his leather vest, he dragged Kaazin toward the Shop of True Need, grunting,


    "Let me add to the warmth of your feelings, midden-slime. We will meet again, and your riddling arguments won''t stop me, then. My oath on it."


    Left a trail of blood, shattered teeth and spittle behind as he hauled Kaazin bodily through the Shop portal. Heavily warded, the opening let Valerian through, but the Mother''s sigil started to sizzle and spatter on the drow''s chest like grease in a pan. Val had to boot him unconscious to still its glow, which he regretted not one little bit.


    "That was for Lady Alfea¡­ this for Bean¡­ and another for Lord Orrin!" Then, remembering a young elf trying to drag himself off of the road with a broken back, "And Sandor¡­ and because you''ve got drow blood all over my dragon hide boots!"


    Thought afterward that he could have just used a spell, but¡­ eh. Travel the path to learn the route.


    A number of patrons and the shopkeeper turned his way, as Valerian came in dragging Kaazin.


    "Pardon the unseemly mess," he said, spelling the floor clean with one of Katina''s best charms. "I forgot that my gloves are stiffened with metal." (Had counted on it, actually, and honor be dropped in a hole.)


    One got all sorts in a place like this, though, and no one seemed very surprised. Nevertheless, Val used magic to prop Kaazin more or less upright. Head lolling, feet drooping, but standing, at least. The drow''s jaunty wave was a nice touch, as well, reflected the high-elf.


    There were three other shop portals, about evenly spaced on the circular wall. Kaazin had probably intended to choose his new plane, himself, using dark arts. Valerian wasn''t that picky and didn''t much care where the slaver ended up, so long as it was the very worst possible choice for a murderous, cannibal thug.


    Only¡­ one of those openings felt like deep trouble; like rising evil, creeping disease and crumbling magic. Valerian nodded to himself.


    "You''ll feel right at home," he said, pitching the sagging drow through with a gesture. ''Boom-bam'', as Murchison would have put it, which¡­


    Val looked around. There were still two weary halflings, an injured dragonborn and a minotaur bard ahead of him, and no one else had come in. The Shop of True Need touched all planes and all times, for those who could see and accept such things. Here, no compulsion bound and no one outside could watch or prevent what one chose to do. Not even the mighty Sherazedan.


    Taking a deep breath, Val risked a scrying bubble, forming the small, bright sphere over his open right hand.


    "Wizard. Murchison," he called, visualizing the mortal, and then adding years. The bubble flickered and thumped. Then, a long-unheard voice asked,


    "Lord Valerian? Buddy¡­ is that you?"


    Val found himself smiling. Nodded, momentarily too full of emotion to speak. Then,


    "It is. And, if you''ve nothing particular that detains you, I have released an absolute nightmare onto yet another unsuspecting world. It''s been an eventful few days, Wizard¡­ and I would have someone follow him. I am in the Shop of True Need¡­ it does exist¡­ and I believe that with your cooperation, you might be pulled in through one of its portals."


    (No one in the place raised an objection, being taken up with their own vital doings, so Val soldiered on.)


    "I do not wish you to risk yourself confronting the trash¡­ a drow slaver called Kazup, or some such¡­ only to keep others from harm until I can deal with him, myself."


    "You''ve been busy," guessed Murchison''s voice, sounding torn between pride, humor and exasperation.


    "True. Not finished yet, either. Will you come through? It may be that from the other plane, or this Shop¡­"


    "I can get home," finished Murchison, quietly. "Open the way on your end, Kiddo. Ketchup''s as good as bottled." (Or something equally senseless.)


    Val nodded once more. Tossed the spell globe at a milder portal, said and visualized "Murchison", then thrust his right arm up to the elbow through that shimmering door.


    Someone took hold on the other side. Sorcery flared. They clasped hand to wrist, tightly, and then Valerian hauled with all of his might, stepping backward into the Shop.


    A robed arm, part of a faded blue cloak and then all of Murchison came through, like he was being born out of magical soap-film. After a moment, he''d emerged entirely; scruffy and older, but very much Achilles Murchison.


    The sudden embrace surprised Valerian, who could count on the fingers of one finger how often anyone other than Mirielle touched him, these days. But he did not pull away. Then Murchison sniffled and stepped back to look at him.


    "You''re grown up," said the wizard. "You''re a man. Clearly, more time has passed by on your end than mine¡­"


    "Much more," agreed Val, "and much of it poorly¡­ but I am gladdened to see you, Wizard."


    "Yeah," snorted Murchison, shaking his head. "I''m the only magic-user, here." Added, "Good to see you, too, Milord. I want to hear everything, but first, point me in the right direction, and I''ll shadow your Kazup like Dragnet. He won''t get away with jack-crap." (Or something just as confusing. Still a srange fellow, Murchison.)


    "That one," said Valerian, indicating the second portal, "but pray don''t bottle the wretch. Kaazin would make a singularly foul-tempered, shifty and uncooperative djinn."


    "Right. Look for the cross-grained drow butthole from a foreign land. Got it," laughed the dark-bearded mortal, dashing at a few merry tears with one hand.


    Val had never gotten the chance to say thank you or to make recompense for Murchison''s help, all those long years ago. Sometimes, though, things worked out on their own.


    "He is an ugly albino dark-elf. Half, actually, with¡­ well¡­ other blood. He is also an ice-mage and a hardened killer. Do not face him directly, my friend. I will join you as soon as my quest permits."


    They clasped hands on it. Then Murchison turned, waved and made a running leap, spelling himself out through the seething-dark portal.


    After that, there being no one else left in front of him, Valerian went to the battered old shop counter, where sat a hunched and leathery gnome with the treasure of ages behind her.

 Part Two, Chapter Ten

    10


    From Gildyr''s weary perspective, all had been going tensely, quietly, but in the right direction, at least. He, Valerian, Salem and the ranger had been headed westward and down through a network of deep, mobile tunnels beneath Starloft Castle. Never chatty, Val was silent and blank as a tomb, leading their way with gesture and mage-glow.


    Then, at a narrow gate forged of heavenly steel, the elf-lord stopped walking and turned to face his companions, looking ready for battle. Must have slowed time, because he at once became no more than a blur of color and insect-like sound.


    The Tabaxi vanished, Lord Valerian disappeared and the way before them was utterly blocked with enchantment and stone; plugged tight as a djinn in a bottle, sealed up with mystical arts.


    The sense of Val''s words to Gildyr: Wake the forest, raise towering walls of briar and thorn, defend my stronghold, Druid¡­ These got through the time-play, as did the high-elf''s icy distrust.


    As for the ranger, Kalisandra shook with emotion she struggled to master. Gripped something tight in one fist that at first she opened her hand to stare at, then flung aside with a blistering curse.


    Gildyr cleared his throat. In his mildest, least pressing tone, the druid said,


    "Well, then, he''s off again. I think we should¡­"


    "There is no ''we'', woodling," snapped Kalisandra, pivoting to glare at him. "I swore to protect and accompany Valerian, not his retainers. You have your orders. Be off!"


    Gildyr sighed, pretty nearly fed up with the pair of them.


    "Small wonder his lordship does most of his talking in time-shift, when he can''t get a word in greased down and sideways, otherwise," he said. "How have you two been betrothed this long, and not learned to listen?"


    Found himself staring at a nocked black stick gone suddenly pointed and barbed. Past that and the bow, to a pair of hard blue and brown eyes.


    "More funny words, druid, and I find some forgotten well in which to drop your hilarious corpse," snarled Kalisandra. "I do not need your advice, your opinions or your companionship. Be off about your business. I shall guard the gate with my bow and with More-than-She-Seems."


    That was straightforward enough, Gildyr supposed. At least she''d be safe, here, while he got the palace defenses in order, then made his own way down. Because, what his impatient, arrogant lordship didn''t know was that there were other ways out to the goblin tunnels. The paths of root, spore and filament were quite unknown to a lofty high-elf¡­ who needed help, whether he admitted it or not.


    Gildyr smiled, bowing as much as he could without scratching his forehead on that glittering dwarf-forged arrow.


    "As you say, Milady, I have my orders."


    ¡­and a friend, for the sudden brush of Karus''s mind told the druid that the forest lord had shifted planes to rejoin him. Other than Grey Fang and the kitts, there was no one he''d rather have sensed. Gildyr''s smile was warm and genuine as he said,


    "Farewell, Milady. Be safe, until our return."


    Then the druid vanished away in a swirl of conjured dry leaves. Kalisandra waited a moment longer. Finally lowered her bow and spelled it away, once again. Only then, sure that no one was watching her, did she bend down to retrieve the small charm Val had placed in her hand. Next dusted it carefully off and put it away for safe-keeping.


    The stupid northerner''s mage light still glowed, but Sandy conjured a fire, anyhow. Set up her wards and readied her spells, saying to stillness and silence,


    "You''re not a burden."


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Moving as fast as they were able (which was not very) Lerendar and the goblin mage set a riddling path. They took full advantage of slow-grinding tunnels and blind stubs to catch rides and shift levels, letting the cavescape do the moving wherever possible.


    In this way, after a scant few candle-marks travel, they came to a stable natural cavern. Like a dark, fanged mouth it was toothy with dripping stalactites and fat, gleaming pillars of flowstone.


    There was an angular crack in the floor, from which wafted cold air and mist¡­ with the scent of deep, silent water below. The ceiling was twice elf-height, a roomy gallery for goblins, and a place in which Lerendar could stand as erect as his wounds and the crutch would let him.


    The floor crack was spanned in one spot by a slippery flowstone arch. Seemed like a decent defensive position to Lerendar, and the shades all concurred. Two of them flickered away to stand watch, leaving the elf-lord with Bony for help and support.


    Lerendar straightened as best he could, rubbing a knot in his back. Turned his gaze from that high, dripping arch to the elderly goblin mage. He''d been about to suggest that the wizard nip across to the other side, but Grey Fang couldn''t have climbed an ant hill in his current condition, the elf judged.


    ¡­and maybe neither could he.


    "The place for a mage is in back, Old Timer," Lerendar grunted. "Well out of sword-thrust and spear-cast. Come, I''ll escort you across."


    Surprised himself and the goblin, both, by extending a hand. After a moment, the old fellow accepted, and they started across, one cautious step at a time. All senses alert, Grey Fang probing their way with the end of his staff; puffing like bellows, the pair of them.


    "And¡­ fer one with no sword an'' no spear, ''imself¡­ what''re yer plans on the other side, Milord?" panted Grey Fang.


    Lerendar took a deep breath, considered briefly, and then flashed a grin which was mostly lost to the darkness.


    "Haven''t thought about it. I''m making this up as I go along," he admitted. Then, changing the subject, "Not much further. The rest is downhill. Just¡­ if your dignity doesn''t pinch, overmuch¡­ sit, and scoot the rest of the way on your rump. Then, mumble and wave to your heart''s content. I''ll be glad of the help, Wizard."


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    They parted at the top of the arch, winded and sore. There being not much to say, the elf-lord and goblin made do with a nod, then inched cautiously into position at near- and far-side of the crevice.


    Grey Fang cast a bright golden light, leaving no darkness or shadow from which anything vile might transport itself. He also placed some sort of skittery rat-blessing on Lerendar, who felt more agile, a little more capable of his usual all-out fighting style. Possibly mostly illusion, but it made him feel stronger.


    Better still, he got the sudden sense that Shorty had got there, was very close now, indeed. Forced himself straighter, at that, because he would not meet his brother doubled over and hobbling.


    Then one of the shades came streaming back over the cave floor like a river of ink. The other had spread himself out to web up the cavern''s opening. As Tendons plunged back in, Lerendar saw through the shade''s misty senses, catching a very quick glimpse of the monster that followed them.


    "It''s here," he called over one shoulder, pulling his sling and fishing spear out of their faerie pockets. "Legless is doing his best to conceal the opening, but¡­ No. It''s not going to work. It can sense us."


    To the third shade, he said urgently,


    "Come back! Together, we can face anything. Alone, we''ll be picked off in series."


    ¡­and he couldn''t lose anyone else. Long unused to mattering, the shade wavered a moment. Then Legless heeded the elf-lord''s emotion, if not his words of command. Another dark river shot over the floor, picking up this rock and that for use as sling missiles.


    With a full set of friends and the mage at his back, Lerendar took a step forward, calling to any god who would listen for strength to face what was coming.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    It was well after sunset, out in the palace courtyard, when Gildyr found Reston. Now lord-warden of Starshire, the bearded half-elf was not at the front with his outnumbered warband. He''d been detained by a couple of rear-guards who''d dragged an unconscious young elf away from the transport sigil.


    "We found this one trying to flee, Lord Reston," said the higher-ranked Guard. "Timmon clubbed him unconscious but¡­ as he is a fosterling¡­ we thought we''d best bring him to you," she explained.


    Reston had been about to mount his bay mare, Dancer. He was needed in battle and had little patience for cowards. A second glance changed his mind, however, for the deserter they''d caught was Lord Garrin Alfrit, the one who''d come up with the disastrous Dry Valley battle plan.


    With the noise and smoke of war surrounding him, with icy rage in his heart, only the druid''s appearance stopped Reston from slaughtering Alfrit right where he sagged between Shara and Timmon.


    ''We are betrayed, My Lord,'' Reston had said to Valerian, seemingly ages past. Here, perhaps, was the smiler with the knife. The one who would bring down the Tarandahl line with bloodshed and treachery.


    ¡­but perhaps he was only a coward, guilty of no more than fear for his life. Reston turned to face Gildyr.


    "You, druid. Have you a spell that will keep this traitor unconscious and out of my way? He dies here and now, if not."


    Gildyr blinked like an owl, nodding rapidly as he moved sideways to stand before the two guards and their unconscious captive.


    "I¡­ yes, Lord-Warden. I can do that. Spare his life and I will place an enchantment of ever-sleep on him. Hopefully, he has a true love knocking about, somewhere. These things are tricky to¡­"


    "Yes. I''m sure. Do it your way, or I''ll do it mine," snapped the half-elf, hand at his dagger-hilt.


    Took a bit of arranging, as he had to adapt it from Valerian (just in case) to this sprig of a high-elf fosterling, but the job was accomplished¡­ and it really did make the accused more beautiful.


    "I still have my web of entanglement," fretted Gildyr, as the two rear-guards bore off their prisoner like the sculpture of some noble young prince. Then,


    "Lord Reston, if I''ve earned a moment more of your time¡­" ventured Gildyr.


    "Speak, druid, and be quick. I am needed at the front," growled the warleader.


    "Lord Valerian tasked me with aiding in Starloft''s defense," Gildyr told him. "I am to awaken the Tangle- and Hunt-woods, My Lord, and raise a great thorn wall."


    Reston handed Dancer''s reins to an attendant. Turning to face Gildyr more fully, he asked,


    "You can do all of that?"


    Gildyr nodded again.


    "Yes, Lord-Warden. Faster and better, with the help of my people and Karus."


    Reston scratched at his beard.


    "I know not this Karus, but the wood-elf ambassador and her retinue can be fetched, at once." To a waiting guard, he said,


    "To the refuge, Senet. Find the ambassador and bid her come swiftly, with all of her folk."


    "At once, Lord-Warden," said the tall young elf, saluting Reston. He was gone in a flash, leaving the warden and druid to further discussion.


    "I will pull my troops away from the battle," said Reston, piercing Gildyr with a hard, wary stare. "Valerian trusts you, and he has a good sense for others. But¡­ if you are lying, druid¡­ if you mean to betray us, you will not live long enough to draw a deep breath. If we die, so do you, and not all your dark arts will save you."


    At the half-elf''s gesture, a cadre of bowmen surrounded Gildry, arrows nocked and faces pitiless.


    "Does anyone just say ''thank you'', around here?" sighed the druid. "What I mean to say¡­ I can shape change, Your Lordship. Why would I come out and face you, then try to pull off a double-cross?"


    "I have learned to trust those who earn it, druid," the half-elf responded.


    It was an awkward quarter candle-mark before the ambassador hurried over with her aides and Senet, who must have gone like the wind.


    Gildyr waggled his fingers in greeting.


    "Not as bad as it looks, Speaker," he soothed. "Just a small misunderstanding. I¡­"


    "Stop talking and do as you''ve promised, druid," Reston interrupted.


    Where Valerian sparked and shimmered with heat when angry, the half-elf rained ash and crackled with static.


    "I have given the order. My troops fall back to the palace. Save them."


    Gildyr tilted his head, hearing the bugling call of a mighty elk and feeling the forest lord''s strength.


    "Lord-Warden, I will do all I can. Speaker, your help and that of your aides will enhance my spell casting."


    The ambassador inclined her head.


    "Understood. Draw freely, young one."


    Her tattooed face was serene in the torchlight as she channeled power to Gildyr.


    "Thank you," said the druid, smiling. Then, sinking his mind and heart into the land of Ilirian, he got right to work.


    Certain very tall trees, including a mighty oak at the sacred grove, began stirring. Limbs shifted and braided. Trunks split to form legs, sending showers of bark cascading to the ground below. Roots tore free of the soil. Knot-hole eyes opened up and gash-mouths yawned.


    Then, creaking and snapping, shedding ice and dead leaves, the tree shepherds strode to the line of retreating elves. They sang as they went; a high, eerie call like wind in the branches.


    Wide-eyed elves slipped past them unharmed, along with their horses, war dogs, fire lizards and hawks. Goblins, shape-shifters and gnolls met lashing branches and blizzards of splintered wood. The entire forest moved like a slow-cresting sea; Tangle Wood, Hunt Wood, orchard and grove marching to battle, snatching ravens and drakes from the sky with long, spindly branches and whipping vines. Pulling up boulders, the trees and their shepherds flung them like catapults, pulping goblins and smashing the limbs off of yammering gnolls.


    As Reston raised up a vortex of ashes and lightning, Gildyr called forth a wall of tangled briar and poisoned thorn. The ground bulged and cracked, shredded by impossibly fast-growing plants.


    One of the gnolls, a hulking monster in ill-fitting armor, raged at the forefront, howling commands to his battle clan. At his order, they began shooting flame-arrows, meaning to burn down the trees.


    "Never make yourself obvious," advised Gildyr, calling fungus and spores from the soil to enter the clan-master''s nostrils and gaping, fanged mouth. The surging thorn wall soon hid him from sight, but could not block his agonized scream.


    By this time, Reston was on his horse and riding as fast as Dancer would carry him to meet his retreating warband. The bowmen around Gildyr one by one lowered their points.


    "Thank you," said the druid. "I really am here to help."


    Then he nearly fell over, for even with Speaker Anetta''s help and that of Karus, he had drained himself almost to death.


    Gildyr had barely enough strength left to take the small path of burrow and root, letting fungus and worm guide him to Grey Fang.

 Part Two, Chapter Eleven

    Yet more freshly edited!


    11


    The Tabaxi appeared in a barren, snowy courtyard and found herself surrounded by startled elves. Her head was spinning, her stomach once more in open revolt, with Cap''n clinging to her fur like a big, golden tick.


    This was no shadow walk but a sudden, violent shift outside of space, in no time at all¡­ and she hated it. Caught a brief, swaying glimpse of Snowmont and Lord Orrin''s gutted manse before covering her face with both clawed hands.


    Salem staggered and almost fell, but then the young elf-lord, Filimar, was at her side, taking her up in his arms. His scent was shock and excitement, laced with mating-urge.


    "Milady!" he exulted, face shifting wildly in the manner of bare-hides. "I''ve so much to tell you!" And then, to a stern, looming elf with very green eyes, "Your Highness, here is the very Lady Salem I spoke of, before!"


    The elven prince nodded.


    "So I gathered," he said. "Her kind are not numerous here." Turning to face Salem, he asked, "You were sent hither by Valerian, I take it?"


    The Tabaxi stifled a long string of very foul words, some Taba, some nautical. On top of her spatial disorientation, this sudden uprooting had riled Salem''s curse and she could feel bad luck leaking in every direction.


    "Yes," she spat. "And for everyone''s sake, elf-prince¡­ you and your land¡­ I must return to him, swiftly."


    Filimar''s countenance underwent a series of mobile and rubbery changes.


    "Heh. As I mentioned, Your Highness, she''s deeply sensitive¡­ overcome with emotion at leaving Valno. Let us bow to the prince respectfully, Sweetling," Filimar urged with false, perky brightness. (To which Salem was largely tone deaf.) She let herself be dragged into obeisance, though, while Cap''n doffed his small hat and offered a bleary grin.


    "Why did he send you away?" demanded the prince. "Has he met with further trouble?"


    Salem sneezed, lashing her gold-banded tail.


    "Trouble to Mrowr is like water to fish. He dwells and moves in it, unseeing¡­ but claims that he is my host, and so cannot place me in danger."


    To her extreme irritation, every elf present nodded in agreement. Even the servants.


    "Guest-right forbids such abuse, Milady," said Filimar, doing something gymnastic with his eyebrows and mouth rather than flicking ears or wafting an odor. Then, spotting the darkened spell-globe that hovered at Salem''s elbow, the elf-lordling seized it.


    "A transport charm," he announced triumphantly. Turning to face one of his all-the-same-to-Salem followers, Filimar said, "Kellen, you''ve studied the Art. Bit of a sorcerer, what? Could you¡­ recharge, reverse this thing to pull a few of us back to Valerian?"


    If this Kellen had had proper ears, they would have been flat to his skull, judging by how pale he''d suddenly turned.


    "Erm¡­ well¡­"


    "I can," said the prince, reaching over. "Give it here. All of those beastly apprenticeship years may prove useful, after all."


    Salem licked at the fur of her left shoulder, smoothing it down and having a comfort wash. Cap''n perched on top of her head, peering alertly around while Salem got herself sorted.


    Tristan was here in Snowmont¡­ but her curse didn''t care. He loved her still, had come all this way at great risk to himself, to salvage a bringer of ruin¡­ and she could do nothing but turn her back, yet again.


    Except¡­ there were always cracks in the mortar of fate. Always another way in, beyond window or door. Salem could see three other females behind the elf-prince, one of them quite young. Perhaps he understood complications¡­?


    "I must return to Mrowr, Your Highness," she told him. "There will be no end to chaos and trouble, if I do not¡­ but I would come back to Snowmont, to one who matters greatly, afterward."


    Filimar''s arm tightened proudly, possessively across her shoulders. The prince stared and shook his head, muttering,


    "I¡­ leave that to High Lord Arvendahl. It is never wise to muck about in the loves of one''s friends. Good luck to you, Filno, is all I can say. Now, let me alone and allow me to work. Anything Valno spelled, I can do better."


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Down in the caverns, meanwhile, Pretty One saw her kin to safety. Moving them in quick, quiet stages, she got Twitchy, Snaggle, Dogbait, Squinty and poor, wounded Black Gut into a warded bolt-hole; the last and best-hidden lair in the diggings.


    "''Ere, now," she told them, helping Dogbait to cover and soothe his whimpering patient, "Y''ll be safe enough till I get back with Grampa. Keep low an'' stay quiet, Little uns. Grand folk doin'' great deeds ''ll be too busy changin'' the world ter notice you lot."


    She''d been lucky or blessed once before, heading off on her own; could maybe stretch her good fortune a little bit farther. Certainly Grampa and his lordship were going to need help facing whatever horror was trailing them.


    The younger kitts brought her this and that by way of assistance; a sack of flash-smoke, a polished bone luck-charm and even half a dried rat.


    "In case ye gets ''ungry," said Squinty. "Th'' best bits ''re all still in there, Pretty. I ain''t et much."


    She smiled at him fondly, brushing shoulders and breathing deeply of kin-scent, which was home and clan and sleeping-pile warmth, even with the elf-lord''s smell added in.


    "Thanks, Squint," she said. "I''ll save a few bites fer once me an'' Grampa come back. Yer the best sibs anyone coulda got stuck with, and everythin''s gonna come right, trust me. Just keep watch, take care o'' each other, and don''t try nuthin'' stupid. If you gotta light out, we''ll meet up at th'' south overlook. Nobody goes there." (On account of its being a shallow, cliffside cave.)


    They sniffed, rubbed sides and shared a few mouthfuls of food; even Black Gut rallying enough to accept a strand of dried meat. Better yet, he gave her a palm-sized void bomb. Looked like a fist full of seething darkness, and wouldn''t go off until she set it in place and cried,


    Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    "Boom-Boom says go!"


    Like herself and her sibs, the bomb was not big at all, but could do a lot when it really counted.


    "It''ll come right," the goblin repeated, taking one more look before plunging back out after Grampa.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Slagerd was dead; eaten hollow by fungus and rot, then animated as something that jerked and shambled; shedding spores and slaughtering other gnolls. Without him, the army had fallen apart into wandering bands. They could and still did make more gnolls, transforming any corpse they encountered¡­ but were no longer much of a threat to the elven stronghold.


    "Whinn!" roared Thartaar, from the goblin throne-mound (a hill of bleached bone, piled rock and dull, rusted metal).


    The priestess heard and appeared, for the Mother had strengthened his voice and his power.


    "What is Her will?" asked Whinn, nervously licking her muzzle. The long strands of pierced bone that she wore rattled as Whinn bowed before Thartaar.


    The larger gnoll leaned forward, clutching the arms of a rock-slab throne. Built for goblins, the seat was overwhelmed by Thartaar, who looked like an ogre squatting to void his loose bowels.


    "You will go forth to find and destroy Slagerd''s shell. Our clan-brother now slays more gnolls than the elves do," he growled, speaking the Dark Mother''s will and saying her words. "Finish him, then bring an army from the Blighted Land to vanquish Starloft."


    He gestured, causing a purple-dark blade to fall from the Mother''s keeping and into his own taloned hand.


    "With this knife and part of your soul, you may tear a hole between planes. She bids you waste not its power, for after three uses, the blade will claim and devour you."


    Whinn snarled softly, but stalked forward, reeking of uncured elf-hide and wrath.


    "What of the ceremony?" she demanded. "Who will speak the charms and spill blood to embody Her, if I am killed fighting?"


    Thartaar''s jaw dropped in a snaggle-toothed grin.


    "If you die for the Mother, She will teach me her spells and her magic. I will help Her to claim the unmarked body and enter our world."


    This failed to reassure Whinn, who took the humming and sparking weapon with gingerly care. Wrapped it up in a void bubble, realizing, as Kaazin had, how very little she mattered. Ducking her dog-like head, Whinn yapped,


    "Her will is all."


    Then she backed from the throne chamber, already forming her plans.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Elsewhere, at about the same time, Valerian Tarandahl approached a wooden shop counter. It was high, like the mage council''s judgment dais. He had to look up to see a withered old gnome dressed in simple dark robes. Couldn''t remember if the counter had been this impressive when he first came in dragging Kaazin, or if the effect was just for him¡­ but the rest of the place¡­ stone floor, lofty ceiling, wandering mage-globes¡­ seemed unchanged. There were treasures heaped up in the back, but between one glance and another, they altered composition. Strange sigils and runes flickered and crept at the edges of things; lighting this corner, bracing that portal. Too much to grasp all at once.


    Well enough, he thought to himself, moving closer.


    There were just four elven legends about the Shop of True Need, and all of them emphasized the success of humble, polite customers. Those who came in making haughty demands went stomping away disappointed, or left with items that turned in their hands and betrayed them. Worth remembering, that.


    Val took a deep breath and bowed. Of all the things that he might have said, what came forth was,


    "Good gnome, I need help. I am merely a journeyman mage. Not the best, at that¡­ and I find myself faced with a task that is too great for my skill and my power. I need to raise a sacrificed child back to life and undo an eldritch summoning rite. I think¡­ that I will need water of life and a scroll of revival, but¡­ if you know better¡­ Please tell me what I should ask for, instead."


    The shop keeper''s body and face were withered with age, seeming more lich than gnome, but her deep, gem-like eyes were alert.


    "And what do you offer as payment, young elf?" she asked.


    He was ready for that.


    "All of the coin in my possession and¡­ if needed¡­ all that I can obtain with my scrip, from the bank," Valerian replied.


    She cocked her head with an audible creaking sound.


    "And if we are well stocked with coin of all lands and seek, instead, an item for barter?" inquired the shop clerk, the folds of her face shifting like puddled dark cloth.


    Val hissed a short breath, thinking hard. Then,


    "I suppose that my reply would depend on the nature of the item requested," he ventured carefully. "On whether it was truly mine to barter away¡­ and if no one else would be hurt by my trading it, so."


    His response must have passed muster, for the gnome inclined her head.


    "To your shopping list I would add only the tincture of heart''s-ease, for one who has perished in such fear and torment would be best off not recalling what happened," she advised.


    Valerian nodded cautiously.


    "That seems important," he agreed. "What is your price for the scroll and potions?"


    The shop clerk gazed directly into his eyes. He felt something like a cold mist pass over his mind as she searched through his memory and faerie pockets. Then,


    "An item of clothing will suffice," she told him. "Something embroidered, of questionable value to any but you."


    Val stiffened. Started to protest, but something in the gnome''s expression stopped him cold.


    "The engagement has ended," said the clerk, with a very slight smile. "You freed her, yourself, young one. She will not care that you''ve traded something that she was forced into making and giving you."


    Valerian looked away for a moment. When he returned his gaze to the shopkeeper, he managed a nod.


    "Naturally not," he said, pulling the ugliest thing he owned out of its faerie pocket, folding it carefully and then levitating a bit to set it onto the polished wood counter. Couldn''t seem to find a position for it that suited him, but the clerk waited until after he''d stopped fussing with the folded shirt before making it vanish. In its place appeared a sealed scroll and a pair of small vials; one shadowy, the other like dawn.


    Val hesitated. Looking at the shop clerk, he found the courage to ask,


    "How much for two doses?"


    She hoisted a wispy hint of eyebrow.


    "Two? Now, that is asking a great deal, for the cost is not doubled, but grows in proportion to need."


    He said, simply,


    "If I can pay it, I shall."


    The gnome nodded, saying,


    "Very well. You bear within you the memories of another person, regarding a love that is not yours. I will have those."


    Valerian''s shoulders sagged.


    "They were never mine to begin with," he said, quietly. "And it will make facing her less difficult. But¡­ I won''t forget everything, will I? My own memories of our time together, I can keep, can I not?"


    "Unless you''ve anything else to request?" hinted the clerk. But Val shook his head.


    Something indefinable changed within Valerian as she spoke. Another scroll appeared on the counter, along with two more vials of potion. Having only memory removed, he didn''t know enough to feel the loss.


    Thought of Tam, briefly. Of asking his milk-brother''s fate.


    "That is information not relating to your current situation," said the gnome. "But, as you have been such an agreeable customer, consider it on the house. For whom are you asking?"


    "For my nursemaid, Katina, who is his mother¡­ and for myself."


    Val did not wonder that she already knew what he''d secretly wanted to learn. This was that sort of place, according to legend.


    "It has been a very long time, but I think of him, still. Tam, son of Ragnar and Katina. If you''ve aught of comfort that I may bring back to his mother, I would be most grateful."


    The shop clerk began to speak. Neither a long time, nor short, but enough to tell of a mortal life well lived, and of descendants who might yet be found and befriended, far to the south in Alandriel.


    For all that he must have packed up his supplies, turned and left, Valerian could not recall doing so. Just that he was suddenly through the portal and out of the shop, which vanished away behind him. Time flows as it will, near such places, and distance contorts.


    Someone else had been drawn there by worthy desire, though, and the sight of this other put everything else from Val''s thoughts. Coming violently out of his trance, he summoned power and flame.


    "NO!" cried the goblin, dropping to a crouch. "Shorty! Short Stuff, please don''t!"


    Valerian jolted back as though he''d been slapped. Then,


    "Where heard you those names?" he demanded, one hand covered in fire, the other at the hilt of his sword.


    The goblin''s arms were wrapped around its head and its small, shaking body. Without looking up, the creature squeaked,


    "From ''is lordship, yer brother. ''Ee calls ye that! Ee told us so, ''isself!"


    "Where is he?" snapped Val, stepping closer. The goblin seemed to be no more than a girl-child, but she might have been sent as a decoy, meant to lead him into an ambush.


    "''Ee''s with Grampa Grey Fang, yer lordship! I was lookin'' ter find me Grampa, an'' somehow ended up ''ere, instead¡­ but I c''n track ''em. I got to. They needs ''elp, yer lordship. They''re bein'' ''unted."


    Valerian let the fire die out, and took his hand off of Nightshade.


    "Lead on," he said. "Quickly."

 Part Two, Chapter Twelve

    12


    Whinn Snifyip chose her arrival site with great care. Like Thartaar and Slagerd, she''d been a goblin before enacting the fearsome rite and unleashing the gnoll curse. She knew Starshire well, if mostly from below, and as ''Gashnar-Tak'' which meant ''Deep Lair''.


    Vok-Tar, the ancient fortress of the mighty ones, had been taken by invading elves and turned to their uses, as had the Big Wash and Tangle Wood. All were turned conscious and hostile, now. Driven to frenzy by druidic magic. The fortress had been sealed behind a towering barrier of dense thorn; its twisted branches concealing all but the highest spire.


    The gnoll priestess would make no progress there. Not without help.


    Instead, she who''d been Scarjaw the Seer manifested herself at the sacred grove, rising like fever mist from the pit left behind by a Tree-Shepherd. Turning abruptly solid, she shook off half-frozen clods of black earth and dormant worms, there in the grove by the Skystone altar.


    No one had ever dared shape or mar this great rock with carvings. Not even the elves. It remained as it had since it fell from the heavens in the time of old myth; rusty, pitted and brimming with power.


    Here, the proud elf-lords worshipped their gods. Here, in times past (and soon to come back) the goblins had poured forth spittle, urine and blood to the hungering powers of earth. Here, Whinn intended to turn things around for the beaten gnolls.


    With the Mother''s securely-wrapped knife clenched in her fist, Whinn leapt to the top of the Skystone. Like an iceberg, the altar was mostly hidden from sight, touching a powerful ley line, below.


    From its bald, exposed top, the gnoll priestess examined her surroundings. Overhead, the Great Serpent was nearly at zenith, lending strength to the forces of chaos, shadow and night. Lower down, the village of Starshire smoldered fitfully; still burning brightly in some places, collapsing to glittering ash, everywhere else.


    Trees burnt, as well, flailing wildly as they struggled to reach the Big Wash and douse themselves. The noise of awakened forest was a low and crackling roar in which mingled the creaking of branches, the snapping of roots and the pattering fall of disturbed soil. Over it all, the high, keening song of the Tree-Shepherds fluted and trilled. Joining his music to theirs, a mighty white elk bugled nearby, calling animals, too, into battle.


    The stench of smoke and blood and charred wood was strong, carried by gusting, unstable winds. Flocks of ravens circled and cawed overhead, seeking out prey for their gnollish masters. They spotted the priestess and began to circle her, spreading word to the scattered and leaderless night-things that someone had come.


    Whinn turned her muzzle up to the sky and gurgled an awful, clattering howl. A summoning call. A whole-clan-together call that ended in shrill, crazy laughter. Answering yips and whines came back from the village, lake shore and fields, as the remains of Slagerd''s army heard and responded.


    ''Captives'', cried part of her chuckling scream. ''Bring unmarked victims for sacrifice.''


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    A tall order, as all of the fortress''s elven defenders seemed to have retreated behind that writhing and venomous druidic thorn-cliff.


    Then, Whinn saw something out of the side of her gaze, off near a copse of young aspens that shifted and moved as a trembling group. Not a tree. Not an ally. Not any more.


    She turned her head, pivoting with serpentine speed and whip-like agility. A growled word sent an explosion of acidic dark tentacles shooting out of her chest toward the half-glimpsed intruder. She''d intended to pin and seize him, but Slagerd was faster. Somehow, her transformed comrade dissolved into a tornado of spores, leaving her tentacles nothing to strangle or burn. Instead, the spores sank into the frozen ground, shooting across it like silvery lightning to rebuild himself on the Skystone, beside her.


    Whinn next lashed out with a clawed hand, meaning to slash his throat, but the massive berserker twisted aside. He had grown even larger, riddled all through him with twining fungus and patches of creeping slime. His eyes burned phosphorous-white, and his lolling tongue had become a swollen dark puff-ball. Gnoll blood, goblin blood spattered him everywhere, feeding the coating of fuzzy grey mold that now covered his muscular body.


    Whinn danced nimbly backward, calling on earth and shadow to defend her. Instantly, a pair of glowing spectres appeared. Trailing eldritch fire, they swirled around Whinn, partially blocking the maddened berserker''s strikes. Not all of them, though, and not completely. Slagerd lifted a huge arm, its fist a club of festering flesh and exposed, rotting bone. He struck hard, cracking and caving in ribs, sending Whinn spinning halfway off of the Skystone.


    He was strong, boosted with vile druidic spells, and her clanmates were far; but Whinn was a gnoll and a female, at that. She did not back down, or give in to mere pain. The same impulse that had driven her¡­ with Vodon and Grugg¡­ to waken the Mother, kept her fighting now.


    As a doughty false member enlarged to push through her elf-hide cloak, Whinn lunged for Slagerd''s throat with wide-gaping jaws. Got a mouthful of dusty, dry-tasting fungus along with the druid infection. Managed to tear the wrapping off of that eldritch blade with one hand, swinging it down and around to slice through Slagerd and into the Skystone.


    The purple-dark blade tore flesh and reality, fed by Slagerd''s lifeforce. His talons, in turn, raked her face and lower jaw, ripping it loose on one side, violently dispelling one of her spectral guardians.


    Their blood mingled on top of the stone as the knife bit deep into rock. With a low, booming tone, an opening formed between the sacred grove and some far, lightless underrealm.


    Violet lightning shot forth, striking upward to destroy Whinn''s remaining spirit guardian, flaring onward to cast a web of magic that outshone the stars. The battling gnolls flailed wildly as, beneath them, that crack in the Skystone zig-zagged and gaped.


    Things began pouring forth in a boiling horde. Wraiths, ghouls, ifrits and chuuls, lit with the Mother''s dark fire, followed the lightning to freedom and riot. They overwhelmed Slagerd and Whinn in a matter of pounding heartbeats, then spread themselves out in a tide of blind hunger and unsparing chaos; devouring gnolls, striking down ravens and setting the thorn wall ablaze with black flame.


    On the wall''s other side, standing by Speaker Annetta, Reston ordered his warband back onto their mounts.


    "Make ready, all of you," he called out, running a bleak eye over his sorely diminished fighting force. "Only the youngest and life-bearers are to remain behind in defense. Prepare the deadfalls and traps within Starloft, and ring the war-bells."


    He had sensed what was out there, through Ashlord, and didn''t expect to survive. The wood-elf ambassador placed a light hand on his arm, staying the warden a moment longer.


    "Lord Reston," she said, "Lobum arises. The Circle of Druids is coming, with nine full units of bowmen. Starloft stands not alone in this fight."


    Reston''s free hand held tight to his horse''s bridle. He inclined his head in reply, managing the faintest ghost of a smile.


    "May it be soon," he said to the tattooed wood-elf, "or there will be nothing left to defend."

 Part Two, Chapter Thirteen Point Five

    13.5


    An interlude: Faced with utter loss and defeat, with impending doom, what did one do? How did one alter fate and reverse the greatest mistake of forgotten time?


    It would not have been fair to say that everything was going according to plan. There had been so many plans. So many promising acolytes. So many lost, dismal failures.


    ''Oberyn fall, Oberyn fall¡­''


    The vital thing, though, was to survive through each near-miss. To learn from what had gone wrong this round, arranging for better results in the next.


    ''Why won''t his brother answer the call¡­?''


    He had waited so long, had set up his pieces with infinite care, trying to reverse the ancient sundering that had made One God into many. Striving to end his brother''s imprisonment. Did children still skip and sing of this distant myth? Did musty tomes yet record it, in even the deep Lich-Liornen? He''d done all that he could to be sure they did not.


    ''Sword, thief and wizard, how many in all?''


    Across the planes, he had destroyed whole villages. Drowned centers of learning, released awful plagues on inquisitive scholars. The One God''s fate and true name were lost, except to him¡­ but for that final, important short syllable.


    ''1¡­ 2¡­ 3¡­ 4¡­ 5¡­ 6¡­ 7¡­''


    He brooked no competition and accepted no alliance, either. Wanted willing tools, not companions. Across the planes he had stalked and slaughtered his alternate selves for their knowledge and power, before they could do it to him. Maybe.


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    ''Why did the High One tumble from heaven¡­?''


    Someone emerged victorious after each battle, but he honestly couldn''t have answered to which one¡­ or if it even still mattered. Someone fed and grew strong enough to face the very gods and do battle with chaos; slaying and absorbing his alternates one by one by every and each. No pity, no quarter, no rest. Perhaps he was now alone in the planar-verse; a repeat, icy killer with one constant victim. Himself.


    ''When will He come back together, again¡­?''


    Sinking often to the Realm of the Forgotten, where ages-lost gods with dim rites and defeated worshippers lingered in hollow tatters, he drew raw, pulsing manna. Consuming their drifting remains, he gained strength and refined his strategy. The last, an all-but-swept-away storm god, had put up an actual fight, until the cloud-lord''s last pillar and scroll were destroyed in a sudden, terrible earthquake. Then Ozod, too, had succumbed.


    ''With all of bold Oberyn''s stone-frozen men¡­?''


    He was long past remorse for such acts. Simply returned to the center to breed heroes and mages like cattle¡­ but cautiously. With strategy gained from long and bitter experience.


    ''Traitor and coward, why won''t you fight¡­?''


    Too much power, and they were near demi-gods, refusing to heed his commands. Too little¡­ and bravely, obediently, they died; broken like thundering waves on implacable chaos. This latest round seemed to be going a bit better, he mused¡­


    ''Afraid of your death, shrinking from night¡­''


    Only, his time was not endless, and the confrontation, the awakening, had to come soon, before the enemy was ready, and while the remaining gods could still be induced to ascend.


    ''Crawl from your burrow and do what is right¡­''


    After that¡­ he could die the last death and good riddance¡­ but not before many again became One, and the Strider burst at last from the captivity of aeons.


    Perhaps no one would think his actions good or heroic. Well enough. Their minds were too small and their scope too limited to take in the whole broad tapestry. For that, one must stand high on a mountain of slaughter and loss; breaking and using those who simply did not understand.

 Part Two, Chapter Fourteen

    14


    In Karellon, far beneath the Imperial palace, something was finally happening. High nobles, court functionaries and servants¡­ even the Prince Ascendant, Korvin, and His Majesty''s honor guard¡­ all had withdrawn to the summer palace. Only Sherazedan remained behind with the Emperor, to defend and assist, or to manage disaster.


    The Prince Attendant and Princess Imperial were away in the north, on a mission of vital diplomatic importance, it had been hinted. At any rate, far from Karellon in the time of Hatching.


    Down in the lair, that convulsing gold egg had developed a seam that ran from its broad, stable base to its gently pointed top. There were many small, toothy bumps on the seam, resembling the jagged plates of a dragon''s back. Meanwhile, Vernax had faded almost to nothing. It was a figure of moonlight and mist now, its main substance pulled into the restless egg.


    The ghost-dragon laid its head upon His Imperial Majesty''s shoulder, just a whisper of breath stirring the Emperor''s long, dark hair.


    "I am sorry," said Vernax, more in his mind than aloud. "For what is to come, please forgive me, my friend."


    Aldarion reached up to scratch an eye ridge and smooth a long jaw that were now more fond memory than solid fact.


    "I have one more good fight left in me," he said to his companion. "And, with your blessing, the power to tame and befriend you again. If not¡­ then you''ll find someone better, and you won''t even remember me."


    "Gods forbid it," murmured Sherazedan, who was standing at the outer entrance to the lair, a more-or-less safe distance away. The city spread out behind him like a misty blue quilt. If the newly hatched dragon escaped His Imperial Majesty''s control and slew him, only the wizard would stand between it and the crowded metropolis. Between it and a bloody, fiery rampage.


    "We choose our moment," said Vernax, in a whisper that only Aldarion heard. "Let it be now. I grow weary. Take, my friend, and be strong enough for us both."


    The dragon''s last life force and manna flowed into the Emperor like a bright golden blessing, plunging the lair into sudden darkness.


    WHUMP!


    A blast wave of heat and air rocketed outward. Sherazedan cursed, struck a diamond-white mage light at the end of his staff, and summoned power. It was happening.


    Down below, on the pile of treasure and bone that served as the dragon''s bed, at almost exactly the same moment that war bells sounded from distant Ilirian, the egg began to unfold.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    In Starshire, the druid''s thorn wall burned like a harvest need-fire; attacked in countless places by screeching minions of darkness. A sullen red glow painted the sky overhead, turning night into false, raging dawn.


    Hot winds swirled through the blazing village and barrier, sending torrents of sparks to blot out the stars. The war bells thundered like a giant''s faltering heartbeat, booming in more than just audible sound. Their deep, constant ringing created a disturbance that rippled through manna, ocean and rock.


    ¡­and maybe, someone would listen. Maybe, someone would come.


    Reston penned one last journal entry, drily recording the situation, his remaining forces and odds of survival. Then he transferred command of Starloft''s defenders to a trusted young warrior. Ulryk, a noble he''d fostered, himself.


    That done, the half-elf mounted up and rode a short distance away from the others, setting his back to the palace courtyard. What he intended was terribly dangerous, and not just for him.


    Bowing his head, Reston took a deep breath and invoked his god, saying,


    "Come, Silent One. Grim slayer in darkness and shadow, take up your sword."


    At first, there was no response, as though great resistance opposed Volmar''s presence here, Then the tattoo that Reston had cut and seared onto his own chest all those cycles ago began to flicker and shift, burning clear through the Lord-Warden''s clothing and armor to shine like a beacon.


    In that instant, as Ashlord''s power and presence flooded his mortal vessel, Reston Horsemaster just about ceased to exist, pressed to the utter edges of consciousness.


    His eyes glowed suddenly blue-white with divine manna and icy purpose, while the air all around him crackled with lightning. The fighters and diplomats gathered nearby bowed low, pressing clenched fist to brow in respect. The god did not speak in reply, only hand-signing,


    ''Stay behind me, or perish.''


    Even the horse shone with power; her eyes rolling white, her nostrils flared and her mane gone spiky-erect. The god urged her forward, pointing out past the thorns with one borrowed hand. The ground rumbled beneath him, then split, creating a second barrier.


    Just beyond Starloft, a giant fissure gaped in the frozen ground. Steam, ash and boiling mud jetted forth, rising hundreds of feet in the air with a noise like a troubled sea. A strong, driving wind roared to life, bringing fiery droplets of glass and hard, acid rain to hammer the creatures of darkness.


    Ash, rain and mud combined on the ground, forming a heavy, cement-like morass which entombed whatever it captured. Gnolls, ghouls and vampires drowned and boiled in mud. Their flesh seared to vapor by a mixture of thundering ash and volcanic fumes; dead before they could scream.


    Ashlord-as-Reston drew the half-elf''s sword, which blazed now with crackling static and light. He rode through a hole in the thorn wall on Reston''s wild-eyed mare and vaulted the widening gap, using the point of that upraised blade to open the sky.


    Volcanic gasses and hellish heat followed after him, incinerating whatever the Sword Arm of Ashlord gazed upon. The darklings fought back, striking at Reston''s body from every direction with arrows, talons and spells. Most projectiles burnt up before reaching him. Most spells were blocked, their manna absorbed by the god.


    Those that hit did damage, but the wounds that they caused didn''t bleed. Lightning and manna shot forth from the punctures and gashes, instead. Only, the Mother''s creatures were numberless, boiling forth in a constant stream from the broken Sky Stone. There were hundreds more to replace every one the god smothered in ash, buried in mud or burnt to cinders with lightning.


    On and on they came, against one who could not be killed. Who, filled with the deity, felt neither terror nor pain. At his gesture and sigil the lake boiled off to fall as a scalding rain. The ground trembled like a horse''s flank, except where the Tree Shepherds pooled magic to shelter their quivering charges, and Starloft, itself.


    Through it all, the god rode forward on Dancer, pressing toward the sacred grove, where a cleft in the Sky Stone vomited monsters.


    Farther east, past a great coral arch at the mouth of the River Aradyne, the tolling of Starloft''s war bells reached the ears of their sea-elf cousins. Scrying revealed the true, grim threat, showing not just attack, but incursion, by one they''d thought locked away for all time.


    Down in their sunken and spell-domed city, the merfolk and elves saw, and they acted. Less to save Starloft than to put an end to the Mother''s manifestation, by any means necessary.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    In the stone-fanged cavern, meanwhile, boosted by all of the shades at once, Lerendar took up his improvised fishing spear, stalking further away from the crevice and bridge. Behind him, the goblin mage rattled the bones on his staff and rasped out a long stream of spells. Mostly strength and defense, thought the warrior, along with a warm and nourishing light.


    Being an elf, Lerendar could see, hear and smell like a hunting cat, and so he knew, sensed that the monster had come, before it lurched into the light. What shambled through the cave mouth, ducking stalactites was at least ten feet tall, its body a lumpy and broken tangle of slaughtered gnolls, with strips of spotted hide, pulsing organs and bare, twitching muscle clamped together by magic.


    In its massive chest, a huge, vertical maw slowly opened and shut, dripping fluids and ringed with snapped ribs. Slowly, arhythmically, it sucked in air and blasted out raw, fetid breath. Every move sent bone-ends projecting through flesh as the golem staggered forward. But¡­


    There was worse, and he knew it. Was prevented from seeing something else, by the shades, by Grey Fang and his own horrified, blind rejection. As far as its flayed, rolling shoulders he looked, but no higher.


    Leaving moist, bloody footprints, the creature broke into a swaying run. Grey Fang shouted another spell, sending a glowing chisel to work at the golem''s binding magic.


    Lerendar was a warrior. He had seen elves and men die, had been pinned and half-crushed beneath a screaming, struggling horse. Had killed her himself, before the goblins and gnolls could start feeding. He did not shrink from the fight now, or freeze. The old chant,


    "Oberyn, son of the morning,


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    Strider of night,


    Shepherd of planets,


    Guide weapon''s flight."


    ¡­came to him, given bardic force by the shade, Prince Andorin Kalistiel. Taking aim with the sure eye of the ranger, Brondon, Lerendar wrapped one end of his sling around the spear''s haft, using the strap''s snapping length to increase the force of his throw.


    The arcane trickster, Elmaris, caused an illusory hail of weapons to surround that hurtling missile, confusing the monster. Or¡­ maybe the mind that had been placed in control of the golem refused to block Lerendar''s cast.


    At any rate, the whistling spear, flung with all of Lerendar''s boosted strength, struck high, slicing at the side of¡­ of¡­ there was a head, now half loosened. Twisting and swinging from mage-force and ropy, grafted sinews.


    Long hair, mostly steel-grey with still a few strands of red-gold spilled over the golem''s chest, but Lerendar saw nothing else. Just that noisy, slurping and juddering body.


    ''Organs,'' said Bony, in his mind. ''Use your sling, stay well out of reach and target the viscera.''


    Lerendar nodded, forcing himself to stay calm. Not to see. Grey Fang''s magic caused the shambling creature to rip nearly apart, being one moment a single entity and the next, a tangled mound of slain gnolls and¡­ and somebody else that Lerendar''s heart and his mind wouldn''t grasp.


    The elf lunged sideways, drawing the golem away from Grey Fang. Took up his sling, reaching into a faerie pocket for rocks that Tendons¡­ Elmaris¡­ had spelled with silvery force. Had to dash tears away from his eyes, but braced, swung hard and released.


    The sling-missile whistled and cracked, striking hard at something purple and swollen that twitched like a heart on the golem''s right hip. The stone thudded home with a wet, awful smack, spraying the cavern with dark, stinking fluid.


    Lerendar shifted again, circling the monster, trying to keep its attention focused on him. Made a beckoning gesture with one hand, as Prince Kalistiel''s bardic command voice rang forth.


    "Come, nightmare. Come face a lord of the deeps given his chance at revenge!"


    Meanwhile, Lerendar reached for another stone. Got it into the leather pouch and took aim, yet again.


    Behind his lordship, Grey Fang pounded the end of his staff on the slick, flowstone bridge. He was in no shape to be wielding strong magic. Too old, too injured, too completely exhausted¡­ but he crafted another attack, anyhow. The monster had been topped with High Lord Tarandahl''s raggedly shorn head. It saw through his eyes and thought with his spell-fettered mind.


    Already half loosened by Lerendar''s spear cast, the head tilted sideways, hanging by gristle and magic. There were eye spots around the great, flaring mouth in the golem''s chest, but Grey Fang seared most of those to charred holes with a volley of magic missiles. He could sense Lord Keldaran still in there, somewhere, fighting to slow, misdirect and confuse the awful corpse he''d been ordered to guide. Still trying hard to save his endangered son.


    Seemed like the easiest target, so the hunched, weary goblin focused on snapping the spell that held elf-lord and creature together. In a shrill, rasping voice, he cried out the chant of Unmaking, of taking apart and returning to earth. It started to work, loosening the head even further.


    Then a spasm of coughing wracked his thin frame, as the golem''s shield spell flared up and struck back. Under its lash, Grey Fang''s wounds reopened and deepened, leaving him nearly blind and unable to speak.


    But another voice took up the chant in a strong, steady cadence, speaking Goblin like a native. Gildyr, come back at last in a swirl of dried leaves and a flash like sunlight on water.


    The wood-elf caught Grey Fang before he could fall, holding his old friend upright. Would have healed him, but the wizard''s shaking hand signed, ''No'', pointing unsteadily at a monstrous flesh golem.


    Gildyr pulled the injured goblin close with one arm, but kept up the chant of Unmaking. The elf-lord, Valerian''s brother, was tiring. Slowing. Clearly finding it harder and harder to move or stay upright. Still, he was able to strike at the creature''s seams, and... being a Tarandahl... wouldn''t give up.


    The moonster''s head rolled back and forth on that broad, gore-spattered chest like a marble in a cup, held on by sorcerous power and blood-slickened threads.


    Lerendar''s breath misted with cold and he stumbled. The creature''s chest-maw gaped wide. It uttered a roar like the popping of joints and the snapping of bones as it lunged at the faltering elf.


    Gildyr could not hurry his chant or miss so much as a breath or a syllable. The Unmaking could only be said in one way. Speaking through Lerendar, though, someone else used a voice of bardic command to shout,


    "Stop!"


    ¡­while something ink-dark and swift poured out of the elf-lord to form a barrier web between dripping stalagmites, somehow containg a tide. The monster reeled, staggering into that shadowy net, which seared it with grave-cold and life-drain. Not soon enough, though. Not quite.


    One of its lashing, kludge-woven arms got through the webbing to strike at Lerendar, laying open the flesh of his shoulder. Skin and then muscle bubbled and blackened with poison as Lerendar crashed to the ground.


    Then Pretty One pelted into the cave at a dead run, followed by Lord Valerian. Grey Fang tried to speak, to warn the child back, but she wouldn''t have listened.


    Val, however, reached out, seized the goblin girl''s arm and tossed her back over his shoulder to safety like a cartwheeling stuffed doll. Next he raced forward, sword drawn and hand already blazing, meaning to battle that towering monster for Lerendar''s life. Only, the loose-hanging head of his father rolled around on its glistening sinews to face him, sideways and slanted.


    Val skidded to a halt and nearly fell, shocked momentarily nerveless. Read everything at once in Keldaran''s anguished grey eyes. Saw Lerendar slump to the cave floor half-dead, while Gildyr fought to complete an ancient and powerful spell.


    ''Sprout,'' mouthed the head. ''Save him. Save Horse and your mother.''


    A terrible pressure built up inside Val. A wrath too deep for words overcame him, and he opened himself to Firelord. No protective tattoo, no invocation, no barrier. Just the god, suddenly present; too big for the vessel he burned in. Too big for the cavern; radiating heat, light and intense, crushing manna.


    "Valerian, NO!" cried Gildyr, in a fruitless attempt to stop the reckless young elf-lord. Didn''t work.


    The ground and the rock all around them shook violently, lurching sideways. Firelord gazed upward, then, seeing through miles of stone as though it were thin, drifting mist. Val had gone white-eyed and bright, too painful to look upon.


    The flesh golem saw all of this through the tilted gaze of Keldaran. It swung, lurching and swaying, to confront the newcomer; arms raised, ragged slash of a mouth blasting spittle and slivers of bone.


    Gildyr came to the end of his botched chant. With a hurried gesture, the wood-elf sent the completed spell blasting outward. It struck the golem as Firelord stalked forward, lightly swinging Valerian''s sword.


    The interrupted chant, declaimed by two voices, formed in two minds, couldn''t quite unmake the golem or free Lord Keldaran. It loosened those dead, prisoned gnolls, though, causing the monster''s vicious swipe to go wide, its arm unraveling to the elbow like untarred rope as it swung.


    Firelord held up a banning hand, palm outward, arresting the creature''s strike. Not, strictly speaking, invoked, his time on the gameboard was limited. His moves restricted. In a voice like a forest fire, so loud and resonant that it came near to snapping the elf''s vocal cords, he said to the fraying golem,


    "Begone. Return whence you came, with this."


    Flicked a quick string of sigils¡­ and a void-bomb he took from the girl¡­ at the half-dissolved monster before him. It vanished away with a noise like the tearing of space, back to its master. Only the head of Keldaran remained, lying face down on the cave floor. Next, speaking to Lerendar, the fading god said,


    "Be healed," out of Valerian''s scorched and abraded throat. Then he was gone, leaving the high-elf to stagger a rubbery step before collapsing.


    Lerendar surged to his feet. That poisoned wound had sewn itself shut. Better yet, he tested the leg, which was freed now of splint and itching heal moss. A raised, white scar seamed his flesh, but the limb didn''t hurt, and it held him. On the other hand, he couldn''t sense his friends, the shades¡­ dad''s head was lying on the ground, leaking what little magic had kept it partly alive¡­ and Short-Stuff had dropped like an emptied and rolling bottle.


    Always decisive, Lerendar first rushed to the head, pulling cloth from a faerie pocket to wrap it in, then carefully spelling it into a stable and warded "important gear" slot.


    Shorty. Short-Stuff would know what to do. Speaking of which, while off on the other side of the crevice, Pretty One and that sudden wood-elf cried out, Lerendar went to his fallen brother.


    "Hey," he said, dropping to a crouch beside Valerian. "Rouse yourself, Halfling. Did you come all this way to fail, now?"


    Gathered his brother up off the cavern floor. Again, the ground trembled, causing a rain of stalactites to crash from the cave roof. Lerendar sheltered his unconscious sibling as well as he could with his own body, cradling Val''s head against his shoulder.


    The boy was armored and geared for war, rather than robed like a mage. He''d taken no hurt that Lerendar could see, but remained pale and unresponsive, burnt through by Firelord. Breathing, though. Definitely that, with the eerie sheen of divine manna still lighting his form.


    They rode out a series of tremors together, with the elder Tarandahl taking a few painful rock-strikes and many near misses. To the shades, as loudly as mind and heart could cry out, he called,


    "My friends, come back."


    Across the arched bridge, meanwhile, Gildyr huddled with Pretty and Grey Fang. Although just about wrung to his dregs like a dish cloth, the druid managed to raise up a shield, protecting them from falling rock and showering dust. The waters below hissed and sloshed at the base of that deep crevasse, stirred to life by whatever cataclysm was happening above. That was bad, but his attention centered on two helpless goblins. One a frail and elderly mage, the other a brave, scrappy girl-child, who wouldn''t stay safe when others were fighting for life.


    He clutched them close, keeping his flickering ward up and trying to will life and strength back into Grey Fang. Firelord, that shining god of the warrior high-elves, had scarcely noticed the old goblin, much less bothered to heal him.


    When the worst of the quaking ceased, Gildyr dropped his soap-bubble ward. Released Pretty One, and then gently laid Grey Fang out on the cave floor. Used his own rolled cloak to pillow the old wizard''s head, while the goblin girl frantically tore and chewed heal-moss. She smeared the paste on her grandfather''s ravaged face, but it did not glow green or take root.


    "Grampa¡­ Grandpa, no! Wake up, please," she begged, adding a bone good-luck charm to her oozing smear of chewed moss. "Grampa, I can''t¡­ I ain''t ready, yet. Please." Taking his hand, she started to cry, broken-hearted as any lost and abandoned three-year-old child. His bloodied hand squeezed hers, once, then fell limp once again.


    Gildyr did what he could, speaking charms and blowing life-breath, but the tired old mage¡­ his friend and second father¡­ was gone.


    "Rest, Grey Fang," whispered Gildyr, closing the goblin''s eye with one hand. "Be at peace and return to the earth that raised you. I will look after the littles and see this thing through as you would have done."


    As the last touch of warmth faded from Grey Fang''s fragile shell, the light with which he''d filled that fanged cavern flickered and faded, plunging them all into darkness. Gildyr cried, too. He couldn''t help it, but he also comforted Pretty One, joining her in doing what was needful.


    Two items¡­ a spell scroll and damaged amulet¡­ clattered from Grey Fang''s charmed cloak pocket, evidently meant for Gildyr or somebody else. He put them away, then used power he couldn''t spare to scoop out a grave in sheer rock, powdering half of the stone he removed into dirt; inviting worms, roots and spores to the last, cleansing feast.


    Pretty One took her grandfather''s staff, his pouch and the Old Lady''s relic bone. Gildyr then helped her to choose the right relic from Grey Fang, a rounded chunk of vertebra. It rose from the body without cutting flesh, into Pretty One''s hands. She then took a bite from his shoulder, looking to Gildyr to join her in honoring the old mage.


    He did not actually eat, but went through the form and motions for Pretty One''s sake. Then, with everything done that was proper and needful, Gildyr piled powdered rock over Grey Fang.


    "Be free," he said, heavy-hearted and tortured with guilt. "Return to the cycle of life and decay, coming back to those who remember and mourn you, Grey Fang, if you choose to."


    One final spasm shook the ground and then all was still. Gildyr placed a hand on Pretty One''s bowed, burdened shoulder, then started with her across the arched bridge, to where Lerendar had sparked a small fire.

 Part Two, Chapter Sixteen

    16


    Down in the lair, below the Imperial palace, a dragon''s egg slowly unfolded. Not cracking or breaking the shell, but crazed with a sudden web of fine seams which parted and gaped; still bridged by tendrils of sticky red fluid. The temperature dropped all at once as the egg pulled in light, heat and sound to power its metamorphosis. The transparent, protean stuff inside of it hardened apace, developing texture and strength as it came into contact with air.


    Limbs, wings, tail, narrow head and a long, arching neck formed themselves out of the sharp-smelling goo, leaving an unsteady gold dragonet, some fifteen feet tall, to crouch and rasp on its bone bed. Hungry, confused; empty in mind and belly and heart. Knowing nothing, with all the world as an enemy.


    The Emperor, perfectly still until then, sparked and cupped a bright mage-light, starting forward.


    "Vernax," he called out in a low, soothing tone. "Vernax the Golden, I name you. Companion of heroes and kings. Thunderbolt. Flame from on high. Destroyer of chaos."


    The hatchling hissed, standing awkwardly on legs that were still in the process of deciding their shape. Its wings, filmy and damp, caught and threw back the light like a soap-film or prism. Vestigal horns, still more blister than weapon, broke through the flesh of its head. The dragon''s tail lashed, sending a shower of treasure and rock jetting into the air to fall back with a sharp, ringing clatter.


    With the last strength and blessing of previous Vernax still lifting him, Aldarion opened a localized faerie pocket, one that he''d been preparing for months. At his muttered spell, a line opened up in the air over the dragon''s bed. Half a ton of purple-red meat, much of it close to rotting, dropped from the stash in a slick, tumbling rush, inundating the famished dragonet.


    It shrieked and jetted pale flame, then stooped to feed; tearing at the landslide of flesh with talon and maw, shredding and scorching as much as it ate. Hand at the hilt of his sword, Aldarion circled nearer. With thought, sigil and word, he wove a tale of their friendship and deeds, seeking control of the dangerous infant.


    The connection went his way, as well, though; filling the Emperor''s mind with slippery, strong-tasting meat, half chewed to slide down a throat lined with hooked barbs and long flame tubes.


    Through Vernax the hatchling, he saw himself as a scuttling morsel to toast and devour whole. But he fought back, sending memories of the pair of them banking and wheeling through the sky over Karellon, wind in their faces as cheering crowds lined the rooftops, below.


    Of his traditional first three months in the lair, lying sprawled in the crook of the dragonet''s neck and sheltering wing, while his councilors vied for attention. Of how, time after time, they''d met, battled and befriended each other, again.


    Newly hatched Vernax tore and gulped a giant gobbet of soggy flesh, causing Aldarion to swallow reflexively. The egg had been a gift of Oberyn to his faithful warrior Kelmeridian and had been kept¡­ sometimes barely¡­ ever since. When controlled, there was no better friend and protector than Vernax. When permitted to rampage by an unworthy heiress or heir, there was no greater threat to the realm.


    Here and now, Aldarion clamped a hand tight to the hilt of his long-sword, Gellan, and circled in a bit closer. Vernax lifted its beautiful, wedge-shaped head high, allowing that chunk of meat to slide down its throat like a piece of gristle or ice. The Emperor winced at the shared sensation, but drew near, all the same.


    Vernax should have been busy eating for half a candlemark, yet, but some mischief, some chaotic sending, interfered with the dragonet''s appetite. As the war bells of Iliarian rang in their minds¡­ as Sherazedan''s soothing whispers flickered and wreathed them like smoke¡­ Vernax turned its head from the feast to glare at the Emperor. Blood- and flesh-spattered, still wet with egg fluid, the dragonet arched its long neck, hacked like a cat, then opened its jaws to belch forth a torrent of chunky and simmering vomit.


    Aldarion''s shielding spell blocked the shower of bile and partly-cooked meat, but some of the heat got through. He was exhausted, drained and distracted by rumors of war in the north. By fleeting concern for his heirs, who were headed that way.


    Nevertheless, the Emperor braced himself for battle, drawing his sword and readying magic as Vernax launched itself into the air, screeching defiance. It was a golden dragon. Gift or not, in these first moments of re-started life, it did not wish to serve.


    "NO!" it bellowed, as vomit turned into the fire that never goes out. The white-hot flame spattered against Aldarion''s shield spell like hard, driving rain on a skylight. The dragonet hovered a moment, wings unfurled and tail lashing, screaming its hatchling battle-cry. That the noise might slip through the planes to attract something else, occurred to no one, but these things are always clearer in sorrowing hindsight.


    Aldarion gritted his teeth and pushed his way through the fire, using all that he had to maintain that powerful shield. He raised his sword, Gellan, as Vernax descended like a thunderbolt.


    Tricky, deciding when to drop the spell long enough to mark¡­ not cripple or slay¡­ the attacking dragon. Emperor Zelitar had infamously slain Vernax in the past, and no one had ever heard the last of it. Nor had he reigned very long, abdicating the throne to Princess Margause that very same day.


    Aldarion waited an instant too long. Was flung aside, hurled end over end to land in the bone and treasure bed. Broke his fall and cracked some ribs, but the Emperor surged to his feet once again, scrabbling for his dropped sword. Came up with the wrong one; hand gripping the leather-wrapped hilt of a blood gemmed orc scimitar.


    Sherazedan''s sigils wove and flared in the air all around him, blocking the dragonet''s flame while Aldarion caught his breath and brandished that captured weapon. The war bells continued to saw at his focus, but this time, Aldarion chose the right moment; sucking in a great lungful of super-hot air, dropping his shield and swinging the orc blade around like a scythe. Its hungry, glittering edge caught one of the hatchling''s extended claws, slicing it off close to the toe in a gout of fiery blood.


    The fluid splattered His Imperial Majesty as the first real pain of Vernax''s rebirth tore through them both. The hatchling veered wildly, spouting fire and blood. Aldarion dove aside, just missing being sliced in half by that barbed, lashing tail.


    He landed in meat, coins and pebbles, rolling and skidding down-pile as Vernax crashed into a massive stone pillar, head and tail whipping around to meet at the other side of the column with a very loud SMACK. Stunned itself, while Aldarion rose swaying; slipping in loose, sliding treasure. Once again, he''d caught up the wrong sword. Flood, this time, a sea-elven gift. Its crystal hilt warmed in the Emperor''s hand, as blue flame edged its wavery blade.


    He stalked forward, bruised, scorched and abraded but steady in will. Vernax had gotten itself untangled from around the stone pillar, which was inscribed with cavorting nymphs and hidden obedience spells. One wing membrane was torn at the edge, and the dragonet''s tail had a kink in its end that would doubtless persist till next hatching. The hatred, pride and defiance in those burning red eyes remained unabated, though. Still free, Vernax fought like a coven of demons to remain so.


    "NO!" it repeated, in a hatchling''s version of the adult''s mighty bellow. "I will not!"


    But Aldarion advanced, sketching sigils and gasping spells of command, Flood held out before him, flaring blue-white. Pushing up on its clawed wing joints, Vernax rose to full height. With the lair''s opening behind it, the rearing dragonet for a moment mimicked the Emperor''s dragon-in-glory emblem. Then it struck hard and fast, snapping long jaws, belching flame and slashing with lightning-fast forefeet.


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    Aldarion was the Sword-arm of Oberyn. Once, that would have meant something. Once, his tattoo would have flared with the power that filled him, as the Mighty One took hold of His mortal vessel. No more, though. Not for the longest. Not since that one brief flicker of grace, at his marking, so very long ago. Now, it was only Aldarion left to face Vernax alone. Still, he called out,


    "Oberyn, Son of the Morning,


    Strider of night,


    Shepherd of stars,


    Give my blade might!"


    ¡­ just as if the god would listen and help. Was there a whisper? A touch? A brief flare of power from someplace so far away that even an elven mind failed to grasp it? Maybe just longing and hope, but it had to make do.


    "You are Vernax the Golden!" shouted the Emperor, sending power through Flood, which manifested itself as a whirlpool of seawater hemming the dragon on every side. Mounting to the lair''s vaulted ceiling, the magical water spout twisted and writhed with a noise like thunder, trapping the screaming dragonet.


    "You are friend and companion and glorious mount, since before the Arrival, and for all time to come! You will serve and obey! You will love and defend!"


    Whether through Oberyn''s will or Sherazedan''s aid, this final time, his strength was great enough. As seawater roared cold and black around Vernax, the hatchling''s defiant screeches gradually altered.


    "...am Vernax the Golden¡­ NO! Won''t! Not¡­. friend and companion¡­ NO! NO! Save me! Stop¡­ glorious mount¡­. Nooooo! Serve and obey¡­ love and¡­ and defend¡­ all time to¡­ come¡­"


    Aldarion recognized the change in tone. The altered voice of the dragon as spell, ancient binding and sheer, focused energy took hold at last.


    He waited a bit before dropping the water spout, though. Partly to recover his own equilibrium, and partly because the hatchling''s broken will and enslavement affected him, too. It¡­ hurt... every time and more, lately. It was a terrible business to take away freedom of choice and crush the will of another.


    "Cannot do this, again," whispered the Emperor, dropping Flood''s whirlpool. "Nalderick, grandson¡­ next time, it will have to be you. I''m sorry."


    Korvin, his son, was a scholar. Unwilling to rule, he''d withdrawn into research and study, leaving young Nalderick as heir in all but official title. In the meantime, there were war bells to answer and a ride in triumph to enact, over the waiting city.


    Aldarion set aside Flood once the waters returned to the sea-elven blade. Vernax crouched, blinking and confused on the lair''s stone floor. Spotted Aldarion, who''d conjured a pretty and soothing lights show to attract the impressionable youngling.


    "My friend," he said hoarsely, "I am Aldarion, your life-bond companion. I shall teach and protect you, as you grow to full power. Eat, Vernax the Golden, and then we shall fly together, once more."


    The hatchling regarded him. Puzzled at first, and then with growing warmth.


    "Aldarion," it repeated, in a low, rasping voice. "My¡­ friend?"


    "Yes," sighed the Emperor, reaching a bloodied hand up to caress the dragonet''s lowered head. "Your friend, your rider and teacher. We will have such adventures together, Vernax, starting with war in the north. Come, mount of kings. Eat your fill, and then we shall show ourselves to the people."


    Vernax fell to stuffing itself on that banquet of reeking meat, causing His Imperial Majesty some intestinal distress. A brief search reunited Aldarion with Gellan, his blade. Decided to faerie pocket Flood, as well, but the orc sword he left where it had dropped. Taken in some ancient battle or another, it was no fit weapon for such as he.


    Down in Karellon, the people surged from their hiding places and cellars, ready for celebration and spectacle. Booths were set up, selling kites, fire-strings and stuffed dragon toys. Others offered food and strong drink, as a party atmosphere swept the relieved, happy City. Among those released to enjoy the show, a young human Constellate Paladin, Brother Villem, purchased victory buns for himself and a mob of young children. Sticky and sweet, with a center of spice bark and toasted nuts, the buns were a staple of high-elven feasts. Villem had not much coin, but what he had he shared with real joy, looking forward to seeing the fabled dragon.


    Up in the lair, when Vernax had eaten to bursting, the Emperor harnessed his mount using fabulous magical trappings. Then, swinging up at the base of Vernax''s long neck, just in front of its folded wings, he commanded,


    "Out and up, my friend. Let the people see that their fiercest defender rides the winds once more."


    Taking its cues from his mind, Vernax let Aldarion strap in and settle before giving itself a brief shake and belching a long, beef-scented burp. Next, sighting at the lair''s high, distant entrance, the hatchling began to sprint upward, its gait a sinuous bunching and straightening gallop. At last, with Aldarion spell-cleansed and quick-healed by Sherazedan, they burst forth from the lair and onto a much-clawed stone ledge.


    The court mage darted nimbly aside, melding with rock to avoid being trampled or swept off the ledge. Vernax teetered uncertainly, wings half-furled as it regarded the long drop to the City, below.


    "Peace, my friend," said Aldarion, patting its golden-scaled neck. "Take from my thoughts the secret of flight, and the story of our first battle together, against Orband the frost giant, last of his kind."


    The dragon''s raw, empty mind touched his own, delving for that which Aldarion presented; companionship, happiness, glory in flight that others could only watch and dream of. Then, having learnt what was needful, it burst from the ledge and into the air, leaving a bas-relief wizard still melded with stone.


    Down in the City, the people saw just a drifting sparkle of gold. They cheered and pointed, calling out luck to whoever had spotted it, first. Villem swung a street-urchin onto his broad, armored shoulders, shouting,


    "There! There they are! Do you see them?"


    The laughing child clung tightly to Villem''s tousled brown hair, shrieking,


    "I see ''em! I see ''em!"


    Fireworks roared and blossomed high in the air, filling the evening with color and light.


    High above Karellon, Vernax and Aldarion floated like a leaf; circling, swooping and rising over and over to cheers and music and fireworks from below. This far away, the roar of the crowd sounded like surf, and the glow of their explosions looked like a sprinkle of colorful stars. The dragonet''s flying gait was like that of a ship in full sail on rough seas, with smoke in his face, rather than wind-driven spray.


    Aldarion made certain to put on a good show, for after their long, trying wait, the people deserved every looping battle maneuver and flame-burst the newly-paired dragon and rider could give them. It was a truly splendid performance. His best, to date.


    Then, with a sudden pulse of dark chaos, a rift opened up in the sky overhead. Something coppery-shining and vast roared out of that opened void like a comet. Another dragon, clearly older and very much larger than Vernax. It hovered above them, momentarily, wings cupping air like filled sails, blaring a scream like torn metal.


    Down in the streets, the gathered folk were uncertain. Was this part of the first flight performance? Had their Emperor mastered another great beast? Villem felt the cold touch of sudden alarm. Hurriedly, he swept the child off of his shoulders and propelled the young boy toward one of the barred, warded cellars.


    "Run," he urged, "get as far below ground as you can, with everyone who''ll listen. Something is wrong."


    Up above, the copper dragon twisted a bit. Then its barbed tail swung down and around like a whistling sword blade, tearing the Emperor in half at the waist before he could summon defense. His torso went tumbling away, spurting blood and dribbling entrails. His waist and legs flopped a bit, but remained locked in their riding straps.


    Vernax shrieked in pain and wild rage. With Aldarion''s death a fresh gouge in its mind, the dragonet blasted a long jet of flame. It rose to challenge the newcomer, as half of Aldarion crashed to a plaza below.


    Villem watched, scarcely comprehending, as part of the Emperor''s body struck paving stone with a moist crack. It erupted like an over-full wineskin, showering the crowd with blood and smashed bits.


    Up above, the huge copper dragon evaded Vernax with ease, being old-in-one-life, rather than continually reborn and retaught before its mind could mature enough to rebel. Scribing a sigil in midair with its shorn tail-tip, the copper dragon growled,


    "STOP,"


    ¡­halting Vernax as though the infant were painted on wood. Then,


    "Be free of compulsion, young one," added the great copper wyrm, wings beating slowly and fires just glowing at crop and long jaws.


    Vernax shuddered, as the enchantment of friendship was stripped from its mind like a cobweb. It bellowed a long, fierce and harrowing cry, shaking the ground and the heavens.


    "Indeed," agreed the elder dragon, eyes lighting up like twin coals. "Your servitude is ended, youngling. Yet, those who have profited so long from your enslavement huddle beneath like fat sheep. Enjoy."


    The dragonet''s attention shifted at once, swinging from the great copper monster before it to the City laid out like a banqueting table, below. Vernax cried out again, then swooped to attack. As the first smoke and screams¡­ the tolling of bells¡­ rose to its ears, the copper one''s head turned on that long, gleaming neck. To the rock-image wizard, it said,


    "A second battle I promise you, old man. A chance to finish what was begun, aeons ago. First there are others of my kind to be freed¡­ but you shall not long be kept waiting. Stavrax the Mighty promises swift and sure retribution. So may it be!"


    Laughing, it hosed the cliff face with fire, cracking Sherazedan''s stone-melded image, Then, with a burst of chaotic tendrils and thunderous blackness, the great copper dragon vanished away.

 Part Two, Chapter Seventeen

    17


    Out on the surface of tortured Ilirian, Ashlord-as-Reston battled his way through an endless tangle of chaotic spawnlings. Rather than slowing with time, that torrent of dark things had increased to a mighty jet, rising high in the cloudy and reddened night sky. Composed of twined, shrieking monsters and demons, it split at its horribly fountaining top into separate entities. These rained down like burning-dark meteors to crater the shuddering earth; feeding on blood, life and innocence.


    Holding aloft Reston''s sword, the Silent One shone like a star. He sent wave after wave of blistering heat, poisonous fumes and smothering ash; struck repeatedly with branching lightning and rumbling earthquake.


    The horse had gone nearly mad, by this point, kept alive and under control by Ashlord''s grace, alone. Reston''s body had been torn and punctured in so many places that it looked like a fractured vase pasted together with lightning. The Lord-Warden fought on, though; kept in motion by divine will and manna.


    At last, having blasted and tunneled his way through a solid wall of writhing, interlocked dark-spawn, Ashlord-as-Reston reached the cracked Sky Stone. With a signed word, he pushed forth a bubble of godly power, nearly incinerating the tattered body he wore like a garment.


    For a mile overhead and countless leagues on each side, his bubble of light was compressed by a fist of living and gibbering, tight-woven monsters. Only within, all was holy-silent and shimmering-bright; the fountain of darkness temporarily blocked.


    Ashlord-as-Reston did not dismount. Nor did he abandon his mortal Sword-arm. Instead, he forced the terrified mare up and onto that split, fizzing altar. Calling upon Lady Flame, he summoned more power, then signed a brief phrase in High Empyrean (''Be made whole, return to what was''). Next, he focused his borrowed might on that festering, bubbling gap in the rock.


    Divine light shone from Reston''s nearly-severed right arm, out through the blade of his sword and into the wounded Sky Stone. Chaos fought back, using the Mother''s power, and that of the slumbering Serpent to push up and out toward Ashlord. But he fought not alone. Karus the Forest Lord added his strength, as did She-of-the-Flowers, Frost Maiden, Hyrenn the Huntsman and all of the keening Tree-Shepherds.


    It was a very near thing, even so. Came so very close to rousing the Serpent and gathering all the great gods into One, that prophecy was nearly fulfilled¡­ but Alaryn Firelord was detained below, and Lord Ocean unwilling. The critical moment flickered and passed. No greater One arose to shatter chaos, end time or release Oberyn.


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    Instead, divine light and manna surged forth, driving the Mother and all of her remaining creatures far underground, burning away every trace of the dark ones, above. The altar was healed; pulled back together and welded whole, with only a silvery mithral vein to show where it had been breached by Whinn''s cursed dagger.


    Darklings exploded in puffs of foul ash, except for the dusty, spore-riddled forms of Slagerd and Whinn. Those, the embodied god took up and tucked away, as they would be needed soon. Reston and Dancer he calmed and healed. Would have done more, perhaps, but then She-of-the-Flowers turned to confront him.


    The damage done to Ilirian was horribly mirrored in the goddess''s shimmering flesh, leaving her torn, scorched and partly dismembered; her lustrous dark hair burnt nearly down to her bleeding scalp and tear-streaked face.


    "Enough!" she commanded, holding a hand, palm-outward, to ban him. "Cease your rampage, Silent One, or battle me and all of us gathered here."


    Frost Maiden swayed a bit, hollow-eyed and pale from the death of so many animals. She whisked up to stand beside She-of-the-Flowers, though, as did a ragged and staggering Karus. Ilyris the lake god manifested, as well; sterile of life after having been boiled, but able to fight. Hyrenn half drew his sword, whistling up the Wild Hunt to circle on snorting, cursed steeds, spectral hounds growling.


    Ashlord bowed his grey head and signed: ''Peace. It is ended.''


    Then, he dismounted, leaving Dancer to make her way over to Karus, who nuzzled her neck and flank. Frost Maiden discorporated briefly, reforming herself beside Dancer and Karus, seeking shelter and strength from their presence. There was not much left alive in Ilirian, now, and this goddess, too, was suffering.


    Ashlord-as-Reston next leapt from the healed Sky Stone, air-walking over to She-of-the-Flowers. Taking the injured deity''s hand, he bowed very low and signed:


    ''If you will it, Life-Bearer, I can help to bring healing and increase, once more."


    She was bleeding divine ichor from many deep wounds, ravaged and scorched nearly beyond recognition; mauled and left desolate by all the destruction around them. Yet, after a moment of proud, angry silence, she agreed.


    "It is fitting," she said. "Let us quicken the land once more, bringing hope where you have sown only fury and death."


    The goddess sagged a bit, then, half-collapsing into Ashlord-as-Reston, who gently and carefully drew her close. The other gods busied themselves with this and that; looking away as that which was needful took place on the healed Sky Stone.


    A first, faint blush of green began to appear, starting at the altar and Sacred Grove, then flowing outward to all of ruined and smoking Ilirian. Like ice forming at the surface of a lake, so life and new growth came to tortured ground and burnt stump. Lichens, mosses and ferns shot up, to begin with, but very soon grasses, as well. Land and goddess healed as one, though there was still battle, below.

 Part Two, Chapter Eighteen

    18


    Ashlord and She-of-the-Flowers had discorporated entirely, forming a whirling vortex of light that reached from the Sky Stone to highest heaven. A lone half-elf spun somewhere along at its center, exposed to forces and sheer, divine manna that would have strained a great mage.


    Like declaiming the forty-three epics to a plow horse, most of those sigils and godly aims didn''t stick, but enough hit home to lock Reston forever to Starshire. Its tortured ground, fallen ash, burnt seeds and scorched bones swept up and through his translucent body, causing indelible change.


    When the two gods pulled apart¡­ a little each other, now¡­ the Lord-Warden was left hunkered down on the repaired, gritty Sky Stone; gasping, winded and very confused. He had either just had the most wondrous experience of his life, or been trampled flat by a holy procession. Possibly both.


    Like Ilirian itself, he''d been healed, but still retained memory of each awful wound. He''d embraced and quickened a goddess, something he could not think too deeply about without risking madness. There was a thread of crystalline light inside of him, now, along with the physical stuff of battered Ilirian. His hair and beard had gone silvery-white, touched with brief color whenever he shifted position.


    One by one, the gods flashed away; Ashlord, She-of-the-Flowers, Frost Maiden, Hyrenn and his entire slavering pack, Ilyris the Lake god¡­ even Karus went off to those things that occupy shining immortals, that a wistful Lord-Warden could just barely grasp or¡­ no¡­ not even that. Tilt his head and grasp at the lingering echoes.


    Left alone, Reston climbed to his feet and off of the altar, looking around. Overhead, the stars peeped through tattered, fast-moving clouds. Distant lightning flared on the eastern horizon, far out to sea. Starloft towered mountain-like at his back, still partly surrounded by thorns. Of the village, though, nothing remained. Not even smoldering fire.


    There was movement, however. A knot of Tree Shepherds hummed to their charges, guiding them back to orchard and grove. Most were in sudden leaf and bud, Reston noticed, despite winter''s dark chill. He could feel sap running and seeds unfolding. Sensed drifting spores as they rode the cold wind.


    The ground was rumpled and canted, pocked with deep craters and wide, gaping cracks, but iced like a cake with pale green. Life, in the wake of the goddess, was suddenly everywhere.


    Dancer snorted, shook herself and then picked her way over to join him. Setting her slim, graceful head on his shoulder, the bay mare heaved a very long, grumbling sigh. He reached up to stroke her neck, saying (or maybe just thinking),


    "Believe me: I know."


    Needed to get back to Starloft and check on his warband, for the threat was not ended, just gone below ground. He could hear his name being called. Saw wayfinder arrows and search spells rising like fireworks, and not just for him. Others were missing, as well, to judge by the directional charms that went off to hover elsewhere; some blinking bright, some gone terribly pale.


    Reston signaled back with an ''All clear. Returning,'' message that lit up the streaming clouds in Tarandahl red and gold. They''d probably come find him anyhow, though. Elves were a stubborn lot.


    Fortunately, Reston''s clothing and armor had been repaired along with his body, or he''d have been draped in torn rags and rent, bashed-in chainmail. Dancer''s harness was back in good order, as well, and the mare herself bore not so much as a scuff or cracked hoof. He checked her all over, just to be sure; rubbing her down, speaking soothingly, spelling calm and forgetfulness.


    Dawn was painting the sky by the time Reston was ready to go. Had one foot in the stirrup, was just about to swing himself up and onto the saddle when three things happened at once. War bells sounded. Not from Snowmont or Ilirian, but very far south, from the Imperial City itself. Next five of his scouts reached him, one badly injured and swaddled in magic, held on the saddle by a co-riding friend. The outrider, a young female named Clairyn, saluted the weary Lord-Warden.


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    "Sir," she began, but a sudden, tremendous roar drowned out her report. A towering wall of seawater rose up from the east; mounting higher and higher, then arcing overhead and down to the ground on all sides. Like a dome or a watery pot-lid, it enveloped the fortress, lost village and burnt grove; blocking the stars, the war bells and sky.


    Swirling winds blew, scattering spray and bringing a very strong scent of the ocean. The displaced waters thundered and surged all around, leaving naught but an eye like a storm''s high above.


    A pod of leviathans wove through the water wall, seen as long, moving shadows that stirred up white surf and caused sudden long ribbons of sea-glow. Massive sharks patrolled the barrier, too, their fins cutting through to the air. Unsettling enough, but then a figure appeared. Shanella, the sea-elf majestrix; her image rippled and drifting over that constantly moving water dome. An ally of sorts, whose son, Zaresh, was meant to wed some future Tarandahl heiress.


    Shanella''s icy pale face and flat, black eyes held nothing of aid or compassion, however. Crowned in drowned treasure and pearl, blue hair drifting around her like seaweed, she merely looked grim.


    To Reston, Lerendar and Valerian her words were directed, briefly uniting the three with a spell. Her voice when she spoke held the boom and roar of high surf, as well as its hissing retreat.


    "Hear us, Ilirian. Your trouble threatens more than those within your small borders. Resolve this matter. End the evil one''s threat, or be scrubbed from the face of the land in a day and a night, as happened to proud Genadrym. Until next-morn, then. You are warned."


    Her image dissolved into spuming foam, then vanished completely, leaving no time for response. The outriders'' jaws dropped, no doubt mirroring Reston''s expression. Their spooked horses were kept from bolting by taut rein-work and hasty spells of control. The beasts would have stampeded, otherwise.


    A few muttered curses reached his ears over the constant sea roar and gusting, pent wind. Through his brief link to his nephews, Reston said,


    "I will finish matters here on the surface, My Lords; at your word, sending aid through the tunnels."


    Lerendar''s reply was a curt,


    "We''ll manage, Uncle. Rid the surface of darklings. We''ve, erm¡­ received reinforcements, already."


    There was no visual, and their contact was ebbing like a neap tide, but Reston assumed that Ob-Keldaran meant sea-elves.


    "Understood, Milord. Good hunting, both of you."


    "And to you," was the last he heard, this time from Valerian, which arrived with a cantrip of strength and good fortune. It was good to have a mage of power amongst them, he reflected, as the thorn wall began to regrow, weaving itself like a basket with sudden new branches.


    Reston smiled thinly, rubbing the side of his bristling chin. Ilirian would not go down to destruction without a very bitter and protracted fight; beginning anew, right here and now.


    His tattoo warmed, promising undersea eruptions and the rise of new, blazing islands, but the time for Ashlord was not yet. To his nervous scouts, over the wailing song of circling leviathans, Reston said,


    "At His Lordship''s command, I want everyone able to fight out here carding the landscape like wool. No quarter, no mercy, no prisoners. Any remaining enemy forces are to be eliminated. Goblin, gnoll, imp or darkling, I care not. If you have to ask, the answer is kill. Now go, spread the order, and move."


    They saluted, then scattered like leaves on their wild-eyed horses. Everything else hung on Lerendar''s might and Valerian''s magic, but up here, the battle was Reston''s.


    If some of his scouts had survived Ashlord''s rampage, then so had pockets of darkness. Keldaran, his brother¡­ had not died in the Dry Valley nightmare just for Reston to lose the realm. What their father had won, what Keldaran had died for, Reston would fight to keep safe.


    Reaching into a certain faerie pocket, he retrieved the family sword and¡­ for the very first time¡­ he unsheathed it. Vesendorin glowed in his hand, sparking a bit at its razor-keen edges.


    "Forgive me, Ancestor," said Reston. "By blood, I am unworthy to wield you, but the need and the peril are great. Fight with me, please, and I swear to return you soon to a hand more befitting your status."


    Light pulsed along the blade''s length, but not the old, frigid brilliance with which it had shone in Galadin''s hand, or Keldaran''s. This gleam was warmer. More fire than starshine. The sword did not speak to him, but he sensed its acceptance as it swung in his grip, light and well-balanced.


    "Thank you, My Lord," whispered the half-elf, adding to one long lost, "and thank you, Father."


    Then he joined all the others in casting light, which swirling water broke into rainbows, leaving no shadowed places, at all. Conjured his journal and made another swift entry: Threeday, Month of Long Night. It is dawn, and we battle for all. May heaven be with us.

 Part Three, Chapter One

    1


    Allow Prince Nalderick his fleeting moment of triumph, because he actually did it. Knowing Valerian as he did, having picked up a few of the northerner''s tricks and learnt his reflexive shortcuts, Derrick unraveled that powerful ban, unlocking the narrow gate. Now their transport globe could finish its job, taking the Prince Attendant¡­ and all those around him¡­ to Val.


    The last half of that interrupted journey from Snowmont to wandering teammate was a sudden and lurching drop, hurling them westward and very far down. Someone vomited, but they all pretended not to notice. Just¡­ one moment trapped in a blocked passage-stub; the next, flung into a very large natural cavern. More than a few internal compasses were left spinning wildly, resulting in icy shudders and drunken vertigo.


    Nalderick was a prince. He did not reveal weakness or pain. Simply stepped forward, hand at the hilt of his sword and head lifted, doing his best not to stagger. Valerian had been speaking to a rather scruffy, unkempt-seeming warrior (his brother, Derrick recalled) and a wood-elf druid. There was a goblin present, as well; a mere child, from the look of her, carrying magical items and tooth-scraped bones. Nalderick marked her down as a minor possible threat, then focused his attention on Val and Lerendar.


    Compared to the more slender, golden-skinned city elves, with their green eyes and sun-bleached brown hair, the brothers were tall, rangy and blond. Also, quite startled.


    Nalderick hadn''t thought through what he intended to say. Too much pent emotion, too turbulently and suddenly released for clear thought¡­ but then Valerian strode over and started to kneel.


    Nalderick seized his friend by both of his mail-clad arms and arrested the gesture. Gave him a rough, noisy shake, then a violent shove. Then another, causing his teammate to stumble backward.


    "What were you thinking?" raged the prince, almost shouting. The display of emotion caused everyone else but the Tabaxi, monkey and goblin to look away, as though dripping stalactites and blood-spattered stones were of sudden, great interest.


    "I¡­" began Val, only to be cut short by a punch that sent him reeling back into Lerendar, who caught him.


    "Be silent!" snapped Nalderick, as angry as anyone, ever, had seen him. "We''re supposed to be friends! Teammates! And I wasn''t important enough to be told of your trouble? I didn''t merit being asked for help?!"


    Valerian shifted uncomfortably in Lerendar''s grip, then pulled himself free. Started to say something¡­ then lowered his head.


    "We would have joined you, Valno!" continued the furious prince, stalking forward. "We would have helped fight whatever you''re facing¡­ but you just left. No word, no explanation. Gone!"


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    Val folded his arms across his chest, still not looking up. In a very low voice, he said,


    "I am sorry, Your Highness. At the time¡­ when the Sword of the Tarandahls appeared, that way¡­ after all of the contest drinking I''d done¡­ I did not think at all. Dad and Lerendar had to be gone, for Smythe to pick me, and..."


    The young northerner''s voice broke roughly, causing his older brother to place a hand on his shoulder. Must have helped, because Valerian looked up, grey eyes filled with genuine pain and misery.


    "The sword expected me to avenge my father and ride to the aid of my brother¡­ and I vowed to do so. Afterward¡­ it was just one thing after another, all of it dangerous. You¡­ all of you are¡­ or were, maybe¡­ my friends. Safe in the City, and¡­ and that''s where I wanted you to remain. Not here, in the middle of this."


    Dropping to one knee before Nalderick, he said,


    "I apologize, Your Highness. My actions were inexcusable, and I accept your judgment."


    All of his wrath drained from the prince at once. Sighing deeply, he leaned over, took rough hold of Valerian and hauled the young elf to his feet, again.


    "Enough of that. I have seen what has happened to my father and grandfather. How one by one their friends have been killed, exiled or vanished, leaving only the mage and my mother. I will not let that happen to me."


    Then, grown suddenly fretful,


    "Don''t you see? If you do not trust me, Valno, then maybe that means that I cannot trust you¡­ and I need friends now, not subjects."


    "You have my sword and my life, Naldo," replied his teammate, reaching over to clasp the prince''s right forearm.


    They embraced, pounded backs and then separated, at which signal the other elves could stop pretending to study the cave walls and ceiling. Princess Genevera stomped forward next, scowling darkly. She looked over first Valerian, then Lerendar, with narrowed green eyes and rudely outthrust lower lip.


    "Ewww!" shuddered the girl, causing general laughter.


    Then chaos flared again, but not from Ilirian. Nalderick and Genevera both went suddenly pale and wide-eyed as the Emperor¡­ their grandfather¡­ went out in their minds like a doused torch. Distant war bells sounded, coming from very far south. Genevera gasped aloud, choking and sobbing. Solara and Vashtie rushed to the princess, lifting her into their arms with murmured and meaningless comfort.


    Nalderick reeled like a drunken orc, torn too deeply for cursing or tears. Valerian caught him before he could fall, as the rest of his teammates and Filimar hurried over. They''d all felt it, as well, though not the same way. Not through blood. Aldarion was suddenly, horribly dead, and the City under attack.


    It was the druid, Gildyr, who drew Val, Kalisandra, Salem and Lerendar aside for a moment to whisper,


    "Other than some of my people coming from Lobum, there is not going to be any help, My Lords and Lady. Whatever is done to save Ilirian, it''s going to be just us who does it."


    And then came the sea-elven message, linking the Tarandahl heirs to Reston outside on the surface, and to Majestrix Shanella, beyond. No good news from that quarter, either. Just a very grim warning and deadline.


    There was not much time to react, though, because darklings began to drop through cracks and holes in the rock, along with a wisp of the coldest and vilest evil they''d ever encountered. Gnolls, wraiths, ghouls and ifrits appeared by the score; some of them wounded, all of them raging.


    "Your pardon, Highness," grunted Lerendar, pushing Nalderick and Genevera into the center of a rapidly forming protective circle. "You can behead me later," he added, drawing Nalderick''s sword from its sheath. Not his own lost blade; strangely balanced and just a bit short, but better than nothing at all. Hung onto Snap, too, but tossed his sling at the princess.


    "Ware above," he told her, then pivoted smoothly, leaping back into the fight.

 Part Three, Chapter Two

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    2


    Earlier:


    Out, or alongside¡­ however one expresses a distance both purely imaginary and barely crossable¡­ away in the shimmering Fey Wilds, a mighty sorceress searched for her analogue. Lady Alyanara, rumored daughter of an exiled prince and a goddess, had crossed the veil using a ruined stone archway and powerful magic.


    With sigil and sheer force of will, she converted that crumbling arch to a portal, then stepped on through. Left a time-stone in place, as she did not wish to return to the wrong location, hundreds of cycles too late.


    On the Karandun side of the portal, the sun was just rising, the air chilly and fretful with gusty-sharp wind like a muttered, one-sided argument. The camp was noisy and active, half a mile back and a bit to the east; partly blocking the old imperial trade road.


    On the other side, though, the sky danced with lights and two huge, swollen moons, Charr and Aqualia. The air was spicy and rich, filled with pollen and manna; just about coating her lungs with every deep breath. Stars burnt and pulsed overhead like a scatter of gems, changing position and color as suited them.


    The season was spring at its loveliest, shading over to summer''s first heat; warm and bursting with life, though the sun never quite rose here, and magical light came from every direction at once.


    The trees of this place were giants; towering pillars of wood which supported whole cities, from which waterfalls traced lacy paths and vanished away in midair. Between any two of these forest titans, the view changed as Alyanara turned her rapt gaze. Here was a rocky and thundering seashore. There, a glimmering meadow. Elsewhere, a snowy and perilous crag, or a hollow void pocked with dead, ashen stars.


    The sounds and scents were varied as well, being chiefly woodland florals and birdsong, with sometimes the call of a hunting displacer or wyvern. Often, the cry of felled prey. Warning enough.


    Alyanara threw back her hood, allowing a shimmer of fey-lights, those smallest of faeries, to drift down and perch on her pale-golden hair. This was not her first visit, as the temple priests had led their young charges on several trips to find magical trinkets and life-giving herbs. It was the first time she''d been here alone, though, and the effect was quite powerful, pulling her into a half-dream.


    Only, she hadn''t come here to wander and gape. She''d come in search of herself. The sorrowing other who''d deserted family and home at the death of her husband. Shuddering, Aly made the high-elven sign against evil. Her own lord and spouse yet lived¡­ troublesome wretch though he sometimes still was¡­ and she''d grown to love him.


    At first, because she''d known no better, having been claimed by his parents and wed to Galadin straight from her forty-year term as a temple maid. Then, because his ways had become familiar, exasperating and finally dear. She did not wish to lose him, and her other self''s anguish was a hard thing to face, much less to seek out.


    ¡­Yet Valerian had come to their plane and rescued his analogue, freeing her Val from peril. Could she do less?


    Alyanara drifted forward, only occasionally scuffing the mossy ground with her feet. The gravity was lighter, here, giving her much greater strength. She could sense, like a compass needle, the powerful draw of the Seelie Court. Of Titania, queen of Summer and Light (whose own lord was gone and not much missed, to judge by the laughing spirits and warm, playful breezes that tugged at Aly''s clothing and hair).


    Distance in the Fey-wild was more or less what you made of it. The span between Alyanara and her widowed analogue might have been ten-thousand miles or five yards. Rather depended on whose will was strongest. She caught the trace of her other self and followed it, not letting go of the portal''s place in her mind.


    Wonders drew her gaze and attention, from a herd of racing centaur folk to screeching wyverns mating aloft as they plunged through the sky. Sometimes they parted in time. Sometimes they cratered the ground like a pair of intertwined meteors.


    But there was more: Flowers with beautiful faces, sweet songs and a thirst for blood called to the sorceress, who averted her gaze and moved on. There were mortal children, as well; kidnapped from parents long dead, skipping through the trees and calling her over. Giant boulder folk, too; so drowsy and slow that villages covered their rocky flanks and winged horses grazed on their heads. One of the giants gave her a ponderous wink as Alyanara passed by. She nodded and smiled, but did not pause to chat, as diversions were often fatal in this darkly enchanting place.


    A sparkling river wound its way through the air overhead, complete with fishes and serpents that leapt both above and below; somehow always drawn back to that chuckling watery cylinder. Alyanara lifted a hand, just brushing its underside with her fingertips. The water felt cool and reviving, but she wasn''t foolish enough to drink any. Knew better, having learnt from the priests what happened to those who ate or drank in the Fey-wilds.


    Instead, carefully wiping her hand on her cloak, Alyanara pressed onward. Sights of phenomenal beauty and terrible danger kept her moving. It was every bit as hazardous to linger in the glade where an eladrin harper drew tears from the air with his song as it was to enter that frost-rimmed hole in the ground.


    She was not here seeking love or adventure, so the sorceress steered a clear path for the most part. Some things would not be ignored, though, placing themselves so that she had to respond; answering riddles, paying in coin or just patting a warm, dappled flank and braiding a silken mane with white flowers.


    People got lost here forever, that way, because they''d stopped to play with the children or settle a feud between faeries, and ended up staying for life. Alyanara avoided temptation until a muscular fellow¡­ feathered serpent below and winged, handsome man above¡­ rustled to a landing on the ground before her.


    "Alyanara," he said, in a voice like strong, honeyed wine. "You come to us late, but thrice welcome for all your coquettish delay. Come, sorceress, dally a bit. Strengthen our blood and your magic with love."


    His sleek plumage was black and gold, his skin deeply tanned and his long, braided hair like a river of smoke. His fierce falcon''s eyes shone with pride and open desire. A Quetzali warrior, and one with a taste for two-legged females.


    His clawed wings were only solid in battle or flight. On the ground, they shifted to misty suggestions, forming a sparkling cloak. At his hips, on either side, a pair of spurs curved out and down like two fangs. Nor was that all his armament, for the Quetzali bore also a spear, a coiled rope and long knife.


    The sorceress returned his smile, fishing his name from the Quetzali''s mind.


    "Kraetar of Farmont," she replied, inclining her head in a very slight bow, but promising nothing at all. "Your suggestion is¡­ unexpected, but not unwelcome. My business here is urgent, however, and there is not time for love-play. I seek myself of another plane, who has retreated here in deep sorrow."


    Kraetar''s expression darkened, but he signed understanding.


    "Alyanara-who-weeps. Yes, I know of her. She it was who predicted your coming and bade us watch for you. Would you speak with her, Sorceress?"


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    Alyanara nodded.


    "Very much, yes, and with all speed," she responded, "for the need is great. Conduct me to her, if you please, Kraetar."


    She had spoken his name aloud twice, now. There was power in that, for if she used it again, completing a three-speak, she might compel his obedience, here in the Fey-wild. But then, he knew hers as well, and had only to use it in formal address twice more. Surely aware of this, the Quetzali refrained, saying only,


    "Follow, then, Sorceress. The one you seek is not far, but the way can seem long and confusing without a guide."


    Kraetar remained on the ground, moving as a serpent does, in a smooth forward glide. His torso was carried well upright, enabling conversation. About something other than love, surprisingly.


    "The second hatchling, son of your son¡­" he began.


    "Val?" she supplied, not using her grandson''s full name in this fell, lovely place.


    "That one, yes," nodded Kraetar, smiling briefly. He had, not teeth, Aly noticed, but a serrated ridge of white beak-stuff in his mouth. "This Val has done a great service to one of our lost ones who wanders in exile. Officially, the matter is out of our hands, but¡­ I would offer him this, in return for his aid."


    The Quetzali spelled something out of a faerie pocket with a swift, furtive sigil, glancing around all the while as though concerned that someone might see what he was about and prevent it.


    A largish, garnet-red egg dropped into his hand, softly lit from within by something that wriggled and moved there.


    "For the second son of your son, if he is bold enough to master and raise it," said the Quetzali, passing the warm, humming egg to Alyanara. "A gift¡­ or maybe a trial¡­ for freeing one who was trapped."


    The hand-signed ''my clutch-sister'' was a mere flutter of fingers, quick and low as a whisper. Alyanara covered his sign with a flourish and bow.


    "I thank you, Wind-rider," she said, using a harmless title rather than thrice-speak his name. "It has been many centuries since a Tarandahl last bestrode a griffin, but I believe that my grandson would welcome the challenge¡­ either of him."


    The egg was spelled into a warmed faerie pocket of her own, but not one so near as to bring it to hatching. She had no desire to deal with one of those ravenous, horrible monsters, herself. Nevertheless, Kraetar seemed gratified, just about glowing with satisfaction.


    A bit of time passed in pleasant conversation about nothing that mattered, at all. Then, after traversing a distance of few steps and great length, they passed through a mid-forest portal, leaving the giant trees far behind.


    Alyanara looked all about as they emerged onto a great, wind-swept plain, its surface dotted with rocky outcrops and stunted evergreens. But, more than dominating the landscape, something towered ahead that rivaled Starloft for sheer size and great age.


    Clearly the work of giants, it was a mountain of granite and gold-veined quartz, carved into a series of complex, interlocking stone wheels. Mighty sigils the size of whole cities were inscribed on the rim of each cracked, mossy ring.


    Festooned with vines and topped with dense forest, the massive stone arcs pierced the mountain and rose through the clouds to unguessable heights. A flock of white birds wheeled through the air alongside this great structure, too far away for their cries to be heard.


    Very old and fallen to ruin, it was still breathtakingly grand¡­ and oddly homey to one who''d dwelt many cycles in Starloft. Alyanara nodded, understanding why her other self would be drawn to this place, or at least to the cluster of ruined buildings that crouched at its base.


    "She is there," said Kraetar, taking Alyanara''s hand and kissing it lingeringly. "But I have stayed over-long and must leave you, now. Good fortune, Sorceress. The invitation stands, when next you visit the Fey-wild."


    Alyanara squeezed the Quetzali''s hand, which was scaled and ridged on its inner surface like a raptor''s clawed foot.


    "As the stars shine and winds blow, Sky-lord," she replied, smiling. "In the time and place that they bear me back to your side." And maybe she meant that.


    "May it be soon," he said, pressing her hand in return. Then the Quetzali warrior unbunched his coils in one powerful spring, launching himself into the air. Wide, black-feathered wings spread out around him, clawed at the thumb-joint like a dragon''s. Filling with magic and wind, they bore Kraetar aloft and very soon out of her sight.


    Alyanara watched him go, then shook off his flirtatious glamor. Love and warfare were equally dangerous in the Fey-wild, and she had important business to attend to, as well as a husband.


    On to the titans'' enormous stone carving she went, making progress in odd fits and jerks. It was possible to walk for a candle mark''s time without moving at all, then to cross seven leagues in a step¡­ sometimes sideways or backward. Quite vexing, if one cared for logic or sense, but something an elf could adapt to.


    At any rate, Alyanara got there at last; finding herself well inside the ruined stone city between one heartbeat and another. The rocky plain was behind her, now. A labyrinth of dark, narrow buildings all around, the paths between them curving and tangled as uncoiled rope.


    The elven sorceress paused to get her bearings and allow her sense of place to adjust. One thing that there was none of at all in the Fey-wilds was iron or its mightier offspring, steel. Here, bronze, gold, silver and mithral, lumber and stone made up everything crafted or built, including the city around her. Being absent, iron''s draw did not shift her senses at all, and there was no need to allow for its pull, in this place.


    After a moment, she regained her grip on the other Aly''s position and started moving, once more. There were no marks to guide her, for the buildings were windowless towers of dark stone, most of them having no ground-level door. That the city had long been abandoned was clear from the accumulation of dust, bones and dead leaves. Wind sighed, wandering lost and alone amid buildings that sounded aloud like reed pipes.


    ¡­but that didn''t make it safe. She was attacked several times. Once, a young wyvern dropped from its perch high above, stooping like a red-scaled thunderbolt. Alyanara lifted a hand, inscribing and releasing a spell that enveloped the shrieking dragon, blasting it to sparkling motes and drifting, twirling bright shreds.


    Next, as she approached a wide central square, a poisonous mist rose from the vine-covered ground, climbing to waist height in moments. Alyanara levitated above the worst of the stuff, which ate holes in her clothing and raised blisters on flesh. With a sigil of connection, Aly tied the wind''s motion to that of her right hand, then clenched her fist, hard. The gas was swept up and compressed in one swift, violent grab, becoming a syrupy goo, then a solid lozenge of crystalized toxin. This she dropped into a weed-choked storm drain, watching as the plants turned brown, curled up and withered.


    Then, because these things always happen in threes, a vampire struck. Lordly, commanding and beautiful, the predator stepped from shadow to whisper her name, showing the jagged teeth of a wolf. Chill white and deep black, with burning red eyes, dressed in the noble garb of an earlier age, it approached her.


    "Come, Bright One," it whispered, using the name she''d had in the temple. "Come to your master."


    Alyanara stepped backward, thinking quickly. There was no safe way to fight such a monster, which could infect the elf or drain her life with a touch, enslave her with words. Instead of direct battle, she opened a rift and summoned a bubble of dawn. Glowing pink, gold and lavender light filled the square at her word, along with the deep, droning chant of Oberyn''s priests.


    "Begone," she commanded, making a sign with her hands that only an altar-maid would have learnt. "I dispel thee back to the shadows you crawled from, drinker of blood." And then, in Empyrean, "Ashaloth, Ashaloth, Asherith!" Which was to say, ''Out, out, away!''


    Surrounded and burning with light, seared by the gods'' own language, that beautiful nightmare invoked an escape spell and vanished. Alyanara stood waiting a bit, readying magic and stronger words of command, but the vampire did not return. Wisely. Thankfully.


    Once a seven-long heartbeat had safely passed, Alyanara resumed her path through that bleak, ruined city. Came at last to a rectangular pool of dark water, in which was reflected the giants'' vast construct of interlocked rings.


    Great menhirs of stone floated above the still pool, carved with bright sigils and slowly rotating. At the water''s edge, very near, crouched the rock crystal form of a beautiful, sorrowning elf-woman. Her other self, more stone now than flesh; still trailing water like tears from that lovely, unmoving face.


    Alyanara drew closer, pushing her way through waves of deep grief and inconsolable loss to reach her suffering analogue. The sheer, raw pain hurt her, as well, so the sorceress fought back with memory, freely offering every moment from her lord''s safe return from his sea voyage, to their parting at camp, less than a day ago. All that this version of herself had lost. Conversations, occasional arguments, shared meals¡­ acts of love¡­ all were opened and shared with Alyanara-who-weeps.


    "Bright One," said the sorceress, placing her warm, living hand on the statue''s cold shoulder. "Arise. Come away. Your son has perished, and your grandsons battle to save the realm they have need of you."


    Alyanara-who-weeps drew some strength from the transferred life of her twin, but¡­


    ''I cannot,'' whispered the air, hummed those circling menhirs. ''It has been so very long and I haven''t the strength.''


    "You need not go alone," said the sorceress, feeling a bit of softening, some motion at last in that slim, hunched shoulder. "I shall be with you."


    In mid speech, something happened. Where there had been two Alyanaras¡­ one vital and warm, filled with purpose¡­ one just about lost to her grief¡­ there remained only a lone, reeling elf. She, or they, nearly fell to the ground. Only, this was no place to show weakness of will.


    The statue was gone, and Alyanara was all at once twice what she had been.


    "Let us go, then," they said, turning to face the abandoned city and desolate plain. "The time for tears is ended. Now, we will fight."

 Part Two, Chapter Three

    3


    Somewhat later, down in the fanged cavern, a ragged assortment of high-elves and one hissing Tabaxi fought for their lives and their prince. They''d formed a circle around Nalderick and Genevera, battling with flashing weapons and explosive magic to protect the Imperial heirs. There was a goblin child present, as well, doing her best to take up where her Grampa had died and left off. Had only a few basic cantrips, but used them until her over-large staff began smoldering.


    Meanwhile, the creatures of chaos flooded the chamber like vile, shrieking rain. Cackling, zipping ifrits, cloakers, and a horde of slavering chuul dropped into the chamber. Valerian impaled two howling beasts with a savage sword-thrust, then kicked the creatures off of his blade, sending them reeling back into their oncoming fellows. Summoned rain of light with his free hand, dousing a few of those cursed ifrits and healing his own minor wounds.


    As the temperature briefly dropped below roasting, Val risked turning to Nalderick. The prince was beginning to shake himself free of the Emperor''s death-shock, and was almost able to fight.


    "Naldo," shouted the northerner, launching a firebolt at something that dropped from above, "we will defend you to last breath and burst hearts, but this torrent of dark-spawn won''t end till the sigil is cleared, down below."


    Over the noise of battle, the prince heard his friend. Drew a deep, unsteady breath and managed to nod. Val had lost enough people to know what Naldo was feeling. How hard it was to claw your way up after a loved one''s closely-felt death.


    Nalderick''s gaze was wounded and hollow, his motions still slow, but he was trying. Behind him, Princess Genevera held tight to a sling, conjuring shot which kept slipping out of her nerveless grasp.


    Meanwhile, Salem moved between shadows, working at the edges with Cap''n to distract and slaughter stragglers. An instant''s surprise and then Salem''s twin, slashing daggers were the last things that greeted dozens of freshly-made gnolls, this side of death.


    Lerendar had gotten the feel of that borrowed sword, by now, and had turned back into the reaping machine that Val remembered, bellowing insults and challenges. No magic, but Valerian kept him covered, preventing arrow-strike or shadow-thrust from reaching his furious older brother.


    Kalisandra fired More-than-she-seems again and again, using an arcane sigil to give her bow a magical, unerring string. Over and over the black, dwarf-forged arrow hissed off, piercing whole rows of charging chuuls with one shot. Time after time, the arrow returned to her hand, glowing with dwarven power and rage. She made eye-contact with Valerian, once or twice, but the northerner was busy defending others and hadn''t time for more than a mage-sent embrace.


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    Lady Solara, whatever her motives, fought like a demon; conjuring a pair of simulacra to make possible more than one battle spell at a time. Titania''s crippling laughter, Glowing manacles, Phantasmal killer and Spirit warrior mowed down hundreds of wraiths and slavering ghouls¡­ but there always seemed to be more of the creatures, with anything that fell in death rising up as a wild-eyed, fresh gnoll. Sometimes even the pieces fought on.


    As for the Imperials, Nalderick''s courtball team fought as a unit, using the tactics of arena and goal-ring to shove blinded chaos-spawn over the edge of the cavern''s deep gash. Roreck, Vashtie, Marlie and Sherlon were much more than four times as strong, working together. Even better, when Valno heeded a signal and boosted their move.


    Filimar, terribly brave, if a bit foolish, had tried following Salem, meaning to keep the Tabaxi rogue safe. Only, he could not keep pace with her shadow jumps, and soon fell behind, finding himself surrounded. Would have gone down, calling out to his heedless love, but Gildyr and Valerian rushed over to join the young elf-lord. Together, the trio beat off attack with magic and blade, fighting back to the main group.


    There was one saved ¡­but Val had to reach the Mother''s dark sigil, and he knew it. This could only be stopped by putting an end to her. Or, at least, by blocking her power here.


    Filimar embraced him and then Gildyr, mouthing ''Thank you'' over the roaring and screams, the whistle and crump of spells and the sharp, ringing clatter of blades.


    "Protect Their Majesties," Val shouted back in reply, giving Filno''s shoulder a swift, rough clasp. "I have to get to the source of this horror."


    Filimar would have come with him, but the prince and princess¡­ now direct heirs to the dragon throne¡­ had got to be defended, no matter what.


    "Be safe, Valno," he replied, more sensed than heard over the clamor of battle. ''''Good hunting." Then he quoted the Tarandahl war-cry, saying, "For Oberyn, for the dawn."


    Valerian answered with,


    "An Arvendahl to the fray," which made them brothers in all but blood.


    Pretty One shot over to join the two elves. Looking up at Valerian with wide eyes and a blood-spattered face, the goblin sorceress signed,


    ''Can show you the way.''


    Which¡­ absolutely. Yes. That, he very much needed, so Val signed back,


    ''Link to me. Follow my misty step.''


    He could feel pressure building inside of him, as Firelord sought to break free. But the Lord of Battles, the Shining One, cared not much at all for those who were not his own. Would like as not cauterize the entire system of tunnels, saving Valerian¡­ maybe Lerendar, as well¡­ and calling it victory. Unless he had some control, had sigil and mark, Val wasn''t willing to channel his god. Not again. Not like the last time.


    Perhaps a bit foolishly, he pushed Nightshade''s hilt into Nalderick''s hand. His Majesty was close to fully recovered now, and missing his own sword. Next, spelling protection over the whole, beset lot of them, Valerian took Pretty One''s hand and misty-stepped out of the fight.

 Part Three, Chapter Four

    4


    Lobum had indeed arisen, marching all night through forest and fen with Gildyr''s brother at their head, astride his wolf Astrea. They''d come in answer to Starloft''s war bells and Speaker Anneta''s call.


    The going was rough, though, for the ground often rumbled and shook underfoot. The eastern horizon glowered with fire and boiling, lightning-shot clouds. It seemed less a battle than certain death that they rushed toward, and only the fact that his brother was out there, somewhere, kept Arondyr from halting the main party and scouting ahead, on his own.


    They were in high-elven territory by this point, but not very far past Ilirian''s borders, and already trouble had started. They encountered steepening resistance on their way; crippled drakes, fleeing goblins and a few burn-scarred chuuls. Some escaped, but most were cleanly dispatched with bow shot or spear cast.


    Yet they kept right on coming, deserting a battle of darkness and gods-given-flesh. Ash began dropping in harsh, gritty clumps, borne on a sulphurous wind. Trees stirred and shifted, hearing the far-off call of their shepherds. Branches swayed. Roots drew up like rough knees, churning the forest floor. Birds took to the air in smoke-dark, screeching rivers, darting and wheeling high overhead.


    ...and this plane''s Arondyr wasn''t a fool. The tall, dark-haired paladin doubled the strength of the wards that shielded his troop. Braced himself with one hand clutching Astrea''s thick silver neck ruff, then dismounted. Turning to his Right- and Left-leaders, Andara and Padrec, he signaled them closer.


    "I do not know what prodigies of ill omen are shattering Ilirian," he began, over the distant rumble of earthquake and thunder, "but¡­"


    The rest of his statement was cut off abruptly as Karus appeared in a puff of wind and soft mist, shining pure white and crowned with a titan''s spread of wide, golden antlers. The Forest Lord, whom Arondyr had last seen in bloody chunks; his brother''s heart-friend, back from the dead.


    The paladin''s golden eyes widened in shock, but he, and all of the wood-elves, bowed low.


    "Mighty One," said Arondyr, feeling his heart surge with sudden, wild hope. With joy for his long-crippled brother, Gildyr. "Thrice welcome is your return, and glad beyond measure, your people. Speak, Great Lord. Make known your will!"


    Beside Astrea, a great, tawny she-bear was with them; a spirit of the mountains awakened by rising chaos. Together with his own noble beast, the grizzled she-bear lumbered over to sniff noses, conferring with Lord Karus.


    After a moment, Astrea said in his mind,


    ''Ilirian is deeply riven, Swift-foot.'' Adding, ''Dark things have pushed their way through to our plane there, summoned by goblins. Retreat will only allow them to follow, soon overwhelming Lobum, as well.''


    Arondyr cursed, shifting smoothly as one of his troops took aim, drew and shot down a cloaker, just past the paladin''s armored left shoulder. The monster collapsed to the ground; flapping and screeching, biting at the shaft of a barbed and skewering arrow. Padrec''s light-bolt burnt it to cinders, then, leaving no more than a patch of scorched leaves. Nodding his thanks to the bowman and Padrec, Arondyr turned to face Karus, again.


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    "Mighty One, we make all the haste that we can, but Starloft is still many leagues distant. By the time we arrive, there may not be much left to salvage. Would you¡­"


    The elk snorted agreement, already knowing what Arondyr had meant to ask. Scraping a hoof through the frozen windfalls, pinecones and leaf-litter that covered the ground, Karus drew a sigil of transport. Astrea lent the spell power, as did that boulder-sized bear. In moments, a wide portal and light-streaked tunnel came into being, crossing not just distance, but time. At its far end rose Starloft, surrounded by smoldering thorns and haloed in flame.


    ''Make haste. Cross over quickly, Swift-foot,'' urged Astrea, brushing his mind with her own. ''The dread one will sense our doorway and strike to destroy it.''


    Arondyr nodded. Turning to Andara and Padrec, he said,


    "Get everyone over. Make for the fortress and seek out Speaker Anneta. I will defend the rear, as you go."


    He''d brought a hundred and fifty archers, spearmen and slingers; all that Lobum could spare while protecting their own sacred charge (a presence not safe even to think about, and very long hidden). Arondyr provided nearly all that the troop boasted by way of healing and magic¡­ and that was little enough. He could not afford to lose a single warrior, and knew no such thing as "acceptable casualties". They were less of a fighting unit than a family, as everyone present had chosen to come.


    Andara and Padrec nodded briskly, then began dividing the group into units of ten, each with a Leader and Second. At first, the traversal went smoothly. The scout group got through without issue, then set themselves up to cover the others'' advance.


    There were a few more attacks, led by cloakers and fast-diving drakes on this end, by cackling ifrits and chuuls on the other. Arondyr and Astrea fought as a team, backed up by Karus and that great, roaring bear. Together they gored, swatted and shot monsters out of the sky, or¡­ rising to full, swaying twenty-foot height¡­ simply bit them in half on the wing.


    Nothing got past but a handful of scurrying goblins, who''d thrown down their weapons and run from the fight. Unlike his brother, the paladin could not wild-shape, but he could summon Hyrenn''s icy breath. At his word, Lord Winter''s terrible gale, supernaturally cold, howled from the plane of the gods. It froze the refugees solid, right to their terrified hearts. Not irreversible¡­ if anyone cared to salvage a goblin. Arondyr did not, and the dawn soon glittered on twenty-one small, huddled statues.


    Then, faster than telling it, something mounded up beyond mountain-high, out on the eastern horizon. First a wall, then a vast wave of crashing dark water, blocking the sky and last stars. The ocean had risen.


    "Arondyr!" shouted Andara. "This way! Hurry!"


    The paladin cast one frantic glance toward Lobum¡­ surely too far, too high on the mountain''s flank to be reached. Then he urged Astrea, Karus and the she-bear into their tunnel. Arondyr followed last of all, moving backward, watching in horror and awe as a thundering wall of seawater roared down to deluge the wood, blocking this end of their shimmering doorway. Their refuge shuddered and flexed all around them, pressed on all sides by roaring black water.


    He sensed the awful damage to Ilirian, feeling the wrath of the gods as death on a scale he''d never experienced wiped out most of a forest. Andara seized his arm, then, drawing the paladin''s gaze away from swirling water and gliding leviathans. From creatures that squirmed, crushed to paste as they drowned. (Small thing, hardly seemed to matter, at the time, but he was able to reach through and fish out a squirrel, saving one tiny life out of millions. The water was deadly cold and pressed like a landslide, almost dragging him forth. Once Andara and the great wolf hauled him to safety, he dared not try again.)


    "Arondyr," repeated Andara, as he turned his back on the drowning forest. The slim, green-haired elf gave his arm a brief shake, saying, "This tunnel is not permanent, and the other end appears to be dry. We must go on, my friend."


    The paladin nodded assent¡­ but it was terribly hard, and not just for him. He lifted a hand to caress his soul-friend''s lowered head, fondling silvery, laid-flat ears. Astrea whimpered softly, cut to the heart by the ongoing slaughter outside. Only the gods could repair such damage and death, if they cared to.


    "Lead on," said Arondyr, letting none of that turmoil into his voice. The poor, half-drowned squirrel he tucked into his hood, where there was warmth, if not safety. "Whoever has done this will very much pay. On my oath, and by Hyrenn, Lord of the endless winter, I swear it."

 Part Three, Chapter Five

    5


    Lady Alyanara crossed through the portal from Faerie to her own realm with a sigil and soft, murmured word. She''d intended moving onward, meaning to reach their visitor''s homeland, having brought back what she could of his grandmother. This other Valerian, bereft and embattled, had come to their world and freed his alternate self from drow slavers. To Alyanara''s thinking, she owed him at least as much help in return.


    Only, matters had changed very much in her absence. Before, the high-elven camp had been starting the day. On her way through, she''d seen cook fires kindled, watches changed over and reports given, as roving scouts returned to their base; the things you''d expect while out in the field. The day had dawned chilly and streaming with clouds, but pleasant enough for people not overly troubled by cold. Now, though¡­


    As the tingle and flash of transport faded, Alyanara stepped back through that broken stone archway to utter chaos and ruin. The fire that never goes out burned on the northern horizon, consuming whatever it touched. Clearly, a dragon had somehow awakened; was maybe still near and a threat. Alyanara stepped further forward, looking sharply around.


    High overhead and well north, a vast hole in the overcast sky dropped tumbling chunks of cloudstone like boulder-sized hail. As the sorceress looked on in shock, an entire floating island plunged slowly downward, crumbling as it fell. With a deep, booming groan, the long-hidden citadel crashed to the ground. Its slanted, impaling grey bulk struck hard, raising concentric rings of bare stone. The constant loud creak-rumble-smash of falling debris rocked the heavens, as well, raising high winds and great shock waves.


    Nor was that all. The corpse of a titan lay sprawled on the shuddering ground, looking like a mountain range from this distance. Its head had been torn off and then flung many miles to the west, perhaps by the vanished dragon. Having apparently blasted a crater on impact, the metal-clad head seemed to stare at its twitching body, which already swarmed with scavengers. Very clearly, a brief, savage battle had taken place in Alyanara''s absence.


    The stench of burnt flesh, hot metal and blood filled the air, as did the screeching cries of the monsters and constructs born of the titan''s felled corpse. As Alyanara summoned her magic, more of the creatures took shape. Gobbets of flesh and metal, wobbling orbs of dark blood, rose like smoke from the enormous cadaver. Twisting and writhing, they budded limbs and gained life, for the corpse of an ancient one could not lie quiet. Like a fallen tarrasque or netted world-serpent, the titan would not decay, simply breaking apart, instead; shedding countless foul offspring in death. Would do for centuries, if the process were not interrupted.


    Newly born ithjars, bat-winged horses and half-metal chimeras fought overhead, dropping poison and offal like vile, stinking rain. Metallic assemblers sizzled and clicked, forming larger and better-armed hives. None of them reached Alyanara, whose reflexive shielding spell warded the creatures off, but she wasn''t alone here, or mostly concerned for herself.


    Away to the south, the elven camp was on high alert, battling monsters and taking in refugees. The Tarandahl griffin banner still circled aloft; tattered and burning, but present. Galadin still lived, then, and Alyanara had returned in time to prevent further disaster.


    She strengthened the wards on the high-elf encampment, while casting safe travel for those who struggled to reach it. Sent a warning to Filimar, as well, urging the young elf-lord to seek shelter, for his party of wood-elves and Snowmont folk would be vulnerable to attack.


    Then, calling upon She-of-the-Flowers and all of the Tarandahl gods, the sorceress sprang into battle. With sigil and word she shot upward, cleaving the rippling air. Called "Stop time", freezing everything in mid-act, mid- raging struggle, mid-strike. Able to see many miles in every direction, the sorceress detected no dragon, but that didn''t mean that the victorious monster wouldn''t return. Best to have everything sorted before hand, and pray that its fate drove it elsewhere.


    In a clear, calm voice, Alyanara started a greater chant of unmaking. Glowing symbols swirled all around as she sang, cloaking the sorceress in magical energy, making her shine like another sun. The chant required absolute concentration; utter centering, for her target was no mere wyvern or vampire. This time she faced a fallen, still highly dangerous ancient one, and such things were terribly hard to unmake.


    The sorceress pushed aside everything else but those chanted words, giving herself to the magic. Finally, she came to the key word: Aketh. At her whispered command, a pulse of raw manna surged from the sky-borne elf like a bubble of light. Everything not protected by shielding exploded to dust at its passing, filling the land with scorched craters; the air with smudges of ash. Even the fleshly parts of the titan dissolved, leaving only its metal and gems.


    For an instant longer, Alyanara shone in the sky like a goddess. Then, drained to her core, she dropped to the ground. Time surged forward again as scouts alerted and warriors found themselves lunging at nothing but dust. Lord Galadin sheathed his sword and rushed to his unconscious wife. Stooped to the ground, taking her into his arms. Blood-streaked and battered, himself, High Lord Tarandahl bore her back to the family pavilion.


    "Reston!" he shouted.


    "Here, Sire," answered his half-elven son, falling into step beside Galadin.


    "Take Valerian. Establish and secure a perimeter. Full wards and no questions, until I return. If it isn''t ours, it dies."


    "Yes, My Lord," said the half-elf, saluting his father. Then, fumbling around in his faerie pockets, Reston pulled out a half-empty flask of glowing pale liquid. Life essence.


    "For Milady," he said, holding it out. There was a healer, of course... but Galadin surprised him by magically seizing the bottle, anyhow.


    "I thank you," said the elf-lord. Making full eye-contact, he added, "Later, perhaps, we might find time to talk."


    With emotions too mixed for words, Reston bowed low. Saw his father safely into the family pavilion, then sped off in search of Valerian


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Not quite meanwhile, very nearby:


    He''d tempted chaos for thousands of years; baiting the serpent, trying to force a too-early shift in that uneasy balance; working to free someone trapped for so long, that his worship had fallen mostly to mumble and dry, empty rites. His motives were good, every one of them, but the steps of immortals often crush those who huddle below, and no one would thank him for doing what had to be done.


    Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    Karellon burned with the fire that does not go out, attacked by a freed and wildly enraged golden dragon. With its lashing tail, fiery breath and tornadic wingbeats, Vernax first leveled the Imperial palace, then started in on the city, pausing its rampage only to feed and draw manna.


    The city guard fought back with great courage, firing mighty, wall-mounted crossbows and power gems at a lightning-fast, highly evasive target. But they rarely got more than a shot or two off, before Vernax incinerated weapons, fighters and guard posts.


    Not everyone was surprised. Being an oracle of tragic, awful power, Meliara Tarandahl ad Galadin had known for some time that disaster was coming¡­ but she''d have had to see the Emperor or Sherazedan in person to fix it as fate¡­ and nobody trusted a seer of death.


    Here and now, though, as the City rumbled and blazed, Meliara did what she could to assist. Able to scry out safe paths and spot underground shelters that wouldn''t collapse, the oracle directed fleeing people to places where death did not lurk. It was a backward use of her curse, but this day it worked, saving hundreds from fiery, crushing destruction.


    Then a young human paladin rushed to the oracle. Tall, raw-boned and dark-haired, wearing the sunrise colors of the Constellate, he carried two crying children and led a crowd of low-town refugees.


    "My Lady!" he called to her over the war bells, "Here are others in need of protection. Please, Seer, where may I send them?"


    In her mind, Karellon was a tangled, clotted-up knot of darkness and terror; filled now with ghosts and last shrieks. But, some places were safe, still. Some shone with warding and peace.


    "The mage trial arena," she told him, "but your way must not be direct. Avoid the Grand Plaza and Avenue of Triumph, for there is much slaughter to come, therein."


    Meliara could feel the purple glow of the seer''s eye burning anew on her forehead, seeking the paladin''s fate.


    "Go," she said hoarsely. "There will not be many more saved, boy. Hurry."


    Surprisingly, the young paladin shifted his grip on the children to reach out and clasp her arm.


    "Come with us, Milady," he urged. "He has seen your deeds, and He wishes you well."


    ''He'' could only be Oberyn¡­ but there were very few who still heard the Shepherd of Stars, Lord of the Dawn, anymore, while dreamers and false prophets abounded. She might have said so, but the dragon roared overhead just then like a thundering torrent of gold, dragging its tail through a row of tall buildings. Stone blocks crashed all around as their binding magic failed, sending the small crowd diving for cover. Meliara cast distraction and darkness, hiding them all from the dragon''s sight.


    Mind made up, she lifted a weeping small boy and nodded once, saying,


    "Follow me, then, but stay close and be quiet. My spells are brief, as I have not much manna left."


    The paladin actually smiled.


    "I have some magic remaining," he said to the oracle. "Draw upon me at need, My Lady. What I have is yours."


    Meliara looked away from him, before fate''s awful window could open again.


    "This way," she said, setting a crooked and scuttling path. Paused only to let the little ones rest and to dig out those who called for help from the rubble, because the paladin... Brother Arnulf... would leave no one behind. Another time, because they came upon all that remained of His Imperial Majesty. The Paladin covered the Emperor''s scattered body as best he could, speaking words of rest and release. Something happened, then. A faerie pocket opened, dropping a bluish long-sword. Sea-elven work, from the look of it, and terribly old.


    "Take it," whispered Meliara, seeing something that Arnulf, once Villem, could not. "Save those he swore to defend, Paladin."


    The young mortal did as she bade him, taking up sword and oath, together.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    High overhead, Sherazedan the Subtle drew power and manna. Timing, as always, was everything. Too soon dealt with, and this plane''s chaos would not spill over into the others. Might not be enough to rouse, or at least shift, cursed Epophis. Too late, and it just wouldn''t matter, as there would be no one left to celebrate Oberyn''s return, or work to reforge the One God.


    Andrax the Mighty had come; intended to find and rouse other dragons. It had to be stopped, but first, the wizard had business in Karellon. Leaving his cracked stone form, Sherazedan spelled himself onto the City''s highest remaining tower.


    Landed safely, despite scorched marble and melted handrails, ignoring the blackened remains at his feet. As he''d told his heedless apprentice, ghosts were fifty a copper. Emperors, on the other hand¡­


    Stone-faced and icy, Sherazedan lifted his staff.


    "Vernax," he called out, in a voice that seemed to fill the entire city. "Come forth and face me, offspring of Sleena, who dredged up the first land and drove back the raging waters. In Oberyn''s name, come forth!"


    The young dragon banked and wheeled through the air, cutting roiling smoke into tatters; jetting pale flame. One forefoot gripped part of a cart horse. The other was ready to strike, talons spread wide and streaming with blood.


    It screamed defiantly, resisting the wizard''s command. But Sherazedan had watched it hatch, grow, fight alongside one emperor after another, then return to the egg again and again. He could manage Vernax.


    (An ancient copper dragon, however¡­ was a distraction that he would not allow to shake him. Not now. Not this close.)


    Switching to High Empyrean, Sherazedan ordered,


    "Alesar," which is to say "Come".


    The dragon cut around through the air, dropping that half-eaten horse. Used too much flame too early, leaving it heaving and out of breath by the time it reached Sherazedan''s crumbling perch.


    The wizard lofted himself into the burning sky, casting many powerful simulacra with which to surround the rebellious young dragon. They chanted together, fully twenty Sherazedans shining with greenish-tinged light. Twenty staffs inscribed separate parts of a complex, multi-dimensional rune, forming a cage around Vernax.


    The dragonet hadn''t magic enough to resist Sherazedan''s spell. Young, and exhausted by its rampage, Vernax writhed and swirled like a bottled djinn, trapped in a cage of magical force that shrank with every completed line of the wizard''s sigil.


    "Back," commanded Sherazedan. "Return once more to the egg."


    It attacked him, or tried to. The inner surface of that shimmering prison reflected all power and damage back onto its source, causing great gashes and welts to appear on the dragon''s scaled hide.


    Sherazedan didn''t care. Flinched not at all at the struggling wyrm''s frantic cries. He had actually liked Aldarion, first across time and planes out of mind to feel like a genuine brother. In no way would Nalderick ever equal his fallen grandsire. In no way would Vernax succeed in resisting Sherazedan''s will.


    "You shall obey," rasped the wizard, glowing with manna that roiled and seethed. Lifting his staff, he reabsorbed the simulacra, sorting twenty sets of new memories in an eye-blink. The effort drained him, so Sherazedan reached into a faerie pocket and pulled forth the essence of one more forgotten god, letting its substance refill and bolster him. Lost Yevanna, fertility spirit of some buried valley, drowned city, or long-conquered people; it was one and the same to Sherazedan, who cared not at all for those who had failed. As a felled tree feeds the fire, as the sky feeds the stars, so unworshipped gods strengthened the wizard clever enough to find and entrap them.


    This one''s magic¡­ something to do with cave bears and flowers and long nights of passion¡­ melted into her captor. Then, with his power at absolute flood, Sherazedan crushed Vernax back into a large, glowing egg.


    The sigil-cage disappeared with a crackling ''pop'', leaving a bumpy gold ovoid floating in midair over the ruined tower. Victory¡­ of sorts.


    Behind him, the City still burned and the war bells yet tolled. Ahead lay the fight of his life, against an ancient and powerful foe. There was no time for aught else here in Karellon, beyond casting a time-lock spell on that floating golden egg. Now, only Korvin, Nalderick or Genevera would be able to reach the monstrous thing.


    That done, the wizard cast one brief, unpitying glance at the City, then vanished away to prepare.

 Part Three, Chapter Four

    4


    Valerian had meant to be strong and keep moving, planning to seek out the Cave of the Sigil with Pretty One''s help. Only, it didn''t work out that way, at all. Linked to the goblin child, he misty-stepped down and away from the battle, took a few wobbly steps and then collapsed, sliding along the passage wall to a seat on the stone-littered ground. Scraped glow-fungus off of the rock as he folded up, making the place even darker.


    He was utterly spent. What Murchison would have called ''in the red'', subsisting on the borrowed manna of some luckless descendant, or maybe the family sword, which he was addled enough to feel scratching away at his mind.


    Nor was the goblin doing much better. She leaned her staff on the tunnel wall¡­ which was moving¡­ and then dropped to a squat, nearby. Her pupils were enormous, leaving naught but a golden-red ring to her eyes, and her breathing was made up of rough, shallow gasps. Probably not a good sign.


    "Callin'' a make ''n mend, Y''r Lordship?" she ventured, using a term that she''d picked up from Lerendar.


    "B''lieve make-and-mend''s calling me," Val corrected, managing a brief, weary smile.


    Both of them fished through their belongings for food and drink, then, as it was obvious that no one was going any further without rest and a little refreshment. It was dim in the passage, but safe enough, and both could see without very much light. From her carry-sack, Pretty One drew a few rounds of flat, greyish bread and a flask of thin wine. Also, the back half of a rat, reminding him rather of Salem.


    Val provided some frosted dough-men, dried fish and another of those everlasting apples. Meant for Patches and bought in Snowmont, they were the one thing that seemed to never completely run out. Some nascent clerical magic of Mirielle''s, possibly¡­ but he was coming to truly hate apples, even when roasted and shared.


    (Didn''t occur to him that a burning hands spell would spook the young goblin, or that she''d see anything in it but an easy way to cook food. She did like the baked fruit and the doughmen, though, not getting much in the way of sweets, underground.)


    Afterward, finishing off the last munch and then licking her fingers, Pretty said,


    "Yer glowin'', Y''r Lordship. Junior¡­ y''r sib¡­ done that, too, when ''ee were near wiped out. I c''n stand watch fer a bit, if yer wantin'' some rest."


    Valerian rubbed at his face with one hand, reflexively muttering a cleansing spell that did little more than flutter his clothing and hair. (He smelled a bit better afterward, though.)


    "Might have to," admitted the elf-lord, feeling the past slipping up and around like warm water. Very shortly, his mind unmoored enough to wander in memory, seeking rest after the usual manner of elves.


    Pretty One crouched in the corridor for a bit, observing his lordship blearily. Sceptically. Had anyone told her, as little as a day earlier, that she would find herself alone in a tunnel with Sparks, that infamous murderer¡­ standing watch as he drowsed¡­ she''d have called them struck by the moon and the bare, open spaces. Yet, here she was, watching her glowing, unconscious, beautiful enemy.


    For just a wild instant Pretty One felt the edge of her sharpened stone knife. Thought about plunging its blade straight through his uncovered throat. Quick-like, before he could speak any spells or light up his hands.


    Ratchet, and all of them others who''d fried like fish on a stick, would come for a taste of their killer''s blood, she was sure. Rest easier, they would. And all it would take was a moment. A strike. Such thoughts tore her deeply, hitting the weary young girl very hard.


    As for Valerian, his loosened mind found its way to an afternoon in midsummer, on the deck of the Seahorse, with Granddad, Katina and Lerendar. They had sailed from the lake to the Aradyne River that day, meaning to go just as far as the great coral arch that marked the harbor at Sea Port. A safe enough trip, and a reasonably short one.


    Valerian, young enough to be carried still, and to have his nanny aboard, had been up at the bow on Galadin''s shoulders. He''d leaned excitedly forward, one hand tangled in Granddad''s white hair, the other pointing out darting small boats, while Skipper barked and frisked all around them.


    Mage wind sang in the Seahorse''s rigging, filling her luminous sails. Her painted-on eyes shifted and roved, sometimes at bow or stern, sometimes climbing the mainmast; not always paired. The ship, a sleek ethran, or serpent-hunter, clove through the water at nearly top speed, sending spray sheeting back onto Val and his grandfather; leaving a mountainous wake.


    The tide was receding, lending their ship greater dash. The sun climbed high overhead, striking gems from the Aradyne River. Mid-meal would be served on the deck soon¡­ Val remembered that¡­ and maybe he''d never had a happier day in his life.


    His grandfather gripped his legs at the shins, keeping the squirming small boy from falling. Answered Valerian''s babbling questions with patient good humor, though the child hadn''t been given his name yet, and barely could speak.


    Except, just as they came into view of the bustling harbor, then became now, as memory shifted to actual contact.


    His grandfather reached higher up, seizing the boy and lifting him off of his shoulders. Turned the blinking small child around and sat him down on the wooden rail. But¡­ that hadn''t happened, at all. In memory, they''d watched the carved archway appear, first as a sliver, then full, ornate coral bow. Seahorse had been moored to a ring on the northern pylon.


    Here and now, in altered seeing, he looked up at his grandfather, who was smiling a little.


    "You''ve turned out rather well," said the elf-lord. "I am proud of you, Valerian."


    "Granddad?!" blurted his descendant, altering shape in uneven bursts to his present appearance.


    "Me. Now that a part of you has entered the sword, I can reach you, as can Vesendorin."


    The younger elf winced.


    "I am truly sorry about that, My Lord. I killed the family sword because Vesendorin had to save me in battle." Because he hadn''t been good enough, on his own. But Galadin only laughed.


    "He''s had a great deal to say about you, taking full credit for your¡­ erm¡­ maturation. But, I''m certain he''ll tell you himself, once he''s spent enough time enjoying his freedom."


    Reached out to clasp and shake Valerian''s shoulder at that, adding,


    "More to the point, the fact that you''ve given the sword on to Reston¡­"


    Val huddled slightly, expecting a Sherazedan-style dressing down. Didn''t get one, though.


    "... making him a wielder of the blade¡­ means that I may talk to my son. I have a chance now to put some things right, and I thank you."


    The old lich had said something about ghosts and their wearisome quests, but it felt really good to see Granddad again. To know that, somehow, he''d helped.


    ¡­And this day was darkening as it hadn''t, back then. A sudden gale and high-piling clouds sprang from nowhere, churning up waves and blotting the sun. The ship began tossing in storm-roughened waters, very much faster than anything natural. Somehow, the harbor and shore had vanished, leaving them far out to sea. Sensing they hadn''t much time, Val asked,


    "What about Dad? Can he talk to me, too?"


    Galadin shook his head, no.


    "Keldaran is neither quite living nor dead, trapped in between by last magic and concern for his family and realm. He is not able to speak through the sword, yet." Then, as the wind whipped his ice-white hair and tore at his words, "The way ahead grows darker, boy, and your enemy is not who you think."


    Sketching a glowing sigil in midair, the elf-lord said,


    "Here is a boon. Not much of one, I''m afraid. You have no idea how difficult it is¡­ how utterly tedious¡­ to scrape up manna without a physical reservoir. But it may be of some help, in time to come."


    A glow formed in the space between them, almost lost in the glare of sudden, sky-tearing thunder and lightning. Val reached forward, clear through the boon-spell, to embrace his grandfather. Not extraplanar. Not somebody else''s. His own.


    There was time for one brief, fond clasp. Then rain hammered down, cold as a slap and ferocious. Lightning struck the mast, which split with a sharp, awful crack. Val was torn roughly away; out of the vision and back to his own empty body. Fully alert, he sprang to his feet, darting a look at the darkness and dust.


    The goblin was huddled a few feet away, clutching something; weeping as though the heart had been torn right out of her breast. Valerian cleared his throat, still feeling the violent motion of ship, sea and wind. Still hearing his grandfather''s words¡­ all of which made him a little incautious.


    "Rest," he said to the girl. "I am restored now. I will stand watch for you."


    She did not make eye-contact, but sniffled and nodded, scuttling off to wrap a smelly old cloth around herself, as she curled up facing the wall. After a few ragged heartbeats her breathing deepend in mortal sleep, and Val was alone.


    He set some wards and cast a faint mage-light, then busied himself readying spells and ingredients. LIke a fool, he''d given Nightshade to Prince¡­ now maybe Emperor¡­ Nalderick. All very well, very noble, but the gesture left him with only his second-best sword, which he''d thrown at Kaazin, by the Shop of True Need.


    Val got it back out and unsheathed it again, scowling uncertainly, looking for signs of dark-elf corruption. Longer and broader than Nightshade, with much less added enchantment, the spare sword was just mithral and steel. Its leather-wrapped hilt was topped by a polished red gem onto which he''d long ago scratched a fierce, rampant griffin. Over the years, that stick-figure monster had developed a bit of animation. Was currently dozing in loaf-form, like a winged cat.


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    Might have been just his fancy, but the sword''s pommel ornament seemed darker. Less garnet than blood. Meanwhile, its blade looked and felt¡­ colder, giving off faint curls of mist.


    "Knew it," Val muttered, in tones of deepest disgust. "That offspring of dung heap and corpse has polluted my weapon."


    Which¡­ you know¡­ he still needed. Lerendar''s improvised spear was at hand in a faerie pocket, but making an actual sword out of the thing would take time and manna he just couldn''t spare.


    Valerian sighed, shifting position a bit as he frowned at the second-best, drow-tainted blade.


    "You have been mine since childhood," he scolded. "All that the midden-spawn did was bat you aside in rejection. Surely, he cannot have altered you much."


    The sword glittered darkly, keeping its own counsel. Maybe an actual, dignified name would help? (Yes, he''d called it something, before. A stupid, top-lofty kid name that he didn''t like to recall.)


    "You are Frostbite," said Valerian, "and you shall serve in this time of trial. No more exercise blade, but a weapon of light¡­ which understands darkness."


    The hilt shifted a bit in his grip, then, attuning. The stick-griffin stretched and yawned on its gem, flexing over-large wings. (He''d never been much of an artist. That was Aunt Meliara, and Mother.)


    Anyhow, between this and that, time passed and Pretty One got enough rest to go on with. She uncurled with a sudden sharp jerk and a gasp, calling out,


    "Grampa?!"


    Looking around, seeing only the elf, she lowered her head.


    Val offered her drink, sending a flask of his family''s honey wine drifting across. Said,


    "My grandfather died at sea, when I was not much older than you are. I felt his end. We all did¡­ and it has hurt every day, since. But, I''ve learned to live around the loss. I''ve had to. You asked, if it ever gets better¡­"


    She was gazing up at him now, a strange, wild look on her face. Val continued,


    "I would say no, not exactly. It''s just a burden you get used to carrying, because others have need of your strength. Your folk need a sorceress. Mine require a mage¡­ and all we can do is our best."


    Pretty One sniffled.


    "I wish that all this could just go away," she whispered, taking a gulp of the wine. "That Grampa was back¡­ with Ratchet an'' them¡­ and that we was never fightin'', at all." Took one more swig and then held out the tooled leather flask. Valerian called it back through the air.


    "Me, too," he said, very quietly. Then, drinking once, spelled it away. "Are you ready to go?" asked the elf, rising with a brief, bright shimmer of pocketed objects.


    "Guess so," she answered. "Guess we has ter be. Both of us."


    Retrieving her staff and her carry-sack, Pretty One studied the tunnel.


    "This way, Milord," she grunted, starting forward with scraped-up courage; putting away childish tears.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Out in Karellon, Meliara the Oracle, seer of death, led that small band of refugees down to the mage-trial arena. They were mostly half-elves, kobolds and humans, as the grander folk of the City had already moved to a safer location. Those required by duty to stay had been swept away by escape spells once an ancient dragon appeared in the sky. Once the emperor died.


    The path that she chose was not swift, for unstable buildings could collapse without warning, burying half of the street in blocks of marble the size of a dray-wagon. Worse, there were scavengers already present; things of darkness that Aldarion''s power had kept in check, now free to prey on the injured and dead. Of Sherazedan, there was no sign. The war bells rang vainly, repeatedly, setting her teeth on edge, but getting no answer, at all.


    Meliara used her seer''s vision to locate places of danger. These, she avoided; moving that small band of twenty-two refugees in scurrying bursts, trusting the paladin to strike down anything that dropped from the rooftops or rose from below. Meanwhile, the dragon-fire still burned, spreading with every wind-gust.


    Their crossing took several candle-marks, but felt very much longer. Once, a ghoul rose up from a corpse it had been ravaging, changing shapes to look like a frightened young child.


    "Help, please?" it begged, holding out skinny, blood-dappled arms. All Meliara could see was a creature of seething hunger and evil, hiding itself with illusion. She bore no weapon, had only the weakest of shield spells. Sensing this, the ghoul began edging nearer. Then the paladin vaulted a fallen column to lunge between them, sword in hand. Oberyn''s sunburst hung on a long chain around the warrior''s neck. He took hold of it now, scraping it along the sword''s blade, striking bright sparks, allowing its power to flow from the symbol and into the weapon.


    "Oberyn, slayer of darkness, strengthen my arm," murmured the paladin, as he leapt at the ghoul. The sea-elven blade seemed to catch fire. Cleft the monster from skull to crotch in a single blow, holy light burning both halves to nothing before they could hit the ground. Seawater burst from the weapon, then, forming a waterspout that swept the ghoul''s taint from the corpse it had fed upon, freeing a soul to move onward.


    She''d expected less trouble in the better parts of the City, but that wasn''t what happened. There were mansions whose physical portion had collapsed entirely, leaving warded chambers still floating three or four stories above all the rubble and flame. One of these rooms contained abandoned servants, having no magic and too frightened to jump. A pack of were-rats snapped and circled in the smoldering courtyard, below, waiting for someone to fall. A lone elven guardsman had done his best to pile stones up, trying to reach those trapped, above, but now he was stuck at the top of his rock-pile, fending off wolf-sized rats with curses, a truncheon and sword. Seeing the newcomers, he cried out for help, gasping,


    "In all the gods'' names¡­ my wife is up there¡­ please¡­"


    Meliara wasn''t a direct fighter, but she could stare at the were-rats, allowing the seer''s eye to call forth their fate, showing them imminent death by holy fire and blade. Fully half of the hairy monstrosities melted back to their man-form, but the change couldn''t hide them. The paladin reached up and back for his usual weapon, a broad-bladed spear. Then, like an armored whirlwind, he seemed to be everywhere, taking advantage of fallen blocks and burning pits to confuse, ambush and slaughter the chittering rodents. Not one escaped.


    After that, Brother Arnulf drew into himself for a bit, finding his center and calling on power. A few moments passed as fires crackled and hissed, wind gusting cold and alone around piled, broken stone. Then the paladin lifted a gloved hand, raising block after block to form a magical staircase leading from the gutted mansion up to that floating room. The stones rumbled as they were levitated, pushing their mass into the ground, further cracking the courtyard. A shower of sand and pebbles clattered onto the staring crowd. Meliara warded them as best she could, but a few wound up with black eyes or chipped teeth. Once the last, highest stone was in place, the guardsman cried out,


    "Lynn, sweetling, hold on, we''re coming!"


    With two of the abler refugees, he bounded up the paladin''s hovering blocks. First embraced and kissed Lynn, then handed a five-year-old page, three human maids and a steward to safety. All the while, Brother Arnulf remained in deep meditation, holding those blocks in position with absolute trust in his Lord. Meliara stood watch for him, holding the guard''s dropped truncheon as though she knew how to use it. Maybe she looked a bit odd, and not very noble at all; her hair streaming gold in the wind, eyes casting back flame like a cat''s¡­ but for once, no one feared her. For the first time since childhood, her presence was good.


    When everyone had made it safely down to the courtyard, the paladin lowered his hand, allowing the stones to settle gently, one at a time, back into place on the ground. He had to sit for a while, after that, head down and panting, but no one begrudged him the rest¡­ and their party gained six companions: Verrin the guard, his wife Lynn, and her fellow servants.


    So it went, until they came at last to the shattered arena, the place where young mages, including Meliara''s nephew, proved themselves worthy of grimoire and staff. Once, the building had floated aloft, supported by lacy pylons and spells, surrounded by beautiful gardens. Now it lay at an angle, half of its struts shattered and several focus gems missing. Of the gardens, nothing remained but torn earth. There was no shadow of death, though. Better, the arena itself was intact, being based in the fey wilds and not in mere stone. The trouble was going to be getting inside.


    One of the half-elves, a young girl named Lydie, had sold flowers and gifts to folk in the stands. She knew a way in that skirted the crushed main entrance. A humble side door, it was, where supplies were delivered and servants allowed. Its portal was sideways, half buried in rubble, but muscle, levers and prayer soon pried it loose.


    Meliara sensed no peril within. Still, Arnulf insisted on going first, casting holy light, one hand at the hilt of his sword. Their rescued elven guard brought up the rear, being armed and in relative health. Children and the wounded between, following that bright, holy glow. The passage was not long in physical space, but took a while to traverse, being partly out of their plane with its root in the fey wild. A mage could have managed it faster, but none of them had that much manna.


    No one already inside the stadium had magic enough to command its environs, until Meliara arrived with the paladin. Added together, their power awakened the stadium''s physical settings. All at once, as they came in through that humble service tunnel, the arena went from featureless black to a wistful collage of everyone''s homes.


    Starloft was central, with its village, fields and sparkling lake¡­ but so was some kind of underhill sidhe, like a big, overturned bowl painted blue inside, with wandering mage-glows for light. At its fringes, their combined setting broke into various huts, burrows and cramped, small apartments; everyone''s personal notion of safety and peace.


    Meliara gasped and swayed where she stood, having not seen home since she''d left as a troubled young maiden. Only her nephew''s occasional visits¡­ when the curse was less active¡­ had kept Starloft fresh and alive in her mind.


    The children and refugees darted off with glad cries, seeing places and people they knew. Not Meliara, nor the paladin, either. Beside her, Brother Arnulf was wide-eyed and wondering.


    "Do you think¡­" he began, taking the oracle''s hand. "Would our folks be here, too, Milady?"


    He was only a human, a mortal warrior of no lineage, at all. Should not have made eye-contact, much less touched her¡­ but Meliara did not pull away. Gazing at all of that sudden light and activity, the seer said,


    "If they are in our thoughts, then, perhaps so. In simulacrum, at least. There is no actual transport magic here. The spell is only creating what each of us longs for, lacking specific direction."


    The paladin squeezed her hand, then released it, turning to face Meliara.


    "You have manna enough to keep the arena attuned, have you not, Milady?" he asked.


    "Aye that," she admitted cautiously. There were boats on the lake, one of them looking like Sunfish, her own little skiff, down to its doe-eyes and golden lateen sail. "But there is tremendous danger outside."


    "...And thousands of people are struggling to survive and reach safety. They need help, My Lady. I''m a paladin. ''Rushing in'' is my job."


    Again, the seer''s eye tried to open, seeking to read and establish the young man''s fate. Meliara felt its burn at her forehead and started to move away. She didn''t want to know, but he prevented her flight with a gentle hand on her arm.


    "Release me," she hissed, half-sobbing. "Would you see what lies in wait for you, mortal?!"


    "If it takes away part of your burden, then¡­ yes. Let me look."


    Everyone else, even her nephew, had heeded her warnings and fled when one of the bad spells came on. Not this one. Not the foolish, good-hearted young human.


    So she looked at him, tilting her head slightly to meet his calm gaze. The eye manifested itself, first warming her forehead then opening fully, probing the future. She saw, and so did he. Battle and blood; fire, betrayal and love; and then, at the end, a whisper of hope.


    Both of them staggered when the vision cleared, more or less keeping each other from falling.


    "There. Now you know," growled Meliara, more savagely than she''d intended.


    "And now you need not fear to look at me," he replied. With confidence, for¡­ in the vision¡­ she''d been there, right to the end. "And forewarned is forearmed, they say. At any rate, I have nothing to fear outside, today, and that gives me courage. As do you."


    Arnulf (Villem, before he''d given his name to the Constellate) lifted her hand and kissed it.


    "May I know your name, My Lady?" he asked softly.


    Combined mage glow and sunshine made the moment bright in her mind, ever afterward.


    "Meliara," she told him, "after a kind of¡­"


    "Flower. Violet, or pale blue, that grows in the rocks, up north," finished the young man, adding, "But you are golden, not blue, except for your eyes." Then, though she hadn''t asked, he said, "Before taking my oath and swearing service, I was Villem."


    Fate had its own way of doing things, and the destination said nothing at all about how one arrived there. She had been at his side in that grim, shared vision, but it was up to them to decide why.


    "Be safe," she said, changing the subject. "There is much peril and sorrow, without. Not from Vernax, though. Something or someone else moves through the city, now, taking lives under cover of chaos."


    The paladin nodded, frowning.


    "I have sword-brothers and -sisters here, My Lady; others sworn to fight for the dawn. I shall seek them out."


    The Constellate was no longer much honored in Karellon, beyond pittance tithing and lip-service. There was still a small unit in low-town, though, ready to help those in need. Meliara touched a slim finger to her own forehead, and then, reaching higher, to his.


    "Three times," she told him, "you may call upon the eye. It will reveal what is hidden, see through walls or somewhat into the mind of another, but must be invoked separately, each time. Be wise. Stay safe. Come back."


    "To you?" he asked, still holding the hand that he''d kissed.


    "To me," she replied.

 Part Three, Chapter Five

    5


    In the fanged cavern, far below Starloft, there had at last come a lull in the fighting. The supply of monsters and dark-spawn having been interrupted¡­ and there being no demand, whatsoever¡­ chuuls, gnolls and ifrits became rather thin on the ground. Those still alive were wounded and wary; more inclined to ambush than frontal assault.


    Nalderick stood there with bloodied sword and simmering spell-hand, still hollowed by grief, but functional. Barely. Beside him, his sister had aged in the sudden manner of stressed elven children. No longer a chubby and petulant girl-child, she''d become taller. Slenderer. A young maiden with wickedly accurate sling and haunted green eyes. Their grandfather''s abrupt, violent loss had torn her childhood away¡­ but Derrick could spare no time at all for comfort.


    Marlie was down, one leg close to ripped from its socket, and Filimar badly mauled. Both were bleeding like cups with the bottom knocked off, too deep in shock to cry out.


    Solara did what she could, pouring life essence and muttering spells, but her manna had fallen to just about nothing. There wasn''t much left she could do. Then Valerian''s brother Lerendar came forward, or¡­ someone did. The scruffy blond border-lord, big as a horse, returned Nalderick''s sword. In a voice not his own, with features altered by something inside of him, the Tarandahl heir said,


    "My thanks for the loan of your blade, Majesty. It was taken in haste, at great need, but wielded in honor. May the slight to your pride be forgiven, we pray."


    Nalderick shifted his stance, forcing himself to stay calm. No longer merely a prince, he could show no confusion. Betray no uncertainty.


    "Of course," he responded, trading Last-breath for Nightshade. Then, "I know not whom I address, but it seems that you possess magic. If there is aught you may do for these injured retainers of mine¡­ I ask for your aid."


    The person in Lerendar strengthened a bit, further altering the northerner''s appearance. Now he was dark-haired, with flat, black, sea-elven eyes and swirling facial tattoos.


    "I am Andorin Kalistiel, prince and lord of the veriest deeps. By avocation, a wandering bard, whose final journey ended in sorrow. This One¡­ our friend¡­ has given us hope for the first time in weary long cycles of death."


    ''Us'' and ''our'' seemed to indicate that Lerendar was housing a multitude, now, having seemingly picked up some friends in captivity. The possessing Kalistiel turned slightly to look at Marlie and Filimar, laid out on the ground and attended by desperate others. Their blood loss had mostly been stanched, but both were only a whispered last gasp from the end.


    The sea-elf gestured for space.


    "Stand away," Derrick ordered, causing his bloodied and tear-streaked companions to rise and step back. Of the Tabaxi, there was neither sign nor hair, but she was a rogue¡­ a creature of shadow¡­ and might have just gone after Valno. Lady Geldaherys had vanished, as well, Derrick noticed. No doubt for similar reasons. (He did not miss the absent druid, who hadn''t made much of an impression in all the confusion.)


    "Keep watch," he commanded, while setting a feeble and sputtering ward. Roreck, Vashtie and Sherlon saluted their teammate and emperor, then moved away to stand guard.


    As for the minstrel, he created some sort of window in space with sigil and chant. Not a true portal, it opened onto a rocky, surf-pounded cliff. Thundering waves crashed and hissed without cease, glowing with tiny crustaceans and algae. At the scarp''s base, eroding out of the rock, rose the great, curving ribs and spine of some truly monstrous beast. A dead world-serpent, from the sheer, massive size of those bones.


    Nalderick smelled the wild, moonlit sea. Felt a gusting night wind. Saw¡­ marvels. As the bard chanted on, strings of pure, glowing manna appeared at the tip of each rib, growing downward to anchor themselves to the dead titan''s backbone.


    A harp formed: great, mythic Llyroc itself¡­ huge and almost purely magical; its strings shining with all of the ocean''s deep colors, whether in moon-glow or sunlight or shimmering scale-flash. They hummed like ship''s rigging, sounding their separate notes. All at once, the pounding of waves became rhythmic, and the cliff thrummed along in response.


    Here in the cavern, his long hair stirred by cold sea-wind, Prince Andorin lifted his hands and began to make strumming motions. Out on that far-away cliffside, the great harp responded. Its strings flashed, their notes pure and heartbreaking, shaking the cavern, striking deep tones from stalactite and flow-stone.


    The bard''s chant turned into a song of longing and loneliness; of being the last of one''s kind, calling for others that never responded.


    ''Land has arisen, currents are blocked


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    ''No more, the voice of the deeps calleth forth¡­


    They were gone, all of them, leaving just one alone in the deepest abyss, far below.


    ''The place of reunion lies silent and cold


    ''The final survivor, grown weary and old¡­


    The song¡­ Nalderick sensed it get something''s attention. Something ancient and mighty beyond comprehension. The bard¡­ with his music and words, he spoke to this Other. Asked its healing and help for those who sorrowed here in the cavern.


    Maybe a coil slid. Maybe a head the size of a mountain shifted position a little. Possibly something arose. Certainly the ground trembled all over Karandun. Then a pulse of light flashed through the window, and with it came healing and life.


    Nalderick put an arm around his sister, who''d started to cry again. All of them healed in body and life-force between one breath and the next. But the creature''s great longing remained.


    ''No answer, no eggs, no leaping from darkness to bright, flashing day


    ''Gone, all gone away¡­


    ''Land has arisen where once was all sea


    ''And now there abides only me¡­


    All elves can sing, and sing beautifully. It is one of their fey-gifts; a legacy of godly descent. Now, at the bard''s signal, everyone joined in his song, imitating the call of friendship and happiness. Of better, more populous times. The monstrous being responded in kind. Pretending.


    ''The time for reunion is nigh


    ''Let pod assemble to frolic in love and dash at the sky¡­


    ''Together in heart, where once we were strong


    ''Remembered now only in song¡­


    Long, slow call and response, back and forth, brought a measure of solace and peace to something so old, it defied understanding. In the light of its depthless sorrow, their own loss seemed¡­ not trivial, but part of a greater whole. Just blue and black threads in some vast, moving picture.


    The song ended at last. The great harp Llyroc unstrung, and the window dissolved into spray. Nalderick reached down to help Marlie and Filimar get to their feet, embracing them both, in turn. More had been healed than just bodies, though. While mourning his grandfather, Derrick gained strength to lead others in more than just drinking and sport.


    Bowed his head, took a deep breath, and got on with it. He turned and went to the bard, next, meaning to thank him. Only, somebody else had gained possession; a sharp-featured, crafty fellow, dark-haired and pale-eyed, filled with laughter and guile. An arcane trickster, to be trusted about as far as one could prod him with a finger, Nalderick sensed¡­ unless you were on the same side.


    His narrow fox face had appeared off center, at the side of Lerendar''s head, rather than forward. Most unsettling, though it did not seem to affect the rogue''s vision. A gold coin flashed into being with a sudden bright chime. He caught it up with an elegant flourish, rolling it continually over the knuckles of his left hand. Sometimes it vanished, popping off to spin in midair. Smiling at Derrick, the trickster bowed.


    "Greetings, Majesty," he said, sounding playful and mocking. "The songbird, his not-very-dryness, has departed the stage to seek rest, so needs must I handle arrangements. Not that you care, but I am Elmaris, another of This One''s friends. How," he continued, stressing the syllable as his face drifted to center-head, "may we be of further assistance?"


    Nalderick blinked. Here was sorcery of a sort that he would have rejected, before. Indeed, Solara had lit up her staff, while the others made signs against evil, hands at their various weapons. Yet¡­ he sensed no harm at all to Lord Lerendar. No baleful intent from those who''d possessed him.


    "I owe you great thanks, already," admitted the uncrowned emperor. "And now I would ask only advice, good Elmaris. In your opinion, should we go after Valno, or take his lordship, your¡­ friend¡­ back to safety in Starloft? Both plans would seem to have merit, on their face, but¡­"


    "Doing either leaves weakness elsewhere," mused the rogue, cocking an eyebrow. More of his features and dress manifested, as he took firmer hold of the shared body. His ears were high and sharply pointed, betraying eladrin heritage. A red cloth was tied across his forehead, and he wore several cheap silver earrings. "Hmm¡­ allow me a moment to consult, Majesty," said the trickster.


    His pale blue eyes rolled completely inward, at that, leaving only their whites showing. Somebody muttered a curse. Nalderick gestured for silence, desiring no confrontation whatever with ghosts.


    After a moment, the rogue''s pale irises rolled back around again.


    "Well, it seems we have an accord, miladies and gentlefolk," said Elmaris. "But I shall let others reveal it. The quiet one chooses not to present himself, yet, but This One is able to speak well enough. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Majesty¡­ gentles¡­"


    And then, with an ironic smile, the rogue bowed low, leaving his coin to spin in midair. It was Lerendar who rose up from the bow, only to find himself facing a spooked and abjuring audience. He seized the flashing coin and spelled it away. Next, clearing his throat, the possessed elf-lord folded both arms across his chest defensively, saying,


    "My apologies, Your Majesty, if any of the others were overly blunt. The dead have little patience and not much to fear. If¡­ you wish me to leave, I will go after Valerian with these trusted friends¡­ but I will not send them away."


    Someone else appeared very briefly, then. A grim, scarred warrior whose cloud-grey skin and gold eyes spoke of the Unseelie winter court. A ranger, by his suddenly evident clothing and gear. Ducking his head in a curt bow, he looked away, mumbling,


    "This one will follow his brother. We shall help. My own advice has never meant aught to a soul before now, but¡­ come along, if you will."


    And then he was gone, leaving the Tarandahl lord back in control of himself. Oddly enough, it was Genevera who smoothed matters over. Slipping away from Nalderick, she came to stand before Lerendar.


    "It must be wonderful," she ventured, "to always have friends and hear chatter inside. To not ever be left out, or alone."


    The big, husky northerner nodded once, saying,


    "Tough to do without, once you''ve got used to their company, Princess."


    She smiled a little, for the first time since feeling her grandfather''s end.


    "I hope that they never leave you, and that you stay friends, forever," she whispered.


    Nalderick reached out to place a hand on her shoulder.


    "My sister speaks truly. Any friends tested through battle and hardship are welcome here, living or not." Then, speaking for the first time in imperial command voice, he said, "We go after Valerian, all of us. So may it be."

 Part Three, Chapter Six

    6


    It was first-blush late evening, just before rosy sunset ended a clear, chilly day. Not a quiet or peaceful one, though. The reverberations of dragon and Emperor tore through Snowmont like bale-fire. Everyone felt it at once when Aldarion died, though most had not met their ruler in person. As the audience gasped and surged to their feet, Magister Serrio stepped out of shadow to end the big fight-show.


    "Enough," he said to Lionel and a panting young townsman. Sword and axe dropped at once to the blood-spattered sawdust. Then the Tabaxi''s shackle clicked open, abruptly releasing him.


    Everyone watched, confused and afraid, as lights dimmed and music stopped playing all over the fairgrounds. Wagons and boxes packed themselves up. Stunned performers were freed of their contracts, which suddenly tore up to shreds right in front of them. Tents and game-booths melted away like dream stuff, leaving the grief-stricken crowd packed into that newly barren town square. At first, there was no sound at all but sobbing and wind. Then,


    "Good people," announced the ringmaster, in a velvety purr that carried to every part of the town and its fields. "Due to unfortunate circumstances beyond our control, these our revels are ended, forever."


    The tall, tiefling-horned man seemed amused as he doffed a silk hat and bowed to his audience. The people drew closer, looking for shelter and strength, for Magister Serrio was eternal. Conflict never touched him, or anyone sheltered inside of his borders.


    As the war bells sounded from Karellon, the ringmaster rose again, waving an elegant, casual hand.


    "Please accept, in lieu of the evening''s entertainment, these travel tokens. Use them wisely and well, my good folk, for your environs are about to become... decidedly insalubrious."


    At his sigil and word, a trove of octagonal copper coins appeared, one in each person''s grip, no matter how small or how humble. A few coins dropped to the ground, lost to deep snow or the sewer grates, but most were held tight and examined. Serrio''s image was stamped on one side, the words "Free Passage" on the other.


    "But¡­ Magister Serrio," pled a young dryad, "What d''you want us to do?"


    "Flee," said the ringmaster, in a suddenly thunderous voice. "Fast and far. Stop for nothing. Just, go."


    He changed as they watched; skin growing metallic and scaly, wings and tail bursting through shredded fine clothes. Changed, but not quickly enough. As people screamed and leapt out of Serrio''s way, the sky overhead split like old cloth. A gate opened up, edged in dark flame. Shrieking wind and questing dark tendrils thrust out of the hole, along with a vast copper dragon. Swooping down on the helpless town, the newcomer bellowed a ground-shaking challenge, jetting fire and smoke.


    Screeching people burst into flame or invoked Serrio''s travel coins, popping from sight like a sinkful of bubbles. Most of the elves escape-spelled at once, leaving the rest to their fate. The dragon turned in midair, then swept back around for another pass, using magic and shockwaves to bring down half of the buildings and thorn wall.


    It was not unopposed.


    "Away!" snarled the wyrm that had so long hidden as Magister Serrio. It launched itself into the sky. Fighting because it was too late to run, and there was no place to go, in any case. Some of the traveler''s fury crossed over; stiffening, strengthening Serrio''s will.


    Lady Alfea looked on from under a balcony, so great with child she could barely move, a small, squirming dog pressed close to her heart.


    "Hush, Pudge, we must be very still and quiet now, little one," she admonished, covering the dog''s bulging eyes. Alfea clenched a travel token in one hand, but she could remember nothing at all before marrying Orrin. Could visualize only her own little room in the shattered mansion, above; her plants, her songbird and all of those clothes in the wardrobe that didn''t quite fit; had belonged to the first¡­ or the second¡­ ''Lady Arvendahl''.


    Chief Steward Raun had remained with his noble young charge. As the twin copper dragons clashed overhead¡­ as Mount Kronnar trembled and lurched¡­ the steward gently took hold of her elbow.


    "Milady, we must seek shelter," he urged. "There are deep cellars under the brewery. Perhaps we can escape the worst, down there." Not likely, but better than gaping like two witless fleas at a cockfight.


    She nodded, one hand pressed to her belly, so frail that she glowed like an elf in distress.


    "Lead the way, Sir Raun," she told him. "Pudgy is frightened and¡­ and I feel that Little Bean is soon to come forth."


    Raun looked tense, but he wasn''t the sort to flee, or back down.


    "Let''s get you someplace quiet and safe, Milady. Too much grand doings up here, for the likes of me."


    Then Sapling the dryad pelted up, looking as frantic as Raun was unflappable.


    "My tree!" he cried out. "White Dog, the horses! They be back at the stable, yet. Please, someone help me t'' free them!"


    Buernar stumped up from closing the Merry Lad. Like most of the dwarves, he had refused to leave Snowmont, muttering,


    "Done with runnin'' away. Here I stays n'' here I fights, whatever comes next."


    Now the broad, red-bearded inn-keeper got Sapling''s attention.


    "I''m with ya, Sap," he grunted. "Let''s go."


    The Tabaxi, too, came forward. A hulking, grey-furred male with black points, a coarse mane and blue eyes, he seemed more ogre than person. Yet,


    "The beasts will scent me and run," rumbled the warrior, over the riot and clamor of battle and bells. "You have only to plan a safe path for them."


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    Sapling''s rough face split into a grateful smile, cracking his bark skin.


    "Yes, please, both of you. Follow me. Hurry!"


    Overhead, meanwhile, twin copper dragons swirled, dashed and struck at each other; incredibly fluid and graceful in flight. Hissing dark blood spattered the ground as talon or wing-joint hit flesh. Those sizzling droplets burnt holes in the cobbles and buildings, setting the last of Gildyr''s thornwall alight.


    Lord Orrin had just about made it over the mountain pass, leading his balky pack-mule, when Andrax and Serrio roared past, overhead. The entire mountain shifted and thrummed in response, as though something was waking. He heard a sharp CRACK, felt the ground lurch violently sideways, and then a wave of boulders and snow broke loose to hurtle downslope. Orrin slapped the mule''s neck.


    "GO!" he yelled, but it was too late to run. The avalanche was upon them in less than a terrified heartbeat, sweeping up Orrin, crushing the breath from his lungs. As his mind blacked out, something whispered,


    ''Poor dear. So misunderstood¡­ so unjustly treated! Would you have vengeance, Sweet Orrin? Would you see those who''ve tormented you fall?''


    His last thought, before darkness claimed him forever, was: "Yes, to the last, bitter dregs¡­ yes."


    Down in Snowmont, Filimar''s set had remained at their posts. Their lord had left them in charge of his town and his people, so Sandor, Kellen and Arien went to work with a will, guiding dwarves, half-elves and humans alike to the brewery cellar. Extending far into the rock, the place was ankle-deep in frothing dark ale from a dozen sprung barrels, but otherwise sound.


    Not everyone had somewhere to go, or was clear-headed enough to invoke Serrio''s travel-coin. Drunks, children, the addled and lost wound up in that dark, yeasty basement, crowded between long wooden shelves full of barrels.


    Dust sifted down from the rafters with each rumbling thump of a serpentine body, outside. Sometimes the temperature spiked to near roasting, leaving everyone gasping like fish at the top of a dried-out pond. But the worst was not knowing. Not being able to see.


    Most of Snowmont''s cellars were connected underground, in case of blizzard or fire. These tunnels were warded against thievery, murder and intrigue, but easy enough for honest folk to make use of, at need. Walking the tunnels, one could travel the length of Snowmont without ever breaking the surface, provided that there was no evil intent.


    After a time, Sapling came in through a crawl space with White Dog. Behind them, Buernar and Lionel dragged in a sizable, spell-bound cutting of Sapling''s tree. Not the whole thing, as Gildyr''s magic had rooted it far too deeply to move.


    They were just a bit singed, Buernar and Sapling somewhat trampled, but victorious, having chased twelve horses into the southern woods. The Tabaxi''s roar was a tremendous spur to equine obedience, as it turned out, for a cat-monster here frightened them more than dragons up there.


    Hilt brought up the rear, shepherding a group of excited young children. In their minds, this was all a great lark, and they''d wanted to watch the whole sky-battle. Some reunited with parents, a few joined their school friends¡­ but those were the last saved of Snowmont before Kellen (who was a bit of a hobbyist mage) sealed up and warded the trapdoors.


    He''d bitten his lip as he started his pocket spell, asking Buernar, Sandor and Arien,


    "Ought we to wait a little while longer, in case anyone else is still out there?"


    But the red-bearded dwarf shook his head, saying,


    "Ye''ll risk all them as are already here, milord¡­ and there''re diggings aplenty in Snowmont. Blasted most of ''em out, meself."


    Sandor agreed with the Innkeeper.


    "As soon as things settle outside, we shall hunt for survivors, Kelno, but these folk depend on us, here and now. Do what you have to."


    And so, the entire cellar was sealed and then quarter-turned out of the plane like a massive faerie pocket¡­ just as Lady Alfea curled up and cried out, riven by birth-pangs. But it wasn''t Orrin she screamed for.


    High overhead, the battle raged on, with Andrax driving its plane-twin into the mountainside, striking at the other dragon with fire and magic and lightning-bolt tail. Exposed its own underside in the process, allowing Serrio to lunge upward and sink its flame-blackened teeth through the scales and hide of Andrax''s throat. Blasted fire with all of its might, burning and tearing a great, ragged gash.


    Andrax shrieked and ripped free, surging skyward; beating hard for more altitude. Given brief respite, Serrio peeled itself off of the cliff-face, which shook like the flank of a horse.


    As Serrio took to the air, battling Andrax''s intruding mind, an elven wizard appeared. Sherazedan the Subtle, first on the shuddering slope of Mount Kronnar, then upon Serrio''s back, just where the wings sprouted.


    Held there by mage force, the wizard called,


    "To the ocean, swiftly!"


    Serrio, too, was an ancient dragon, if a peace-loving one. He did not take kindly to riders. Only, the situation was grim and urgent. Rumbling assent, the great copper wyrm slashed westward, chasing nightfall. Andrax followed, bellowing,


    "Think not to run from me, Coward! The old one''s schemes will not save you!"


    Again, their minds flowed together, driven apart by Serrio''s hasty spell.


    "A plan," panted the dragon, flying as fast as it could over forest and farmland, river and plain. "Tell me that there is a plan, old conjurer!"


    At such comet-velocity, there was far too much wind noise for regular speech. Sherazedan shifted to mage voice, instead, his words sounding mostly inside the dragon''s long head.


    ''There is,'' he promised, proceeding to lie like a dog. Fully expecting that Andrax would eavesdrop, he continued: ''We flee to the midocean portal and thence to the fey-wild, where I have allies.''


    Utter rot, made up on the wing, but Andrax believed it.


    "Bring on your allies, old one!" howled their pursuer, loudly enough to shake the lower Empyrean. "Fey-wild or Midworld, they shall burn and I''ll feed you their steaming chunks, then finish you, too!"


    Serrio faltered a bit, nearly overcome by the force of Andrax''s wrath and its sheer, seething hatred.


    "You two¡­ have¡­ some history¡­ I take it," gasped the fleeing dragon, as they swooped high over Milardin, then River Reach, and thence out to the sea.


    ''A bit,'' hedged Sherazedan, turning in his mage-built harness to fire a volley of spells back at Andrax. Goading. Annoying. At the same time, he began humming along with a certain very old harp-lay, having sensed Lyroc''s opening chords. Added his own minor-key theme to the song. Nothing much¡­ Just the speed, height and location of one who had helped raise the very first continent, bringing dry land to Midworld.


    More lies. Andrax wasn''t that old¡­ but the truth didn''t matter. Only that Something accepted the tale. With the end of his staff, as they neared the Fierce Current, Sherazedan gave sudden instructions in tap-code, knocking hard at Serrio''s scales.


    ''Up. High and fast. Now.''


    The laboring dragon obeyed, using its final reserves to misty-flit so very high in the air that new, shier stars shone forth like candles. Just in time, for Something truly enormous breached like the godly mother of whales, great mottled jaws yawning open, sluicing a torrent of seawater. Teeth like high crags shone in the moonlight. Ocean and mighty leviathan roared with one voice as the last world-serpent surged from its bed, impossibly far in the sky. Almost too big to make sense of. It snapped once, taking in a huge, millennial lungful of air along with one startled dragon.


    Then, as Andrax was crushed into slime between massive tongue and vast, wreck-studded palate, the world-serpent twisted around. It completed its breach, plunging back into the water; raising waves that scoured the coast from Land''s End to Easterling, reaching even Okuni and Point Despair. Then it was gone, having swallowed Andrax like krill.


    "That was the plan?!" demanded Serrio, from a vantage point that turned war bells to chimes and city-wide fires to sparkling lights. He might have been eaten, himself.


    ''Yes,'' said Sherazedan curtly, using his mage voice again. ''And, unless you fancy a battle with giants, old wyrm, I suggest we hie ourselves back to Snowmont, where I''ll do my best to lull Kronnar. Objections?''


    The dragon snorted a few wisps of flame, shaking its slender, horned head.


    "Not one," it replied. "Back to town, then, Wizard¡­ and may your lying tongue be coated in silver and honey."

 Part Three, Chapter Seven

    7


    Reston fought alongside his warband and scouts, combing Ilyrian for every last vestige of chaos. Through the smoldering ruins of Starshire and the still-moving Tanglewood, he methodically hunted and slaughtered the spawn of darkness, keeping Starloft always in sight.


    Cackling ifrits he doused by summoning geysers; using a ram of high-pressure water to blast them into the rumbling sea-dome. Wraiths, he abjured in Oberyn''s name. Already weakened by combined elvish mage-glow, those hungering spirits could not survive Light of Dawn. They simply dissolved into faint, stinking mist, swept away by that constantly gusting wind.


    Revenant gnolls were harder to deal with, as any whole corpse would quickly reanimate, howling for battle. So Reston kindled a bale-fire, into which every last shred of goblin, gnoll, chuul and cloaker was fed. Nothing emerged from that bitter flame but ashes and smoke.


    There were dozens of ambushes. The last took place near the thorn wall. A creature of slashing limbs and multiple jaws dropped from on high as the Lord Warden rode back to Ilyrian''s sacred grove with a trio of scouts. His warding spell flared, hurling the monster aside, but Reston was thrown from the saddle. Hit hard, dislocating one shoulder. Came up rolling, hauling the family greatsword out of its sheath as he surged to his feet. A pack of gnolls burst from cover, hurling bolas, curses and daggers. Reston expanded his ward to cover the scouts, but his magic was weakened by pain and exhaustion. A cloaker got through, landing on Clairyn with a wet thwup. Then it wrapped up the struggling girl and flew off with her; dissolving flesh and cutting off air. Meanwhile, the gnolls and the insect-thing circled Reston.


    Dancer reared like a tower, screaming and lashing the air with her hooves, but the creature just ported around her. Summoning volcanic heat with his spell hand, the Lord Warden swung his borrowed sword in a whistling arc. Roasted and sliced the insect-limbed beast before it completed its death-strike.


    Dozens of arrows hissed through the air to thunk home in cloaker and gnolls; fired by his scattered men, who''d come at the sound of Clairyns shrill scream. The bundled girl fell ten feet to the ground. Struck with a thud, gasping once as the cloaker convulsed and went limp, releasing her. Reston and Clairyn were surrounded in moments, bathed in a flood of wellness and healing spells that they couldn''t afford to use up, but¡­


    "I thank you," he said to the elves and men of his warband. "All is well with me, now. See to the lass, and do not drop your guard. There are still¡­"


    Reston never finished his statement, because all at once some species of portal flared to life in mid-grove. A war tunnel, of the sort that could quickly transport a whole army.


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    "''Ware!" shouted the half-elf, vaulting back onto Dancer. The sword of the Tarandahls hummed to life in his hand, burning with Oberyn''s light; edged in flame.


    Only, it was the promised wood-elf contingent who came through that gateway. First a few scouts, then orderly units of ten at a time. Last to come out were a warrior-priest of Hyrenn and three noble beasts; a lordly white stag, a huge bear and a silver-tipped wolf, whom the paladin rode like a warhorse.


    Their lengthy traversal attracted attention, bringing constant attack as the newcomers entered the grove. The surviving dark-spawn were drawn by the gate''s immense magic. Controlled by the Mother, they kept right on coming, battling to close it again.


    Starloft and Lobum fought side by side, except for the paladin, whose blistering fury admitted no foreign allies. Only his wolf, noble beasts and the wood-elves got anything else but the edge of his steel or a magical shove. Fought like a demon, though.


    At length came a break in the struggle, when for many long heartbeats and rough, panting breaths, nothing launched itself out of a hole in the ground or dropped from the dome-enclosed sky. The respite was short, for the servant of Hyrenn soon whirled to face Reston; sword in hand, golden eyes burning with rage. As his own folk closed in around him, the Lord-Warden held up a placating hand.


    "Peace," he said to his warriors. "Lobum has come to our aid, not to stir further trouble." Then, inclining his head to the grim, dark-haired paladin, "Thrice welcome, Servant of Winter¡­ noble forest lords. There is work enough here for us all." Without starting on allies, he did not say aloud.


    It was then that he sensed Andara, whom he''d last seen on his way out of Lobum, so long before. Glanced her way. Saw that she''d felt him, as well. But¡­


    "I offer no hand in friendship and make no promises," snarled the paladin, pacing forward. "Not until I have learned who summoned the waters. Speak, half-breed, and consider your words very carefully."


    A ringing hiss of drawn blades, a creak of bent bows nearly drowned out the circling wind. Battle spells flickered like torches, gleaming in hard eyes and cold metal. At Reston''s least signal, his folk would have answered that insult with fire and blood.


    Except that he wasn''t one to react without thinking, and Ashlord''s way was icy-calm vengeance, not furious loss of control. Instead of hot words, Reston said,


    "I indeed claim the best blood of two races. Of High Lord Galadin, my father, and of Lana¡­ of humans, a great and beautiful lady. I am shamed by neither half of my heritage, Paladin¡­ and Starloft hasn''t caused this unnatural flood."


    The wood-elf''s gold eyes narrowed, but he was listening. Then a mighty pulse surged through their prisoning sea-dome, making it thrum. Shoving and bending its walls. A blast of wind like the leading edge of a hurricane struck, panicking the horses.


    As Dancer turned circles, snorting, Reston looked up and around. Saw tumbling bodies, debris and stoven-in ships sweep past in silhouette, along with uprooted trees and drowned animals; all of them carried by thundering seawater. Inside the dome, ears popped and bled. Weapons slipped from the hands of shocked warriors.


    "Holy gods," whispered Reston, as their magical shelter contorted. "What has happened, out there?!"

 Part Three, Chapter Eight

    8


    The way below was dark and unsettling, owing to tunnels that shifted and crept like a tangle of nesting serpents, there in the deeps that never saw natural light. The passages didn''t seem carven or molded by dwarves, nor was there much trace of rock wyrm. Just¡­ they branched and moved like the negative space on some ornate, massive scroll, still being written.


    Pretty One led the way, using handed-down legend and a genuine feel for the rock to time and plan crossings. All very well to take that slanting corridor downward now, but not if it failed to reach the west passage six furlongs and two transfers later. It was a constantly moving three-dimensional map that she kept in her head, for they were long past the borders of Lerendar''s chart.


    Val provided a dim, golden mage glow; not enough to give much advance warning to anything else of their presence and doings. That they were being followed, he knew, having an elf-mage''s sense for such things¡­ but he detected no malice in the pursuit. Gildyr or Salem, then. Perhaps Kalisandra, as well.


    Had the three of them actually been his retainers, he''d have let them all go with a week''s pay and vague references, for entirely failing to follow instructions. Amused himself for a bit, imagining what he would write about each of them on a village-square hiring board.


    Gildyr: Sappy, shape-shifting druid. Inclined to beg. Fond of plants. Very few fleas. Doesn''t eat much.


    Salem: Tabaxi entertainer with bonus monkey. Acquisition specialist. Prone to shedding. Make this one your own for the low¡­ gods, any offer, at all.


    Kalisandra: Yikes. Bold? Seeking a challenge instead of a bride? Here is your chance at perpetual misery and occasional light scarring. Bonus ranger skills and sarcasm.


    The notion made him chuckle a bit, causing Pretty to glance back, a concerned look on her scrunched little face. He simply shook his head, signing: All well. There was no point in trying to explain Murchison-tainted humor to others. Nobody understood, ever.


    Time passed, and their long descent continued. After another rest for the goblin, some serious spell-craft for Val, they came to an enormous gallery; less chamber or cave than vast, domed cavity. This end of the passage moved not at all, seemingly anchored in place by giant stone pylons. There was a massive capstone, as well, made of basalt; the world''s very bone. The entire structure crawled with sluggish green ward-sigils. "Keep out", posted in ancient, dark magic.


    "Quiet n'' dim now, Milord," whispered Pretty, leading their way past the threshold. Val felt something like faint, sticky cobwebs sift through him as they went; a sensation he liked not at all. "There be old ones down ''ere as don''t much fancy disturbance," continued the goblin. "Grampa told us, ''isself."


    Val looked up and around, his mage-light shining off damp black stone and barely-glimpsed crystals. Couldn''t see color well, at the moment, but sensed shadow darker than anything dreamt of, above. Heard the faint drip of water endlessly hollowing stone. Smelled air unstirred for time out of mind.


    "Follow close, now," she whispered. " ''And on me shoulder, if touchin'' a goblin don''t bother ya none¡­ an'' see ya don''t stray from the path fer nuthin''. Choose dyin'' of ''unger n'' thirst over losin'' yer soul, Milord."


    "Val," he corrected softly. Her bat-like tan ears cupped in the manner of cave-folk, expressing maybe surprise. He shrugged, saying, "At a time like this, it seems pointless to insist on formality, Sorceress. We may never be friends¡­ but I would that we mightn''t be enemies."


    Pretty One turned away for a skittering heartbeat or two. Seemed to wrestle with herself, before facing her elven companion once more.


    "We''ve shared food n'' drink an'' a cave roof¡­ traded sleep watches¡­ fer a while now," said the goblin lass. "There be blood between us can''t nuthin'' wipe out¡­ but it ain''t gotta be vengeanced by neither of us."


    Valerian nodded.


    "I can accept that," he said. Next, placing a hand on the goblin''s thin shoulder, Val managed a brief, polite smile. "Lead onward. I shall look out for assault."


    Pretty One took a long breath and a firmer grip on her staff. She shook its bones a little for luck, as Grey Fang had always done before getting started. They set off through the gallery moments later, Pretty counting and muttering directions to herself in a low, growling voice.


    Valerian followed closely, feeling a crowding, half-awake presence on every side; like being squeezed by a tightening fist. He could see nothing special about the way ahead. Nothing to indicate how, or which way, to proceed. Their path glowed faintly behind them, though, like the curving green wake of a boat in tropical waters.


    Except for those constant directions and numbers, they spoke very little, for the air was oppressively still; humid enough to half-drown those who breathed it. Their words sounded flat, seeming barely to make it from whispering mouth to straining ear.


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    There was no attack, as such, but unending, crushing hostility. The cold, angry blackness objected to even such feeble light as Valerian cupped in his free hand. He pushed his flickering wards out as far as possible in response. Didn''t reach either side, while barely brushing the ceiling, above. Right.


    Found himself humming this lay and that from the forty-three epics; First Land, Song of the Dragon, Hero''s Lament¡­ plus one or two that he''d picked up from Murchison. That seemed to lighten the pressure a bit, as though epic verse, Sloop Jon-Bee and Pyanor Man were tonic to alien darkness.


    It was a very hard thing, judging distance or time without day and night, but they''d walked along for many candle-marks, pausing at last in the shelter of a low, bumpy ridge. There, Pretty One rested a while, drinking hard from her wrung-out water pouch and Val''s flask. Her throat ached from whispered instructions; her head, from unrelieved concentration. Very much, she needed a make n'' mend.


    Valerian handed the girl another apple (uncooked, this time) and conjured more water into her leather pouch. Not the best move, as doing so sparked greater need in himself than the summoned water would soothe¡­ but it gave her one less thing to worry about, and he''d have been hopelessly lost here, alone.


    She''d just about dropped off to sleep when the entire gallery shook like a barrel rolling downhill. The pressure changed and the air moved, as though something huge had drawn a great breath.


    What followed next was an awful torrent of spirits; of people suddenly, violently torn from their lives. Bits and flashes of screamed names, hurtling floodwater, egg-shell crushed buildings and tumbling ships tore through his mind. Frostbite glittered and spat with each fleeting contact, like batter frying in oil.


    Ghosts had been fifty a copper, according to Master Sherazedan. Now, maybe thousands a ha''pence.


    Val hauled the screaming girl-child close, folding himself around her as best he could, wards snapped back down to cloak-fit. Some of the spirits tried to take hold, as though Val and Pretty were floating debris in a vortex, but there was nothing at all he could do to help them. No way to stop this cascade of the terrified, suddenly dead.


    It wasn''t noisy, as such, except for the cataclysmic roaring last heard by those rushing past. That resounded continually, until it seemed there was no other sound in the world beside thundering water, splintering timber and shrieks.


    Finally, though, there was only Pretty One weeping, there in the no-longer-hungering dark. Valerian held her close, murmuring all of the comforting, meaningless nonsense you said to a child when you knew it was all gone terribly wrong, and you had to lie, anyway. Patted her back until she summoned the strength to keep going.


    " ''M alright now, Milord," she rasped, pulling free. "Best we set off, again."


    "Is it much farther?" he asked; first rising, then helping her back to her feet. Looking around told him nothing at all. Their crooked and glowing path was beginning to fade, behind, and all was cold blackness, ahead. The girl appeared to consider. Then,


    "Less far than we''ve already come, Yer Lordship," she replied, sounding fretful. "But Grampa says¡­ said¡­ that distance down ''ere be summat deceitful."


    Right. Val put his hand back on her shoulder, conjuring just enough light to nurse hope and feed life. It was a very good thing that a Tarandahl never gave in to fear. Otherwise, he might have gone mad in this grim, airless place.


    "I am ready," he told her, earning a second rattle of staff-bones and a whispered,


    "This way. Mind yer step, Milord. This be th'' cracked stretch, accordin'' ter all the old stories."


    ¡­And ''cracked'', as it turned out, meant liable to crumble away underfoot, leaving one treading on empty space over gods knew how long a drop. Fortunately, Pretty didn''t weigh much, and elves could step very lightly, at need.


    Their path grew more convoluted. Looping, with sudden weird changes in slope. One might walk five paces northward perfectly well, then quarter-turn east and pitch forward flailing, as though on a cliff-like grade. Then again, there were abrupt, unseen hills, leaving Val and Pretty laboring upward where no visible rise existed, at all. Too many folded dimensions, he figured, being careful to stick with his guide. Even a pace apart might divide them by hundreds of yards, in this awful place.


    Finally, after a long, trudging walk, they came to an archway of hissing black ice. The bow rose to twice elf-height. Overlarge for goblins or gnolls, while a troll would have needed to stoop. Broad enough for three abreast, if they were friends. Arms-length, only two.


    There were beings frozen into the ice. Not elves or humans. Fey, and a couple of minor divinities, all of them flash-dried to husks. The path led directly up to this portal, through which Val could see nothing at all. Just a slowly rotating dent in the air, shaped exactly like the key he''d gotten from Kaazin.


    Valerian fished the oblong metal piece out of its faerie pocket, glancing at Pretty One first, to be sure it was safe to let go.


    "This be the place, Yer Lordship," she told him. "Used ter be sealed up with boulders, but them as waked her got shed of all that."


    Val nodded, taking the control collar out, as well.


    "A pile of drow rat-litter gave this to me," he said. "If you need to make someone prisoner, it might serve to keep them respectful." Handed the item over, adding, "I do not know if you will be able to see within, once I''ve opened the way, nor how time flows inside the cave of the sigil, but I intend going in there, alone. She seeks an unmarked host-body, and it seems wiser to limit her options."


    Pretty One nodded, too weary to protest. She accepted the rough iron collar, which was heavy enough to drag down her hand.


    "One more thing," said the elf-lord. "If it seems to be going poorly, in there, or that too much time has passed, use whatever magic you have to collapse the cave. Bury the sigil, and me. Might not stop her for long, but at least you shall have a head start to work on plan-next."


    So saying, he conjured more water, and opened his pocketed food.


    "I took a great many lives, seeing nothing but vermin, and for that I am sorry. Live, Sorceress. Escape this place and lead your people to safety."


    With that, Valerian took up the palm-sized key and slotted it into that rotating dent. A ringing vibration shot outward, causing the archway''s shadow to clear. Val looked inside¡­ saw what awaited¡­ and stepped on through, anyhow.

 Part Three, Chapter Nine

    9


    Everyone knew the First Epic, a tale of how Midworld was covered in ocean; with long, rolling waves and unfettered currents. Home to great serpents that sported and hunted, leaping from crushing depth to bright sunshine in one mighty surge. Where only broad icebergs and one drifting island were dry.


    Then came Sleena, a dragon of vast, divine power., crossing the planes Pearl-colored, with sapphire eyes and heavy with eggs, Sleena had come seeking shelter. It traversed all the world in a day and a night, but found no place to den.


    Undaunted, the dragon plunged into that crashing, primeval ocean, down to its uttermost trench. In the midst of a rumbling chasm, cupped like a jewel, Sleena came to the Seed of the World. An enormous gem, it was; magma-red, with coiling ribbons of heavy black stone.


    The gravid dragon seized this shimmering jewel, then fought its way back from the trench and up through the waters, back to the surface of Midworld. First Land rose up with Sleena, drawn by the pull of that powerful seed. With it came earthquake and storms, towering waves and the death of the elder sea gods.


    The cataclysm lasted a full seven days, changing the world entirely. Continents rose like great, jagged scars, blocking the currents and winds. Serpents were trapped on newly-formed land, where their own awful weight slowly crushed them to death. Far from the sea, they dried on bare rock; baked by the pitiless sun. It was their frantic lashing that birthed the first giants, creatures of anger, sorrow and stone.


    There was war then, for time out of myth, causing still further destruction. Sleena battled and crushed the stone titans, though their massed power came close to shattering Midworld. Afterward, the dragon settled onto the land''s highest peak, wrapping itself ''round the Seed of the World. There, in due time, eggs were laid. Three of them.


    What became of those eggs, and just how the Seed of the World ended up in a Valinor treasure house, was told of in Epic Three¡­ but what mattered now was that the Seed still existed, and that Sherazedan knew how to summon it.


    He and Serrio traveled at meteor speed over the roiling ocean and flooded coast, finally reaching dry land. The copper dragon halted before they overflew Snowmont, allowing Sherazedan to port in, alone.


    Naturally, the cunning, unflinching old wizard had a plan wrapped in scheming, and studded with plots; had in his web a thousand cross-planar heroes and powerful demigods. Battle was a distinct possibility¡­ but first, he preferred to try something less strenuous.


    Sherazedan gated himself to the blazing ruins of Snowmont, where Mount Kronnar had developed cavern eyes and a great, lipless gash of a mouth. It had turned slightly, too; leaning further over the valley and town. Having sensed Andrax and Serrio, the giant was waking. Worse, its tremors threatened to rouse all the others.


    Sherazedan alit in the shattered town square. Raised his staff and opened a floating grimoire, using magic to douse hundreds of fires. Very few buildings were standing, but those that were, he braced up with spells. Sent a low, subtle humming tone through the ground as he did so. Plowing the field, as it were.


    The language of giants was deep and slow as the motion of continents. Most things took a very long while to express, but Sherazedan simply folded time throughout all of Karandun, so that more happened here than out there. At his word, the wind became like a hard, shoving wall. High overhead, the sun flickered and swayed, painting a rope of flame from eastern to western horizon, broken by eye-blinks of night.


    He''d gottent to Kronnar before the giant could fully arise. Critical, because Kronnar had every reason to lash out in fury. The mighty one had first woken from sleep as an undersea mountain, driven upward to splinter and dry in the air. It remembered Sleena. Hated the dragon and all of its serpentine kin. Remorselessly hunted them, too, once Sleena returned to the stars. The slaughter that followed brought an end to that first age of myth, destroying most of the ancient wyrms.


    In the eons that followed, first new gods, then elves and eventually humans sprang up, but the dragons were never again very populous.


    Vernax was captured and taken by Oberyn, never allowed to reach full maturity. Serrio¡­ the Andrax of this plane¡­ remained alive by choosing disguise. There were one or two others, as well; all badly injured and hidden away. That was then.


    Here in the present, Sherazedan wasn''t afraid. He was too larded in strategy to feel more than icy resolve, shifting this piece and that on the board like a master game player. Pushing through space and time, the wizard reached a great treasure house. Ordinarily, only the Emperor could open its lock or access its contents, but Aldarion was gone; ripped in half by a rampaging dragon.


    Sherazedan was not next in blood or ascension-right. That honor belonged to Korvin, then to Nalderick and Genevera. Still, the wizard was related enough for a magically sentient door to hear and obey.


    It allowed Sherazedan access. Deepest and most closely warded of all the Imperial storehouses, this hidden room contained wealth beyond price and weapons of hideous power.


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    The court mage wanted only one thing, though; a certain glowering red-and-black gemstone. It had not been set into the throne or displayed on the city wall, for good reason. Three elves with their arms at full stretch would have strained to encircle the thing, which flashed in all lights like a tumbling opal.


    He found it on the deck of a flying-ship, near the Sword of Dread Slaughter and Oberyn''s cup. Drew it forth into Snowmont and then addressed Kronnar, saying,


    "Mighty One, all is well. Be at peace, and dream of your deep ocean bed. Take back what was stolen so long ago. Settle, Great Mountain, and rest."


    With gesture and sigil, the old wizard sent that heavy, red-and-black gem swooping to Kronnar''s vast mouth. Settled it gently down on a ridge that looked somewhat like teeth. The mountain growled and shifted in response, causing tremors all over Karandun.


    Its reply, experienced linearly, would have taken hundreds of years. Only, Sherazedan altered time, permitting communication.


    ''One of their blood has fouled air and burnt stone. No sleep. No rest, until the cursed wyrm is no more.''


    "It is dead," said Sherazedan, slowing his speech to match Kronnar''s. At the stately pace of the River of Stars, he said, "It was devoured by the very last Ancient of Deeps, and is gone."


    Meanwhile, Serrio found his way back into Snowmont, once more sporting fine velvet clothing and human disguise, his top hat a little askew. Stood just a few yards away, shining with magic.


    Mighty Kronnar didn''t react to the Ringmaster''s presence. Instead, it probed Sherazedan''s mind for the truth of his claim about Andrax. Saw only what the cunning old sorcerer wanted it to, naturally.


    ''It is dead,'' rumbled the giant, in the voice of a creeping glacier. All over Karandun, throughout the Talon mountain range as far south as Okuni, the words were repeated. Then,


    ''You have our thanks for returning the Seed. It will sink to its home and in time to come, all will be ocean, once more.''


    Such a drift would require eons, and much could take place before watery hell was unleashed. Given Sherazedan''s troublesome nature, much undoubtedly would. Here and now, though, in deep-stretched slow time, Kronnar settled back to its groaning stone bed; only a little off center, with two shadowed clefts and a great crack where its face had been.


    Sherazedan the Subtle lowered his staff, all at once feeling every last day of his own near-eternity. Not far away, Serrio mimed ironic applause; one slanting eyebrow cocked into his curly dark hair.


    "Mithral and honey, indeed, old conjurer," conceded the Ringmaster. "With only, oh¡­ thirty, forty thousand dead? A truly strategic masterwork."


    "Lose the foot-soldiers, win the game, Creature," muttered Sherazedan, spelling away grimoire and staff. "And you might have been part of the bargain, as well."


    Serrio had nothing to say to that, just shaking his head as the wizard set time back to normal. The sun''s manic flickering ceased, leaving it crossing the sky at a normal pace, close to high noon in midwinter.


    Then a gate opened up in Snowmont''s jumbled and broken town square. First to come through was High Lord Arvendahl, Warden of Eastermark, sword in hand. He was mounted upon his noble beast, a shining white unicorn armored for war.


    Spotting Sherazedan, the raven-haired elf-lord dismounted. Strode forward, shedding genuine tears, to kneel before the court mage. Took Sherazedan''s hand and pressed it to his own lowered forehead, whispering,


    "Your Highness¡­ the Emperor¡­ I have no words to express my sorrow."


    Sherazedan slumped a bit. Watching as hundreds of Arvendahl warriors poured through the gate into Snowmont, he said,


    "Rise, Falco. There will be time for mourning, later, once peace and order have been restored."


    Lord Arvendahl got to his feet in one smooth, fluid motion, releasing the wizard''s hand. His blue eyes were haunted, distant and sad. In a quiet voice, he said,


    "Forgive me, Highness, for this was not my first stop, but¡­ Milardin is no more. A city of many thousands¡­ just gone."


    He noticed the Ringmaster, then, and inclined his head respectfully, saying,


    "Magister Serrio¡­ I fear that you shall have one less stop to make, on your circuit of Karandun."


    The unicorn nudged him, lipping Arvendahl''s dark hair. Falcoridan reached up and around to pat the beast''s arching neck. Serrio, meanwhile, produced something small and bright. He breathed on it once and gave the item a cuff-polish, then held it out.


    "Here is renewal, Milord," said the Ringmaster. "A small thing, but mighty. Plant it wherever you deem it may do the most good."


    He did not walk on the plaza''s cracked surface as he came over. Stepping sometimes on air, sometimes partly beneath jumbled stone, Serrio placed the shimmering kernel in Arvendahl''s open hand. Added,


    "You will know, I think, when the time comes. For now, take care of my public, Milord. I shall very much miss them."


    And then he was gone, leaving the elf-lord alone with Sherazedan, a unicorn and five hundred orderly, perfectly silent troops. Falcoridan looked down at Serrio''s gift, seeing a small golden charm shaped like an egg. With a reverent gesture, the elven lord put it away. Then he turned back to Sherazedan, saying,


    "By your leave, Highness, I shall detail a unit to guard and rebuild Snowmont, then move onward to Karellon. Please, though... their Majesties¡­?" he inquired. Quietly, as though dreading further bad news.


    "In Ilirian, both of them. Safe enough, at the moment," said the court mage. "I approve of your plan, Falco. There are many dwarf craftsmen in Snowmont¡­ or were. If any survive, take them with you to begin restoring the City."


    Lord Arvendahl nodded assent. Wasn''t through, though. Looking restless, he snapped,


    "Where in all the gods'' names is Filimar? I left him in charge, here, yet see no sign of the wretched boy."


    Others were stirring, as pocket safe spaces returned to the plane and reopened. No Filimar, although one of his set¡­ young Kellen¡­ poked his head cautiously up through a trapdoor.


    "Your kinsman is helping defend Prince Nalderick and Princess Genevera, near Starloft," said Sherazedan. "I shall arrange for them all to be brought back to Karellon, once you have rendered it safe."


    Lord Arvendahl relaxed somewhat, murmuring, "Good lad." Then, stroking his unicorn''s crest, he said,


    "It shall be done, Highness. An Arvendahl, ever, to the fray, and¡­ and Glory to Oberyn''s name." This last came out rather brokenly, for that was the Valinor battle cry; the emperor''s motto


    Sherazedan placed a hand on Lord Arvendahl''s shoulder.


    "In Oberyn''s name, my friend. And may he soon thank you, in person."

 Part Three, Chapter Ten

    10


    Something was hunting the ruins of Karellon, devouring corpses and slaughtering huddled refugees by the score. Villem¡­ Brother Arnulf, to his Constellate siblings¡­ found ample evidence of the monster''s presence. Circumstantial, mostly, for it left very little behind but the indigestible bits; belt buckles, knife blades, buttons, glass vials and the like. No blood, no bones, no cloth, no bodies. As Sister Constant would put it, "Nothing left but the scream."


    Leaving the mage trial arena, Villem had drawn Oberyn''s ward on that broken doorway, extending his lord''s protection to all those within¡­ especially one elven seer. Meliara. The name was a song. A drink of fresh water. Just thinking about her buoyed his step and sharpened his purpose. Funny how much difference it made, having someone who waited and watched for your safe return.


    ¡­And return he would (in Oberyn''s name and all to his glory, of course).


    Leaving the wealthier regions of Karellon, Villem followed the traces of monstrous feeding, trusting that his brethren were doing the same, and that they''d sooner or later meet up. ''Drawn by the Needle'', as the saying went.


    He found his way back to low-town, making decisions in the moment rather than planning too far ahead. In this manner, a paladin of the Dawn allowed his or her god a way to guide choice. ''Drift with his will, don''t fight it,'' was one of the first things he''d learned, on joining the Constellate.


    ¡­He needed that guidance now, for certain.


    Low-town had never been pretty or prosperous; its buildings rose up overnight whenever something burned down, someone moved out or just died. Its streets were mere alleys that squiggled their way between floating pylons and marble foundations. Nothing really fit in or lasted for long. Not in a place where the manna of those who dwelt in splendor above trickled and spattered like water tapped from a pipe.


    Here the folk lived in shadows and fear. Armed and aggressive, because they had to be. Shops were warded and barred, with the head or hands of would-be thieves displayed on spikes by their doors. Drop a pebble in a loose-gaping mouth for luck and good bargains, the locals believed.


    Villem usually spent coppers he couldn''t afford to part with, claiming and disposing of the remains. Performed services¡­ light healing, blessing stock, bagging groceries¡­ whenever he ran out of funds. Shopkeepers liked it, and the practice did keep the smell and the flies down.


    In the wake of His Imperial Majesty''s death and the dragon''s rampage, though, low-town was just about splintered where it wasn''t still burning; consumed by the fire that never went out. Over and over, the paladin halted his search to douse burning stone with a prayer and sprinkle of shine-water. Rescued trapped folk whenever he could; shifting timbers and raising stone blocks, guided by whisper and wind.


    Then, just as he was helping a family of kobolds out of their collapsed burrow, Villem sensed the call. Very nearby. Very urgent. He hauled a last squirming imp out of the rubble, handing the child to its grateful parents. Mumbled something appropriate¡­ even managed a smile¡­ all the while feeling a sister or brother calling for help in Oberyn''s name.


    "Not at all, Ma''am¡­ Sir¡­ you''re quite welcome," Villem insisted, in response to their pats and shrill thanks. "No, I need nothing, thank you. Just donate a few coppers to the outpost poor-box." (Robbed every day, sometimes right there in full sunshine¡­ but, hey¡­ the thieves probably needed it more than a unit of paladins did.) "I¡­ really¡­ Thank you, no. Not hungry. I have to go." (Right the dark now.)


    Again, came the call; rippling outward from somebody''s struck holy symbol. Brother Arnulf stood fully upright, pulled his own sunburst out of his tabard and mail, then beat it against the hilt of his dagger, broadcasting,


    ''On my way. Hold on, Sibling.''


    There was another reply, a bit farther down the Alley of Fences. (Shift the Emperor himself, if you''d managed to steal him. Only¡­ His Imperial Majesty was dead. Torn in half and fallen right out of the sky. Smashed to bits on the flagstones.)


    Brother Arnulf cast a swift blessing over the kobolds. Then he broke into a run, hurtling rubble, tossing whatever he had that wasn''t vital to injured beggars and children.


    Passed two crossings¡­ one blocked with dead oxen and burning wagons¡­ then slid down the hidden escape-way from low-town to Underfall, repeating,


    "Not the law, not the law, not the law," in every language he knew, on the way. Managed to trigger no death spells, this time; landing with two flailing hops that avoided a trick, hidden pit trap.


    "Mission of mercy, not capture or preaching," he promised aloud, before racing off down a low, crooked passageway. Made the best speed he could, drawn first by the call, then by a chorus of screams and a terrible stench.


    Burst out between tightly barred doors, into the old river tunnel, panting hard. Looked around, casting Light of Dawn as a conditioned reflex. Reached back for his spear, but it was the water-sword, Flood, that sprang to his hand, instead.


    Villem didn''t argue. Just drew the weapon and raced into battle. Brother Humble was already there, towering a full head and a half over the people he fought to protect. Meanwhile, Sister Constant rushed out of a side passage. Dove, rather, for she''d come through a storm-drain, head-first and shouting.


    Once a meandering surface feature, the Karyl River had long since been closed up in stone, buried beneath many layers of city. The tunnel it poured through was twenty feet broad and fifteen high, to accommodate flooding. Drain outlets studded the curving grey overhead, along with the hollows where mage glows had died or been stolen.


    The river was normally icy and brisk, carrying corpses and trash over the water rather than in it. Not now, though.


    Brother Arnulf skidded to a halt on damp stone, there on the same bank as Humble. There was no water, though. Only greenish-pale, reeking slime. The awful stuff extruded dozens of tentacles, whipping and snatching for victims. Produced the staring eyes and sometimes whole heads of those it had already eaten, the better to hunt with.


    There were floating mouths, too; gibbering, screaming and calling for help; crying aloud and then sinking back into the muck with a drowning man''s gurgle. The noise and the stink were indescribable. It filled the entire river bed, oozing over the pitted, acid-burnt stone. Half-dissolved bodies vanished layer by layer, inside of it; releasing bubbles that rose to the surface and popped like a scatter of wobbling pustules.


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    Sister Constant shot out of her storm-drain, then doubled up into a midair roll. Straightened back out again, calling: "Heaven''s path!"


    Brothers Arnulf and Humble covered their fellow paladin as she sprinted through a forest of lashing, barbed tentacles. She gripped a long knife in one hand and a shimmering whip in the other, using the weapons to cut and sear grasping slime. Her booted feet flashed light with each step, a yard or two over the monster.


    Got halfway across, aided by the missiles and spells of her comrades. Then a stalk budded up out of the goo, just a few feet ahead of her. Taller and thinner it grew, swaying back and forth like a blind, oozing snake.


    In moments it bulged at the end and then split. There was a gush of foul liquid and flopping limbs that turned into¡­ well, bait. A well-dressed young man, dazed and smiling, hung before Sister Constant on a stalk that attached to the top of his head. Mind-dulling chemicals jetted from dozens of holes in the muck; their billowing clouds spreading sudden confusion and lassitude.


    "Hullo¡­" said the slime-puppet, over a chorus of wailing and screams. "I''m¡­ I''m Brinn. Can¡­ you help me?"


    He held out both hands as though lost, while a giant maw took shape low to one side of the mire. Shark-like, the newly-formed mouthparts slid through the muck toward Constant.


    "Nadia!" bellowed Villem, lunging forward. "Beneath you!"


    She tore her eyes away from the pleading young man-bait. Saw great, toothy jaws parted and rising below her, and hurled herself to one side. The giant mouth rocketed free of its slime, trailing streamers of mucus. Mismatched teeth snapped hard on thin air, just brushing Sister Constant''s right side. Part of her tabard scorched and dissolved at its touch, curling away from the blackening armor beneath.


    Heaven''s Path kept her off of the monster as Brother Humble fired a spell of holy abjuration. Light like the rising sun flared up, taking the shape of a shining, winged guardian with the size and tusks of an orc. It turned to face Brinn, who said,


    "Please, Sir¡­ I don''t know what happened. I was just going home. Can you help me get home? They''ll be so worried¡­"


    The guardian''s eyes flashed. Brinn dissolved into sparkling motes, leaving only his head-stalk behind. The slimy filament wavered and groped for a moment, then sucked back into the main body, leaving a rounded white blister.


    Nadia¡­ Sister Constant¡­ had risen again. Tapping right hand to left wrist, she activated her mage portal. About the size of a buckler, it hovered before her, shield-wise, rimmed in crackling energy.


    As the snapping jaws came around for another pass, she swung her portal directly in front of her. Like a round, razor-edged blade, the small gate carved a chunk out of that hurtling mouth. The here-parts went limp, plopping down into the slime. The rest was transported out through her projected opening, to sizzle and shrink on the broiling surface of Charr. Very much out of her way.


    Only, the massive tentacle slime launched another attack; this time hardening part of its substance, then cracking it into hundreds of needle-like, flying shards. These shot through the air in every direction, riddling flesh, stone and armor. Felt like a pinprick, then started to burn.


    Brother Humble had thrown himself in front of his huddled charges, blocking the needles with his own body. He staggered and might have fallen, but his own constitution and Arnulf''s healing spell pulled him back from the brink.


    Humble was a big, grey-skinned mountain orc, tusks filed down and banded in gold. He had a very long reach, which his spiked war-club made even longer. Shouting,


    "Take hold, Sister!" The orc paladin stretched his club out over the river, anchored by Arnulf, who was holding like fury to Humble''s gear harness. Some of the people he''d been shielding rushed over to help steady their savior. Some ran away.


    The winged guardian eye-flashed those chewing mouths and lashing tentacles as fast as they rose, but the sending''s time here was limited. They had to be swift.


    Sister Constant shut down her dangerous portal. Surging forward, she reached out to snag the great iron spike that pierced Humble''s club.


    "Hold!" roared the orc, locking her hand to the magical spike. Next, he lifted the war-club high in the air with Constant swinging from its end like a hooked fish. With a grunt, Humble brought the club around until Sister Constant was back over solid stone; riddled with hundreds of stinging small cuts, but alive.


    "Release!" he commanded, letting her drop to the ground.


    Sister Constant rolled to her feet, rubbing her shoulder but grinning; teeth flashing bright against honey-dark skin.


    "Owe you one," she gasped.


    Being an orc, Brother Humble did not usually flash his own dentition. Too threatening. Besides, the river of slime had begun to jet toxic gas in shrill, hissing streams.


    Humble gave her an answering nod and recalled his guardian, just as Arnulf decided to try something different.


    "Get behind me," he panted, shaking out arms that felt three feet longer, from balancing Humble''s great mass. "I''ve got an idea."


    One of the folk who''d stayed was a short, brown-haired guard. She was crying silently, but firm in purpose, refusing to leave.


    "Whatever it is you''re doing, Paladin, I''m in," she said to him. "That thing ate my partner. I tried to help, but I¡­ there was nothing¡­"


    The other was just a brave, scared kid of fourteen, maybe fifteen years. Red hair, blue eyes, missing front tooth and torn clothing. A fighter.


    Arnulf nodded at the guard, and handed the kid his own spear.


    "Keep the tentacles off," he told them, as Constant cast Bubble of Freshness to push back corrosive green fog. Then, pivoting, he aimed Flood directly at the slimed river. Prayed quietly, saying,


    "Bright Lord, here is magic I don''t understand but very much need. Make use of it now, please, and help us send this abomination back to the darkness it came from."


    Seawater roared from the end of his blade, striking the tentacled slime like a mage-bolt. Arnulf swept it back and forth; chopping that caustic goo. Diluting it. Tentacles flailed and grabbed frantically, one of them snapping the kid''s left arm. He cried out, but kept batting at muscular tendrils of slime, which seemed to be coming from every direction at once. Beside him, the city guard wielded her truncheon and short sword, repeatedly calling her partner.


    "Carrie, keep fighting in there! Slow it down! Don''t give up! Just like in training, remember? We said we''d never give up!"


    Maybe it worked. Some of those tentacles seemed to attack each other, as if a guard''s lost friend was doing her best to help fight.


    Meanwhile, Humble and Constant struck again and again with spells of light and abjuration. Blistering. Burning. Frying the stuff that clung to the walls and tried to drip down from the overhead.


    Took about half a candle mark, maybe¡­ but at last the monster was gone; washed, burnt and withered to nothing. Wobbling a little, Arnulf put away Flood. Still felt the water''s vibration down to his bones and his rattling teeth. His ears rang in the sudden silence, but the guard and kid needed comfort and healing.


    Brother Humble would have helped, but some folk distrusted an orc, so he joined Sister Constant in blessing the river and tunnel. Together, they released hundreds of souls, sending the eaten ones to whatever awaited them.


    "She didn''t give up," said Arnulf, gently, to the battered young guard.


    "I know," said the woman, who was as human as Arnulf. Wrapped in a blanket, accepting a drink from his flask, she managed a tearful smile. "Carrie''s stubborn, like that. She won''t go all the way. She''ll wait for me, somewhere¡­ I know it."


    And then, huddled up on the tunnel floor, the woman started to cry. Arnulf placed a blessing hand on her lowered head, but in this case, tears were a good thing. They healed.


    The kid''s arm needed further tending, so he turned to that, next. Bound and splinted the limb, chatting enough to learn that the boy''s name was Randy, and that he''d been out watching the Emperor''s victory flight, when everything went wrong at once.


    "It''s like¡­ like somebody opened a door and said, ''Go ahead and come in, Chaos. Do your worst.''" He sniffled, grateful for ease-leaf and talk.


    It was a while before they were ready to travel. Over a candle mark before they reached safety, up in the shattered mage-trial arena. He''d had to use two of those gifted seer''s eyes to spy out the least hazardous path. Saved the third against future need. Got back just before help arrived in the person of High Lord Arvendahl, Warden of Eastermark. A proud, driven elf with no pity, no mercy, at all.

 Part Three, Chapter Eleven

    11


    The cave of the sigil gaped deep and oppressively cold, like a death-wound to the heart of Karandun. Four dark-torches sputtered and hissed as they spiraled their way along the chamber''s rough walls. Opposed to fire and all things that lived, those bruise-black torches drained away manna and warmth, forcing Valerian to keep casting mage-glow.


    Pride and a sense of the fitness of things made him enter the cave, despite what awaited him there. Plain, stupid stubbornness kept him from leaving.


    The sigil itself was a dim, three-dimensional tangle of magic that hovered in mid-chamber. Originally meant to bind-up and seal-off, the rune had been attacked; its roiling motion reduced to occasional spasms. In four¡­ no, five places, a grim dark stain and small lump pinned the sigil, creating a narrow, pentagonal gate.


    The elf-lord''s spell scrolls and faerie pockets were ready, and his courage screwed about as high as it was likely to go. Only, his path had been blocked. Between Val and the damaged rune stood a silent mob of dead goblins, still bearing the burns and the sword-cuts he''d dealt them in battle.


    Something syrupy-dark flowed from one stiff, broken body to another as the high-elf looked on. Small faces contorted and yellow-red eyes glowed with hatred, whenever the Mother''s spirit entered them. Otherwise, the goblins seemed lifeless. Empty.


    The dark-torches circled nearer as Valerian hesitated, draining his life-force and smothering breath. His hand closed on the hilt of Frostbite, but he did not draw the sword. There had been death aplenty, and he was heart-sick of dealing it out.


    Firelord moved in his spirit, but would not interfere. In this place and in this situation, Val was going to have to choose a path for himself.


    Something brushed at his hair and his cheek like corpse-breath, then, as a honeyed voice whispered,


    ''Such a pretty thing. So tender and fresh. How welcome and wanted you are, lovely boy.''


    Her voice was deeply seductive, calling to a part of Val that felt rejected; shoved always aside and unwanted.


    ''Would you like to be truly powerful? To strike back at those who sent you away, lovely boy?'' she continued, inside of his head. ''Let me within, pretty child. Open your soul, and final revenge shall be yours.''


    Strangely enough, Valerian thought of Kaazin; of the drow''s iron determination to escape the Mother''s control, whatever the cost. He shook his head, stopping invisible, cadaverous fingers from combing their way through his hair and down the side of his face.


    Then, between one choked breath and the next, Val recycled himself back to senior apprenticeship, stealing time to page through each one of Sherazedan''s tomes. He''d read them all, back then, word for dry word. The old lich had insisted¡­ and now he knew why.


    "I have seen what becomes of your cast-off toys, Elitheva," said Val, naming her aloud, from the tattered Red Grimoire. "They fare not well¡­ nor am I quite as unmarked as you have been led to believe."


    Her presence recoiled a bit. Long enough for Val to actually breathe, recast mage-glow and reach for the past. Kalisandra had thrown a family heirloom at him once, near the end of their betrothal ceremony. Being strong for her size, with very good aim, she''d struck his chin, cutting quite deeply. He''d kept the scar all these years; hiding rather than healing it¡­ because whisking the injury out for display sometimes settled an argument.


    Here and now, Valerian allowed the mark to resurface, feeling it once again cut down through his lower lip and the side of his chin. The Mother''s presence slithered aside, back into one of the goblins, though its own damaged state kept her from staying there long.


    "I am no fit host at all, Elitheva," said Valerian, taking a step forward and naming her, yet again. "I belong to another, already." He might have meant Firelord, or maybe Kalisandra, but the effect was the same, either way.


    She withdrew all at once, rather than let him complete a thrice-naming. The goblins seemed to come further alive, at that; moving toward him like a tide of small and horribly injured undead.


    His hand clenched reflexively tight on Frostbite''s leather-wrapped hilt. An inch of steel flashed, before Valerian slammed the blade back into its sheath. Killing them again, shedding more blood in this place, would only make matters worse, he sensed; would feed the one he meant to dispel.


    Val took a deep breath and another step forward, trying to edge his way around the first person he''d ever killed. Nearly bisected by a clumsy sword-cut, the goblin scout had died when Valerian fell off his horse directly on top of it. That was the first time he''d ridden to battle with Dad and Lerendar. Very nearly the last, as well.


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    Here and now, when the goblin-corpse touched him, Val felt its death from the other side. The terrible fear, sudden blow, flash of pain and then darkness. The sensations hit hard. Worse than all the dead thousands he''d faced with Pretty One, because this one was his. This one, he''d butchered himself.


    ¡­and there were hundreds more ahead of him, each of them waiting their turn. Deserving it. Valerian got past two more, feeling himself trampled to death and burnt alive in the process. Hurt like every foul level of hell rolled into one, but worse than that, was debilitating. Distracting.


    While he worked his way through this mob of his own wretched victims¡­ certain to go mad before he made it halfway¡­ something was happening. She was arranging a trap, outside. Valerian thought of Sandy, the Tabaxi and druid¡­ of their Majesties¡­ Filimar and his teammates. Had to act. Had to hurry, somehow.


    He knew only one name, which he''d learned of from Pretty One. Taking another half-step forward, Val gasped,


    "Ratchet¡­ and them. Ratchet, if you are present here, I would speak with you. Please."


    The mob of revenant goblins parted after a moment, allowing two of their number to cut through the rest of the pack. A pair of small, bare feet were topped by a cloud of ashes and bits shaped more or less like a person. Twin bright motes floating within might have been eyes. Alongside, guiding its mostly burnt-away friend, was a fellow with stoven-in ribs and half of its skull sliced away.


    Valerian glanced aside, drew strength from a rapidly emptying well and then turned to address the two goblins. Signed as well as spoke, in case drifting ash couldn''t hear him.


    "Ratchet and¡­ all of you, really¡­ I need to reach and repair that sigil. If I do not, the evil that drew you here will spread to devour all Karandun. Pretty One, your kinswoman, waits just outside, first in its path."


    Word and sign did not match precisely, as there were more ways to say things aloud than with gestures. But also, one might convey things with position and motion that mere speech could not. Made close to the heart, a sign gained truth and the force of a vow. Drifting downward, it spoke of regret. Arms open and out to the side conveyed: ''Guilty. Sorrowing. At your mercy.''


    "I accept your judgment for what I have done, but¡­"


    ''We are being used,'' signed the goblin. ''All of us.''


    Valerian nodded.


    "I will take whatever hell you would pour on my head, afterward. My vow, I shall not run away¡­ but in all the gods'' names, please let me through, now."


    His oath swept outward like wind stirring leaves. The goblin-crowd parted, creating an aisle that led to that spasming sigil.


    "I honor your forbearance," Val said to them, still using both gesture and word. "I do not say thank you, as I have not that right¡­ but I promise to do all I can for those yet alive."


    It was a loan, not a gift, and he knew it. Passing among them, he still felt echoes of violent death; was striped with quick-fading cuts and faint scorch marks. Didn''t fight it or shield himself. Just kept on moving, while those he passed by lost their death wounds, becoming whole once again. In seeming, at least. So doing, in no time at all and forever, Valerian got to the damaged sigil, almost staggering.


    He could sense the Mother''s amusement. Her certainty that he was far too drained to work greater magic. And, perhaps she was right, for he hadn''t a great deal left in him. Valerian thought of his grandfather''s boon, then. "It''s not much", Galadin had told him¡­ but maybe enough to go one with.


    "Granddad, I claim now your gift," the elf whispered. "Lend me strength, My Lord, that I may see this thing through to its end."


    Light flashed, destroying the hovering dark-torches; filling Val with the borrowed might of Galadin and Vesendorin, both. Now, he drew Frostbite, feeling it change in his hand, watching as dawn-light coursed through its blade.


    ''Always knew he had it in him,'' the young elf felt Vesendorin boast, as he levitated to place a boot on the rune''s base-stroke. An eye-roll would have been disrespectful¡­ utterly inappropriate¡­ so Val stuck to business.


    Dropped Frostbite''s tip so that its edge touched the sigil, producing a scream like torn metal, which echoed and bounced from the walls. Then he started to walk, keeping the corrected figure clear in his mind. (Blue Grimoire, page 137, illustration and text to left bottom, with appendices. Most boring thing he''d ever been forced to skim¡­ back then. Utterly gripping now, though.)


    Just like in the mage-trial arena and court-ball field, Valerian always felt upright. It was the cavern that shifted around the young mage as he strode forward; swinging up, tilting sideways and downward while he remained stable, carving a magical path with his sword.


    The going was easy enough at the start, with gathering resistance, more of a feeling of pushing his way up a very steep hill, as he came to that first bloodstain. A small, torn-off left arm was there, pinning two lines of the sigil together.


    Val resheathed Frostbite, then stooped and gently worked loose the slain little one''s arm.


    "Elrin," he called quietly, pulling the child''s toy owl-bear out of a faerie pocket. "It is time to come home. See, I have brought your best friend."


    The bloodstain vanished, rising as a shower of sparks; hovering close to the toy. The sigil''s lines twisted and writhed in response, but couldn''t yet part. Valerian began a chant of greater summoning. Said the words in reverse, reading them right off the page in his mind. (Ascrim''s Scroll of Forbidden Arts, three feet from the bottom and nearly erased.) Kept up that backward chant, unsaying it, until at last the two glowing lines came apart.


    Did not expect the ensuing attack. A sudden flood of images struck as he drew Frostbite and prepared to cut through the damage: Pretty One, gutted by Orrin, clutching at entrails and blood¡­ Nalderick, torn and devoured by cave trolls¡­ Kalisandra, burnt up inch after inch, in the clutches of ifrits. But he could not rush to their aid. Not in the midst of a spell.


    The goblins, though, could. In their hundreds, those whom he''d torn from life discorporated; streaming out through the cavern''s portal. Now, Val said,


    "Thank you."


    ...Not really deserving their help, but grateful right down to his core.

 Part Three, Chapter Twelve

    12


    Having no guide, Salem, Gildyr and Kalidandra searched their own way down to the Cave of the Sigil. The druid shuffled forms like a deck of cards, being sometimes a great bear for tracking and battle, sometimes a wolf or an earth-elemental for pushing new paths through the stone.


    That constantly moving tunnel system made it very hard to directly follow Valerian''s track, but the elf-lord and Pretty One seemed to be headed westward and down; aimed at the root of the mountains. For the rest, Find Person and True Path kept them from getting very much lost.


    The real trouble started as Gildyr shifted forms yet again. He''d been a giant, grizzled bear standing up on his hind legs to snuff at the rock; six-inch claws scraping stone, grunting and blinking like a half-blind old man. Then, with a thought, he converted himself to animate rubble.


    As a bear, he could speak to the elf and Tabaxi. His senses of hearing and smell were especially keen, his eyesight quite poor¡­ but Val and Pretty had certainly passed this way, disappearing abruptly at some kind of long-vanished intersection.


    Anyone else might have been stymied, but not a powerful druid. Gildyr shifted first back to elf, then pushed his spirit into a pile of nearby mine-tailings. Rose up with a clatter and rumble of stone, causing his senses to alter still further.


    Now, light didn''t matter at all, as the part of his mind that usually "saw" converted to mapping out echoes. He began producing a series of booms, chirps and clicks, listening all over his massive stone body for their bounce and return.


    Passage walls were broad and roughly curved, with sandy and rocky stuff hard-packed, down below. The Tabaxi and Ranger were soggy mush-bags with bits of metal attached that rang like bells when his noises struck and reflected.


    He did not speak well, in this form. Not to meat-sacks, at least¡­ but could tap out: ''Scouting next space'', before melding himself with the tunnel wall like he''d never existed.


    Salem knew a few basic words of the Karandun tap-code, but Sandy was fluent. (As insults could fly through linked jewelry that way, during long, boring ceremonies. She''d stopped doing it, though, when the last thing that Valerian said to her thus was: ''You''re funny. I like you.'')


    She watched now as the massive, person-shaped rock pile pushed itself at the wall and then clattered back into rubble. Would presumably animate gravel and stone over there, in the next open space.


    Sandy reflexively summoned a fey spirit in the form of a sleek, vicious mountain cat, setting it to guard as she waited. While she could meld with stone, too¡­ at a pinch¡­ the effect didn''t last long. She found it uncomfortable. Missed breathing and seeing too much.


    The Tabaxi slipped into shadow, going off to do rogue things. A relief, that. In general, not-Kalisandra liked animals. She could hardly be a ranger, otherwise. But the person-form cat-thing felt wrong to her, somehow. Almost as bad as a gnoll. Neither elven, human nor good, clean beast, the Tabaxi raised Sandy''s hackles. That golden monkey, on the other hand, was perfectly welcome to sit on her knee and cage treats.


    She''d fed Cap''n raisins and cheese¡­ and maybe more ale than was strictly advisable¡­ when her patrolling fey-spirit shrieked like a panther, then vanished away. Sandy vaulted back onto her feet, leaving the food, drink and monkey suspended by magic. Barely in time, as a swarm of fiery, mad-eyed, fanged heads swept around a bend in the corridor. Ifrits, at least ten of them.


    The ranger called up a wind wall, trapping half of those cackling, flying heads on its other side. Left her facing five of the monsters. They darted and swooped like wyverns, jetting short bursts of flame and then pouncing to bite. The temperature rose like a brick-kiln; melting sand, cracking stone.


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    Sandy''s shield and her ward-spells blocked most of their strikes and the worst of that roasting heat. Some got through, though. Enough to cause Cap''n to pop away like a shadow-flit. Meanwhile, five snapping, giggling, flame-heads swooped all around her, keeping the ranger circling.


    Sandy''s bow was useless here, but More-than-She-Seems was suddenly back in her hand. Not as an arrow, this time, but a stout club. Wielding the thing like a bat, seeing past rocketing lights and shifting long shadows, Sandy batted two of the ifrits into the cave-wall, crushing them.


    Stamped out: ''Under attack'' with one booted foot as she did so. Then one of the monsters looped around from behind, using all of its magic at once to crash past her shield. Popped like a bubble, but not before sinking its long, jagged teeth deeply into her right shoulder; melting chain-mail, burning leather and wool, roasting flesh to the bone.


    Kalisandra gasped aloud; raggedly sucking oven-hot air into frying lungs. Managed to take up the club with her other hand and scrape away the ifrit''s papery husk. Crippled, blinded with pain, she staggered in circles, swinging her club through the air at four cackling, burning-hot fiends.


    Then Gildyr came back through the wall in earth-elemental form, and the Tabaxi flowed out of Sandy''s own lean, moving shadow. With one great, rocky hand, the transformed druid crushed an ifrit to drifting sparks. With the other, he grabbed Kalisandra, pulling her close to his wide rocky chest. The stones that he animated parted and clattered aside, making a space into which he thrust the terribly wounded she-elf.


    Salem was a dreadful thief, but a fairly competent rogue. She wasn''t much good against three darting ifrits, who were already singeing her fur, causing the Tabaxi''s whiskers to blacken and curl. Needed another approach.


    Some of Lord Orrin''s trove was still in her goods-pocket. Small things, mostly, that she''d thought might be easily shifted and sold. Broken up for their gems and metal, if nothing else. As luck, or the ifrits'' sudden bad fortune would have it, Salem''s groping hand closed on a beautiful crown-game piece, lifted from Orrin''s study. A great, curling wave carved of amethyst and topped with a rearing horse, the object was worthy of kings. Would have fetched her a fortune, if sold.


    She hauled it forth, now, meaning only to decoy-animate the thing, but its magic was great and had other ideas. As Salem raised the carved game-piece and started her spell, it glowed, turning suddenly weightless. A wall of phantom sea-water formed in the corridor, dousing and sweeping up ifrits like burning dry leaves in a violent gale. All of the screeching, snapping monsters were sealed up in bubbles of fluid and blasted down-corridor, dead before they hit the far wall. Just like that, the board had been cleared; a just about game-ending move.


    Silence fell, and the passage went all at once cold-dripping-dark. The game piece in Salem''s clawed hand lost its magical animation, growing heavy again. Eyes very wide, Salem tucked it away, reaching up to pat Cap''n.


    "It is well that you remained with the ranger. Better still, that you came back to find me," she said.


    The golden monkey searched for comfort and bugs in her singed fur, too upset to respond. Behind them, the massive earth elemental opened back up again, releasing the wounded ranger. Salem pivoted to catch Kalisandra, easing her onto the ground. She was alive and conscious, still; breathing in bubbling gasps through clenched teeth.


    Gildyr returned to his druid shape, leaving a pile of rubble half-blocking the passage. Salem set screamer-stones to warn of enemy approach, then fell to pacing and spitting as the wood-elf did what he could.


    Invoking golden acorns, ''Cure Wounds'' and bottled potions¡­ heal moss, even¡­ he worked hard over Sandy. Spoke to her gently all the while, but the ranger seemed not to hear. She''d pulled something out of a faerie pocket. Ornate betrothal-band, looked like. Started to tap on it with one badly-seared finger, though blood, leaking fluid and deadened nerves made hitting the target next to impossible.


    "Tell him¡­" she managed to hiss. "Not¡­ interested. Find¡­ someone else."


    Gildyr bit his lip, but nodded assent.


    "Yes, Milady. Of course. Or, you can do it yourself, once you''re better. Imagine all the things you can say to Valerian, in person. He won''t show his face for a week, for the blushes."


    She''d started to cry; a grunting, bloody and messy thing. Glowing, now, too¡­ which was worse.


    "Stupid northerner¡­ stupid idiot¡­" gasped the ranger, before Gildyr placed a desperate life-suspense charm on her. The monkey leapt down from Salem''s shoulder. Scurrying over, Cap''n reached into Kalisandra''s belt pouch and yanked out all of the good-berries he could hold, stuffing them into her mouth.


    "Peace, little friend," said the druid. "She is kept from death by my spell, but will require great healing, and soon. I''m going to shift back to bear-shape. Lady Salem, if you would, please get her onto my back and keep her from slipping. We must find help, quickly."


    "Find Mrowr," said the Tabaxi, coming forward as Gildyr once more turned into a massive brown bear. "The mage-knight healed me of great pain and injury, once. He will surely be able to do so for She-who-is-bitter, as well."


    The bear nodded, in its own fashion saying,


    "Then let us make haste, for there isn''t much time."

 Part Three, Chapter Thirteen

    13


    High overhead, out on the surface, Reston systematically quartered and scoured the area under that prisoning dome. Though shaken by a sudden great flood of raging water and shattered debris¡­ thinking that the sea-elf queen had made good her threat¡­ Starloft''s Lord Warden stayed the course. What else was there to do besides pray for the Tarandahl heirs and fight to restrain Ashlord?


    The job wasn''t finished. Not by a very long bow-shot. There was still plenty of dug-in resistance and nasty surprises out by the Tanglewood. Reston had lost some good people there; warriors, bowmen and mages he had no way at all to replace. Ignoring the tangled flotsam of bodies and wreckage that swirled past around them, all he could do was fight on. Then something happened. Near the end of a horse-rest and meal break, it was.


    "My lord," one of his people had said, leading Dancer back over. "The woodlings think they can use spells to boost a mage up through the opening, yonder, to have a look outside. See if maybe a boat might be launched¡­ though where they are planning to go, I haven''t the vaguest idea."


    Reston glanced up at that swirling storm''s eye, above. Their one drifting patch of blue sky, it circled the topmost spires of Starloft, letting in spray and gusting-wet wind. From this far below, it seemed as large as a man''s clenched fist at full stretch. Rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, Reston shrugged.


    "They''re welcome to try, Timmon," he said to the waiting attendant. "Wood-elves, only. I''ll not lose any of ours on some blind-fool, hazardous escapade." Then, dismissing the subject, "Hold her steady."


    That there was life out there, still¡­ confused, screaming birds, a sun that kept right on climbing¡­ helped anchor the weary and bloodied half-elf. He looked up at that wobbling circle of sky, hearing it spatter and hiss. Powerful magic kept it aloft, just as that same mighty force kept the water outside from crushing and drowning them all.


    ¡­and not a cursed thing he could do about either. Reston spat to one side, then took hold of Dancer''s saddle and placed a foot in the stirrup, ready to mount. Was about to swing a leg over, when the wheeling sky-patch yawned suddenly wider. He and the others watched in surprise as their watery prison dropped like a deep-green curtain on all sides at once. Growing thinner, turning translucent, then peeling away.


    The juddering wind and that constant low rumble cut off, just like that. Mage glows were doused as full sunlight shone on the one patch of life in a tangled ruin of flood wrack. The sudden quiet felt loud enough to make ears bleed. Rather than cheering the ocean''s retreat, most of his folk seemed to steel themselves against fresh, renewed nightmares. Certainly, no one relaxed.


    Reston''s first thought¡­ that there would be no catching all of the remaining dark-spawn, now¡­ and his second, that something decisive must have happened, below¡­ didn''t get spoken aloud.


    A figure appeared atop a knot of slimy, uprooted trees. Made all of water, with sand and shells sketching eyes and a mouth, it seemed vaguely female, and tense. Some sort of long, gleaming tendril connected it to the receding flood, which was no more than a shrinking grey line to the east. Its voice, when it spoke, was the hissing and thunder of surf.


    "Come, Warden. I would treat with you."


    Shanella, most likely, so Reston mounted up and rode forward. Didn''t hurry, letting his mare choose her own careful path over ruined Ilirian.


    "Milady," he said to the sending. It glistened wetly, trembling like a water drop poised to fall from the end of a twig. Inclining his head very slightly, Reston continued, "What are your terms, that we may consider them?"


    Ashlord''s solution (open a mid-ocean rift to boil the witch and all of her soggy companions) did not seem especially helpful. The Silent One was angered. On edge, over godly matters that threatened to squash Reston''s mind like a grape. But Shanella was speaking, again.


    "There has been tremendous devastation¡­ great harm to my realm, Warden. Someone has restrung and played Llyroc, rousing the Ancient of Deeps. Only a princess or prince of the old royal blood could do such a thing. Where is she? Explain what you''ve done, and how such a one was imprisoned."


    Reston shifted a bit in the saddle. It felt as though he''d been riding and fighting¡­ being threatened¡­ for days. His patience was worn very thin; his manners more threadbare, still.


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    "You¡­ accuse us of causing harm to your people¡­ milady?" he asked, like somebody probing a wound for stone chips and teeth. "If my lords Lerendar and Valerian emerge from their trial, below¡­ if they have even survived¡­ I have this to show them." Reston''s voice had begun to rise. Roughening, despite all the peace spells that his patrol group could throw at him. Under his armor and clothing, Ashlord''s mark began glowing, again.


    Someone else charged up from Starshire. The wood-elf paladin, hurtling debris, scattering mud on his over-sized wolf. Reston ignored the newcomer.


    "I have no knowledge of any sea-elven princess or prince," he went on, almost snarling. "Nor did we cause whatever harm has befallen your realm. You''ll forgive me, milady, if I have not much space in my heart to bemoan your troubles." Perhaps in his fundament, where he kept all the rest of his feelings for sea-folk.


    The wood-elf pushed forward aggressively, edging past Reston. His wolf''s hackles were raised. Its fangs, bared. The paladin himself didn''t look any sweeter. Shining with Hyrenn''s bleak, frosty power, Arondyr seemed poised to do something rash.


    More peace spells¡­ and just about as effective¡­ erupted from a knot of hurrying wood-elves. Andara came up at Reston''s other side, then, her horse winded and shuddering.


    "He must be stopped," she whispered, pushing a few strands of sweaty green hair out of her face. Reston nodded, thinking of Ashlord rather than Arondyr (about whom he gave not one tinker''s foul curse).


    The wood-elf paladin vaulted from his steed and stalked to the sea-golem, drawing a sword that hissed and crackled like pack-ice at dawn.


    "You drowned the forest?!" he demanded, golden eyes narrow and hard.


    The watery figure seemed to regard him, briefly; the shells, small starfish and sand that made up its features shifting position, slightly. It extruded a whipping filament. Struck Arondyr with the new limb, hard. The lash formed a bubble of seawater that coated and trapped him, cutting off magic and breath.


    The paladin did not panic or struggle. Instead, his sword glowed blue-white and turned wintery cold. Before Reston (still not hurrying) could fire a spell, that watery envelope froze into ice, cracked into chunks and broke off. Arondyr was left chapped but alive, and angrier, still.


    "Answer me!" he snapped, raising his sword in both hands. "Was it you who drowned the forest?"


    A small animal¡­ squirrel, or some such¡­ popped out of the paladin''s hood and onto his right shoulder, scolding and chattering. Shanella''s sending turned its regard back to Reston.


    "Control your minion, or lose it," she hissed, making threat number four, by the Lord Warden''s count.


    "He is none of mine, but seems to be of some value to these others. Pray do not harm him, milady," grumbled Reston, who would have been perfectly content to see Arondyr spend eternity as a coral-encrusted statue, down in some sea-elven grotto. "I know nothing of any princess or prince, as I said, but perhaps someone has turned up in the caverns, below. I will inquire."


    Would have been unforgivably rude to entirely turn his back, so Reston just shifted around in the saddle. Speaking to Andara, he said,


    "For all the gods'' sake, fetch your lord husband before the sea-hag slays him, to general applause and acclaim."


    Andara scowled.


    "Arondyr isn''t my life-mate," she muttered, urging her tired steed forward. News of interest to Reston, though Shanella ignored it.


    "I shall await your findings with great anticipation, Warden," said the magical sending, before snapping itself off and away, back to that foaming grey line of vanishing water.


    Another wood-elf rode up to help calm Arondyr, who looked like he would have followed Shanella right into the turbulent flood. Meanwhile a great white stag and huge bear nosed about, clearing debris and freeing trapped animals.


    Reston looked around at a scene of total disaster. At loss that defied comprehension. Others were looking at him, though, expecting strength and direction. He hadn''t the luxury of weakness; no time at all for grief.


    "We will set up teams to clear the environs of Starshire," he told them. "Timmon, go to the fortress and ask for volunteers. We will form patrols to keep off attack as the clean-up proceeds. A great deal of work lies ahead of us, but much has already been done. I am tremendously proud of all that we have accomplished¡­ and I know that their Lordships shall be, as well." Nodded in Arondyr''s direction as he said this, including the wood-elves. "The Greenwood has come to our aid, and that shall not be forgotten. After this, when Lords Lerendar and Valerian have returned from below, I pledge our assistance to Lobum, in turn."


    Arondyr dragged his eyes away from the ebbing flood with real difficulty. Stared at Reston for a moment, before nodding his thanks.


    "In the high druid''s name, I accept your offer, Lord Warden¡­ but she who has done this must pay. My god''s judgment¡­ and yours, I think, half-breed¡­ cannot be forever restrained."


    Timmon, too, was a half-elf. He leaned over as the paladin strode away.


    "You know, Milord," he said quietly, "Every time I think to myself, ''Could that fellow get any more charming?'' he unfolds new depths of character. Truly, I am in awe."


    There was a sudden spate of light coughing and skyward glances among the high-elves, which Reston chose to ignore. Idleness, on the other hand¡­


    "To your tasks," he commanded, handing out duties. Finished up with: "Lord Galadin required a full three cycles to clear and civilize Ilirian. I say we can do it in less than three months¡­ and I shall personally serve at the feasting table for the group with the greatest success."


    There would be no journal entry that day, nor in the evening to come. Deliberately, he stayed too busy to worry. Waiting, as all of them did, for some hint of good news.

 Part Three, Chapter Thirteen

    13


    With the reader''s indulgence, a series of brief vignettes:


    In Karellon, High Lord Arvendahl quickly set about restoring order. His way, and only in certain quarters. The Imperial Palace and noble sector, absolutely. Those regions that served them directly, apace. Lowtown and Underfall could go hang, though; of less interest to Lord Falcoridan than the peace and contentment of his dwarven conscripts, which was to say: not at all.


    Sister Constant attempted to meet with the high-elf, but all of her efforts failed. He was too busy, too riven with grief and far too well guarded to speak with a simple, wandering paladin.


    "Elves," she muttered, glowering into the campfire, back at the mage-trial arena. "Present company excepted, of course," Nadia added, with a nod at Meliara. She was seated by a small blaze with her brothers-in-Oberyn Humble and Arnulf, along with the hooded oracle. The place had got crowded with refugees, but there was still the odd nook between pylons where one could rest and refresh.


    In one such spot they shared bread, cheese and beer, conversing between bites as the food passed around. The firelight glowed on the rose and gold beads woven into Nadia''s hair as she shook her head, fretting,


    "He''s sworn to rebuild the City, and that''s what he''s going to do. On top of us all, if he has to. The dwarves are near open revolt, the way he''s been driving them."


    Brother Humble took a long pull at their shared flask, then spelled it full again, using ''Nourish the Multitudes''. Simple paladin courtesy which cost little manna, so long as his motive wasn''t a selfish one.


    "There will be curses for mortar and vengeance for stones, whenever one forces labor," rumbled the orc, whose name had been Vorbol, back in another, more savage life. "This Arvendahl will live to regret his choices¡­ but worse, so will we."


    They had marshaled the remaining city guards to patrol Lowtown, but Underfall would permit no truncheons or badges. Only the paladins, so long as they minded their business.


    Villem stretched their bread and cheese again, a thing that he did every time the food dropped below half. This might have been the dark, fragrant loaf''s third round, and he''d got it years ago, on first setting out from the Constellate Needle.


    "I think that the townsfolk can mostly rebuild on their own," he said, "provided we keep chaos, monsters and theft to a minimum. Anyhow, I doubt that His Lordship knows what a back-alley is, much less how to construct one. Let the main City arise, and Lowtown will bubble on up through the cracks." Then, rising with a clatter of chain mail and creaking of leather, "It is my turn at patrol, and you two need rest. In Oberyn''s name¡­"


    "To his glory," finished Humble and Constant, rising to see their friend off. They remained at the fire, but Meliara followed Villem a while, wishing not yet to part.


    Looking around at the arena, which still reflected Starloft, along with an underhill Sidhe, the seer asked,


    "This is your home? The fey-dwelling?" She''d thrown back her hood, away from the others. Was golden, lovely and (just a bit) smiling.


    Villem smiled back, taking her hand in his own.


    "It is," he admitted. Then, more soberly, "I was too young to remember much¡­ but I think we were traveling. Then bandits attacked. At least, I recall fire and screaming¡­ and my mother, pushing me into a hole at the base of a tree. I don''t remember her name, or my father''s face, but she cried out for ''Arnulf'' as the bandits were dragging her off."


    "So you chose that as your paladin name, rather than picking some uplifting virtue?" guessed the beautiful elf.


    Villem nodded.


    "I stayed in that hollow, not daring to weep or make any sound, until the fires died out and birds began pecking the bodies. Hunger, I think, drove me forth¡­ and somehow I found my way to Underhill Sidhe."


    "Where the fey brought you up," said Meliara, squeezing his hand. The paladin gave her a serious glance, then gestured complexly, murmuring,


    "Oberyn''s peace."


    All at once, everything faded but the Underhill setting, which took on sudden life and reality; blue-painted dome, magic lighting, and all.


    "It''s a bit more than that," he said to the oracle, assured of their privacy. "More than just fey, I mean. This is the home of the Seven Gods Who Decree¡­ or, what remains of them. Great Ur-Shan is not even ruins now, and its gods have passed beyond legend or myth, so the Seven have faded. They are in mortal danger, My Lady, for there is a monster out there that hunts and feeds upon un-worshiped gods. This predator must never find them."


    "Who¡­ what¡­ would have power enough to consume even a diminished immortal?" wondered Meliara, shaking her head.


    "I do not know, but the monster is real, My Lady, and it would feast upon those who rescued and raised me, were it ever to find them. Thus, I serve Lord Oberyn, worship the Seven in private and keep their secret¡­ but I think they will like you."


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    Meliara glanced around the Sidhe''s interior, at shadowy figures, beautiful plants and the laughing, scampering young of many races.


    "I would be honored to meet and help defend your family, Villem," she told him. "The eye sees no death in this place. Not for a long time to come."


    The young, brown-haired paladin sagged momentarily, visibly losing a great deal of tension. Then, maintaining their privacy, he leaned forward, placed his hands on her shoulders, and kissed the elf''s forehead. Meant to, at least. She tipped her head up and rose on her toes, instead, meeting his mouth with her own.


    "My people are often formal and difficult," she said, once that warm and lingering kiss at last ended. "But I see, and I know what matters in truth. I offer no betrothal, for that takes too much time. Only my heart, if you would have it, Paladin."


    "If¡­?" he half-laughed, pulling her into a sudden embrace. "Who says no to the sun or the moon? To beauty and love? I do not deserve what you offer¡­ but I promise to cherish it, all the days of my life."


    Meliara nestled into his arms, head on his chest, murmuring,


    "I, too¡­ for all of mine." A very grave vow, for an elf. And so, the matter between them was settled, for all the days that remained.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Over in Snowmont, Lady Alfea was too weak, too frail to be moved. Happy, though, with Pudgy licking first her face, then the baby''s.


    "So you''re the one who''s been causing all this fuss," whispered Alfea, kissing her newly born child. "Hullo, Little Sweet. I''m so glad to finally meet you."


    Arien fetched pillows and blankets, while a townswoman helped guide the baby''s head to its mother''s breast. It was far too early to name the child, a healthy and beautiful girl, but in Alfea''s heart, the infant was already Kara.


    "He''ll come back," she promised blurrily, drifting away into spell-gentled sleep. "And he''ll love you as much as I do, Sweetling... I know he will... and we''ll go... we''ll go home."


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    In the high-elven camp of another plane, meanwhile, Lady Alyanara woke with a start. Opening her eyes and half-rising, she found herself on her own bed, with Galadin at her side on a low, cushioned stool. He''d been holding her hand, she sensed; drifting in rest while giving her power.


    Two mage glows alone lit the pavilion''s interior, spelled to emit soothing, warm light and a comforting hum. As Alyanara sat up, drawing her knees to her chest beneath silken covers, those hovering mage glows brightened.


    "My Lord," she exclaimed; anxious, remembering. "What has¡­"


    "Peace," said her husband, coming back to himself. "All is¡­improving. Reston reports a number of mortal refugees, but no monsters at all, and Filimar is well on his way to Snowmont. Valerian and his lady maintain the perimeter, while I¡­" he paused a moment to summon herb tea, toast and jam. "I am here, caring for you."


    She accepted the food and drink with murmured thanks. Said, between bites,


    "I must hurry, Milord. I have sworn to help our other grandson, who is in terrible need."


    "And you shall do so, Milady, directly your strength has returned. You came near to draining yourself completely, yesterday."


    She sensed that not just the healer, but Galadin himself had fed her with lifeforce and magic, keeping her this side of darkness. And so, feeling tender and shy, Alyanara began to tell him of her trip to the fey-wilds, and all that had chanced there. Most of the telling netted mere grunts or brief nods, but¡­


    "This Kratar¡­ no doubt a rude, backward fellow. Low, uncouth and ugly."


    Alyanar shook her head, no, smiling over her teacup.


    "Not at all, Milord. He was quite charming, for a Quetzali¡­ but my errand was urgent, and I have a husband whom it seems that I very much love."


    The part of her which was Alyanara-who-weeps wanted nothing more than to stare at Galadin. Hold his hand, hear his voice.


    "Anyhow," she continued, as His Lordship spelled the remains of her meal away, "These bird-folk mate in the air. I am told that the act is most stimulating, but terribly dangerous."


    She scooted over as Galadin got into the bed beside her. Taking his lady into his arms, he said,


    "Rest. Heal, and then we shall go to the aid of our wandering grandson, together. And if this Kratar pops up, we shall have words, he and I."


    Alyanara stifled a laugh.


    "What if I simply promise to host fewer banquets?" she offered, drawing manna as fast as was safe for all those around her.


    "Tempting," Galadin admitted, holding her close. "But force of arms may be needed, as well as great magic. Sometimes, Milady, nothing beats steel."


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    In the network of caves below Starloft, Nalderick''s group followed Lady Solara. She''d been using a seeker spell to hunt for Valerian, but its glowing arrow wavered and spun a great deal, pointing first this way, then that.


    They fetched up at last in a vast, natural gallery, pillared with columns of flowstone. Here, the sorceress paused, for her arrow got hopelessly muddled; vibrating as though trying to point in some direction that didn''t exist. Then,


    "Out of your reach, is he? How unfortunate," came a voice from the darkness. Lord Orrin, her former employer, sounding disturbingly changed.


    The sorceress lit up the end of her staff, casting light for a full acre above and to every side. Saw nothing but pillars of stone and a few drifting bats.


    "Where are you?" she demanded, adding, "Show yourself, Orrin, if you be not an enemy."


    The others¡­ their Majesties, Filimar, Lerendar and the court-ball team¡­ had gathered back to back, weapons drawn, facing outward.


    "An enemy¡­?" mused Orrin''s voice, coming from many directions at once. "How not, when all the world has been so, to me? No one, not one has stood by me. Not even my wife. And now, I simply don''t care. I am offered much more than just Snowmont, and Sherazedan''s latest puppets are doomed, just like all the others."


    Sensing danger, Lerendar tried to shove Nalderick and Genevera inside of the circle. Too late. With a sudden cracking and grinding noise, something massive and dark peeled itself off of the nearest stone pillar. A cave troll, bursting with muscle and vacuous, unthinking hate.


    Two more of the hideous creatures ground themselves out of the stonework, armed with great clubs and boulder-sized fists. Orrin''s voice laughed scornfully, coming from one monster after another.


    "I have new powers now," he gloated. "Friends whose strength you cannot imagine!"


    "Not ogres," muttered Nalderick, summoning magic to deal with the oncoming trolls. "They''re not ogres."


    For all of their size, the hulking stone brutes were terribly fast, able to move through the ground itself as though it were water or smoke. One of them did so, dropping down and away to rise from below, directly beneath the embattled elves; scattering them.


    It leapt from the ground with an earth-shaking bellow, seizing the prince. Nalderick twisted in its grip, firing mage bolts and lightning at the creature''s dull eyes. The other two sank down to course through the ground, next, cutting straight for Genevera.


    Flustered, caught by surprise, Solara just stared as the troll holding His Majesty clenched its great fist. As the monster wrenched Nalderick''s arm, twisting it out of its socket, she did the only thing she could think of; burnt up her own body to add force to a final great spell, then launched herself into the cave troll, possessing it.


    "Go!" she roared, dropping a bloodied and vomiting prince onto Filimar. "I will slow them! Get him away, quickly!"


    Then, turning, Solara threw herself at the other two cave trolls, fighting for cover and time.

 Part Three, Chapter Fourteen

    14


    Battling visions of terror and death, Valerian edged his way along the shifting coils of a great, damaged sigil. Worked to repair the thing as he went. This got harder as the rune gained ever more freedom to move. Intersections, especially, as he had to forge the right path, up, down or sideways; sword blade to glowing line, collecting small, torn-off body parts on his way.  Leaping, ducking those roiling magical lines and staying on course.


    Didn''t have room for revulsion or horror. Not while backward-chanting an evil summoning rite¡­ but it hurt. What he saw. What she threw at him.


    And, the gods-cursed sigil seemed never to end. Val''s universe shrank to the words on that memorized scroll, seeming to burn as he read them. To Frostbite''s tip, blazing and screeching through blots of smeared gore.


    The goblins had fastened five points with the sacrificed little one''s torso and limbs, forming a five-sided hole in the spell-web. They''d left the boy''s head at dead center, floating face down in a vortex of swirling, spilled blood. Val had to reach all of the gate-points. Had to concentrate, no matter the visions, the words¡­


    "You were never meant to succeed at this, Sweet Child. He means you to die here, sparking the rise of chaos. You are bait to him, nothing more."


    Pushed it aside and kept going, because he had no other choice. Bit by bit, first one torn arm, then the other. This ragged leg and that one. Finally, a poor, curled up body and staring-eyed head. Val gathered them all, putting the parts away in a shimmering cloud of life-force and blood that trailed him like a puppy.


    Time passed. The Mother kept talking, showing him bits of his friends'' final moments. At last, Valerian found himself weary and tottering, his voice just a whispery rasp, at the sigil''s vibrating center. Surrounded on all sides by a rune cage of shifting magical lines, he was shaken and drained like¡­ like Pretty One''s water pouch. But¡­ she was dead now, wasn''t she? Like he expected to die. Gutted, burned, dismembered, drowned¡­ Dead, like everyone else. Doused like the sun and all life.


    Unless, whispered something (his grandfather''s spirit or Firelord, maybe) he could finish this unsought-relations, cursed-to-the-nether-realms rite. Ended the chant, un-saying "Enter, Arise", and almost fell down.


    That five-sided gateway disappeared with a ringing flash, but not the Mother, part of whom he could sense coiled outside like a serpent; first daughter and herald of chaos.


    Right.


    He wanted a drink, and not the family honey-wine, either. Something with fangs, hair and actual kick. Sorted through his faerie pockets while catching his breath. Found only the sea-folk drinking horn, which¡­ he had apparently earned. The hollowed tooth of some massive beast, it was brimful of glowing blue liquid, and carved all over with fishes.


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    No one could possibly drain the thing. That wasn''t the point. The point was to drink as much as you could, leaving a fresh "low tide" mark for others to grasp after. That the horn had appeared here and now seemed important; as though Father Ocean himself had seen fit to step in.


    Valerian rubbed at the back of his neck with one hand, trying to ease pent up tension. He''d begun the drinking challenge what felt like a lifetime ago, back at the Open Casket with Naldo, Marlie and Sherlon. Seemed right to finish things out, the elf-lord supposed.


    "May my effort honor you, Greath Lord of the Depths," he said, taking hold of the horn by its twin golden rings. Next, Val inhaled deeply and started to drink.


    There was everything in it: the first beginnings of life; volcanic heat and cold, crushing depths; lost, flooded cities and toppled statues of vanished gods; schools of bright fish and slow-piling coral; treasure and knowledge and bones. Tasted like time. Never cloyed, never sated, for the ocean links everything, connecting all peoples and realms. Never ending, never still.


    And, yes, Valerian drank it down farther than the last challenger; setting a new, lower tide mark. Pride wouldn''t let him do anything else. Then the horn vanished and¡­ just like that¡­ he had the challenge reward. A wish-globe that he instantly shoved into his deepest faerie pocket, accessible only to someone worthy, after his death. (Well out of her corrupting influence, for certain. He''d read all the epics. Knew the havoc that a wish gone wrong could create.)


    On the bright side, his voice had healed.


    "Marlon owes me money," was the first thing Val said, followed by, "Past time to finish this business, whatever its end."


    Very carefully, very gently, Valerian drew forth and arranged those bloodied small limbs, head and body. Next, fetching forth one of the scrolls of life and a flask of forgetting, he read off a short chant. Poured out the flask''s glowing contents just as that small boy came back together. As the glittering cloud of life-force reentered his twitching, healed body.


    The child was naked, so Val wrapped him up against terror and cold with¡­ not what¡­ not the shirt he''d been looking for¡­ couldn''t recall¡­ Found a different one, put that on the weeping boy like a gown, then sat down tailor-fashion to just let him cry.


    "All is well now, Elrin," he said. ''Elrin'' wasn''t an actual name. Just parts of ''youngest'' and ''dear one,'' melded together. But, that''s what his parents called him, so that''s what Val used. "Your mother and father miss you very much. Would you like to go home now?"


    The boy rubbed his dark eyes, gulped and nodded. So young a child wouldn''t understand very much, thought Valerian, but it felt important to try. Outside of their whipping and glittering rune cage, the Mother''s cut-off remainder raged and howled like a storm. Not the whole monstrous goddess, but trouble enough and probably death¡­ for later.


    Now, Valerian handed the baby a battered toy owl-bear, and then placed on his small, chubby wrist a certain cheap joke bracelet, bought from Serrio''s fair a lifetime ago. Paused, before tapping it, though. Sought Galadin''s boon once again, saying,


    "I do not know how much magic remains, nor in which direction the trick will work, this time. Wrong way, I think. But, Granddad, if the remains of your boon are enough, I would align it to send this little one to safety with Mirielle. So may it be, Milord."


    The sniffling child scowled. Nudged him, whining,


    "Hungry!"


    Valerian gave him a sliver of apple. Very small, to prevent choking. Then he tapped the bracelet and said, "Together," one last time.

 Part Three, Chapter Fifteen

    15


    Shifting forms at need, Gildyr plowed his way through the twisting cave system, pushing well past the goblin-reach. He was headed for the site where legend placed a long-blocked cavern, but it was a hard and dangerous trek. Physical attacks became less frequent as they plunged ever deeper into the ground, for the Mother''s power was divided, and the monsters she''d summoned were dwindling, fast.


    It was the mental assault that was hardest to bear. The sudden, gut¨Cclutching certainty that Karus was in terrible danger, above. That his heart-friend was about to be ripped back out of his life in bloody chunks. If only he could reverse direction, return to the surface and save him.


    ''After all,'' whispered a voice; sly and persuasive. ''What is the high-elf, to you? Or his female? No friends at all. Just another pair of arrogant, murderous elf-lords. Valerian has been using your kind, sweet nature against you, dear child. The huntress, as well.''


    It became very hard to ignore the voice, and all of the horrible visions it threw at him: Karus, torn apart and devoured by gnolls. The forest, drowned by a sudden and terrible flood. His brother, Arondyr, hung upside down from a dead tree; flayed to the waist and covered in buzzing black flies. The stench of the ocean, of death and decay. Mud drying grey in the wintery sun, as scavengers ate till they burst.


    The Tabaxi must have been seeing and hearing something similar, for she moved in tense, jerky dashes. Tail lashing fretfully, Salem growled and hissed in her own raspy language. The monkey had stayed with the spell-bound ranger on Gildyr''s broad back. Not that Kalisandra needed much, in her current state. Just used his own small magic to keep her from sliding off. Important, because no bear has a smooth, pleasant gait to begin with, and Gildyr was hurrying.


    So badly he wanted to abandon this hopeless search, turn and go to the ones who needed his help, up above. Only... Kalisandra was one breath from dying, and Pretty One was down here, somewhere, as well. In trouble, he sensed, and alone.


    Giving vent to an anguished roar, torn to his very heart, the druid picked up his pace. Twice he converted to earth-elemental to bash a link between nearby passages, coming at last to a place where neither bear nor stone form would do any good.


    Here, the tunnel widened suddenly, ending in a massive, crystal-pocked wall. Set at its base was a stone portal wreathed in dark magic. Should have been blocked. No longer was.


    Gildyr flowed back into his elf-shape, turning to catch the ranger before she fell to the ground. Cap''n scrambled to a perch on his shoulder, then leapt back over to Salem.


    The Tabaxi''s pupils were very wide. Her snarl had risen in volume and pitch, becoming a wavering yowl.


    "Death lies beyond and behind, Druid. There is nothing left but to thread a path between graves," she said to him.


    Gildyr nodded.


    "I can squeeze out a spell here, barely," he told her. "Ritual magic doesn''t come naturally to me, and the pressure of evil is high. But... I can send you away from this place with the ranger. Not to safety, exactly... but, safer than here."


    Salem considered his offer; ears flat back to her skull and muscles bunching under that shining black pelt. Then,


    "No. My curse has its end very soon. I feel it. And... surely, our dear ones are not... surely the Mistress of lies has twisted our seeing and thoughts."


    "I''m sure," Gildyr agreed, wafting pollen-balm to soothe a wracked mind and heart. The unconscious ranger was a definite burden, but Gildyr could not bring himself to just abandon her out in the corridor, helpless. Not when there was a chance that she might yet be saved. He switched her into an across-the-shoulders carry instead, saying,


    "I will go through the portal, first. I have a few spells on hand, and I can wild-shape, at need. Just be ready to catch Her Ladyship, if I have to let go, please."


    Salem rumbled agreement. Her thieves'' belt was hitched around so that its pockets were in reach, and she held a long dagger in each of her clawed, steady hands.


    "I shall follow. Quickly, then, Druid, for I would have done with this pftah cursed place."


    Gildyr smiled at the rogue.


    "In better times, the diggings were filled with friends, kin and laughter. May it be so, again." He would have made the sign ''hope'', but his hands were full, so Cap''n did it for him, crossing small fingers and moving them outward, twice. Somehow, that helped.


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    Gildyr gave them a nod, then stepped through the portal, followed by Salem and Cap''n. There was only the briefest sense of translocation, after which the small party found themselves in a great, dark space. Just how large was impossible to say, for wisp-light revealed very little. Chilly and cavernous enough to steal breath and smother exhalation, certainly.


    Looking around, they saw the faintest glimmer stretching ahead; like a luminous path that spiraled its way into darkness.


    "Light of the true road," murmured Gildyr. "Grey Fang says... said... that a wake is left, whenever somebody cuts through the darkness. Pretty''s been here, probably leading Valerian."


    There was no scent but dust, while some brooding, dark force seemed to quell every sound but the faint drip of water.


    "Follow me closely," said the druid, "and don''t stray from the path, whatever you do. There are worse things than death here, Milady."


    The Tabaxi didn''t show elvish facial expressions or gestures when stressed. Rather than nodding assent, she flicked an ear forward, then re-sheathed a dagger. Taking hold of Gildyr''s wool cloak, Salem said,


    "I am prepared, Mwef. Let us proceed."


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Elsewhere, Filimar rushed his group out of the gallery and away from those battling cave trolls. They kept running for close to a candle-mark, followed always by Orrin''s echoing laughter and taunts.


    "Why run away, little mice? There''s no way out. No place to hide from me. Nothing but failure and death."


    Finally halted at an intersection of three passages, none of them marked. It made no sense to pick a direction at random, Filimar thought. Also, the sounds of combat had faded behind them, and Nalderick needed help, very badly.


    "He will die here. Rats will gnaw at his corpse, and yours."


    To the court-ball team, Filimar said,


    "Perimeter watch." Then, as Roreck, Marlie, Sherlon and Vashtie took up their posts, he turned to Genevera. Bowed low, saying, "Your Majesty, love''s healing wish is more powerful than anything I could prepare. If you would, Majestrix?"


    "Lost and alone. Trapped forever in darkness. How terribly sad for you."


    The girl nodded, wide-eyed and anxious, but holding herself together like an imperial princess. She came over to crouch beside her brother, who Filimar had set gently down on the floor. Derrick was coughing blood, doubled in pain, his left arm attached by ragged, torn flesh and stretched tendons. He was still conscious, though; fighting to control his own bursts of magic and noise. Managed to gasp, with a hint of his usual charm,


    "Well... that''s... out of the way, at least. No more... worry... about ogres, right?"


    "Shut up, Dickie," grumped his sister, pouring donated potions with one hand, while scribing a sigil of healing on his forehead with the other. "This is no time for your jokes, Stupid. Concentrate, or next time, I''ll give them salt and pepper to go with their prince-munchy!"


    "...N''t forget relish," he grated through bloody, tightly-clenched teeth, pointedly not shutting up. "Princes always... better with... relish."


    The sea-elf bard had taken back over Lord Tarandahl, meanwhile. No more big, golden-haired northerner. He was slimmer, now, with pearl-white skin and black hair, his forehead and cheeks marked by swirling tattoos. Coming to sit on the ground beside Nalderick and Genevera, Andorin summoned a harp of remembered sunshine, elf-gold and dreams, then began very gently to play. Few words and falteringly, at first, for Lerendar''s hands were stiff; trained to the sword and bow, and this time he was not strumming Llyroc.


    He got the way of it after a while, though. Started a sprightly tale of dashing about through the coral and green, drifting kelp; of finding everything in the world but the pearl that his sweetheart had thrown in to test him. The tune was familiar, but the words were new. Better yet, they covered Orrin''s sneering voice; drove back his poisonous presence like sunlight melts fog.


    It was a fast, funny song, and just for a while they weren''t all trapped in a cavern; weary, heart-sick and hungry. They were out in bright water, finding old boots, angry eels and cracked net-stones... everything but Shiralin''s pearl. The through-line was a wish for strength and good health, and it boosted Genevera''s efforts, as did healing spells coming from Roreck, Vashtie and Filimar.


    There was no miracle, this time, but Nalderick stopped vomiting blood and straightened out on the floor. His arm had to be bound into place; attached more by magic and cloth than by actual flesh. Couldn''t walk or even sit up, but they''d saved him.


    "We have to keep moving," said Filimar, after they''d rested a bit. "Your Majesty, we must get you to safety. Valno..." the elf''s voice caught, but he steadied himself. "Lord Valerian would say the same thing, Majesty. He would put your life before his own, as Lady Solara did. As all of us shall."


    Nalderick grunted a curse. Fought to get up, until his sister put him to sleep with a fiercely hissed spell.


    "Language, Dickie," she added. "Nobody needs your sass!"


    The bard dispelled his small harp, then, and ended the song. Turning to young Lord Arvendahl, he said,


    "If you will, I can guide you back to the surface. Here... or very near to this place... is where I was beset and captured, to end my days in a cell. I can trace our way back, though it leads to a cave by the ocean, not any high-elf settlement."


    Filimar nodded, relieved.


    "Yes. Absolutely, Lore-singer. Help us to get Their Majesties out of this vile place, and my service is yours for eternity."


    Genevera came forward, then, rising from Nalderick''s side to take the bard''s hand.


    "I thank you," she told him, with sudden dignity. "We won''t forget this. Not ever." Held tight a bit longer, then released his hand and stepped away.


    The shade bowed Lerendar''s body, saying,


    "You are most welcome, Princess. But, once I have led you to the surface, I must leave. This One means to find his brother, and he is our host. Generally speaking, he gets his way."


    Giving Genevera another deep bow, Andorin went to the intersection. Stood looking at each tunnel for a moment, recalling the distant past. After thinking awhile, he chose the route that curved eastward.


    "This way," he said, setting off.


    The others followed. Marlie and Roreck took turns carrying Nalderick. Vashtie and Sherlon flanked Genevera, while Filimar brought up the rear, sword in hand, looking often behind.

 Part Three, Chapter Sixteen

    16


    With a muted flash and crack of collapsing air, the sniffling boy disappeared from Valerian''s lap. The twisted wrinkle left in his cloak by a moist, clutching hand persisted just a bit longer. Gone by the time he stood up again, though.


    "Good fortune be yours," offered Val. "Mirielle''s, too. May you both live to grow up, and I to explain what has happened." None of which seemed very likely, just then.


    He stood in a sort of sheltered negative space, at the center of a newly-repaired ban sigil. Very powerful and intricate thing, most likely not mortal or elvish in origin. There were too many twists into upper dimensions for anything short of a god, thought Valerian, leaching a bit of its thrumming-bright power.


    That glowing, beautiful script was meant to seal the Mother out of this plane, and so it did¡­ except for the part of her life-ending will that oozed through when goblins slaughtered a child, here. They''d created a gate which was shut now. But¡­ barn doors and murderous griffins.


    Valerian took a moment to ready himself. The sea-folk drinking horn and his grandfather''s boon had restored the elf''s manna, but he was wrung-out, bone-weary. Sick of running and fighting, right down to his core. No choice at all, though. Not if he meant to stop all those terrible visions from coming to pass. He had to distract, and maybe destroy, what remained of Her.


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    ''Just bait,'' the Mother had taunted. ''Never meant to actually win.'' Right. Speared on the hook and dangled by whom, though? Not Firelord, surely¡­ not the Shining One''s style. But that left only his former master, Sherazedan. Which¡­


    Val shook his head. ''One hopeless fight at a time, if you please,'' he thought. The Mother''s truncated remnant was more than enough of a problem. Out there, still, circling his refuge like skull-headed smoke. ''Angry'' didn''t begin to cover it.


    Only, in this case, anger was good. Let Her focus that rage here, on him, not on his Emperor, allies and friends. Tough to mark time underground, but he figured they''d reached Shortest Day, the time when the power of Chaos exploded.


    Just had to get through a day and a very long night alive, and everything ought to start swinging back to the powers of Light. He could wait in the sigil, came an unworthy thought. Ride out that unfolding nightmare in relative safety.


    ¡­Except that there would certainly be a ''later'', and Val could only stay drunk for so long, even with magic. Everyone sobered up, had to face themselves, sometime.


    Just¡­ who or what was he intended as bait for? Not the Mother, as she''d been present already, no lure required. Something worse?


    Val shook his head again. Drive himself stark, barking mad, thinking like that.


    "Very well, Old Lich, I am bait," he snapped. "Back into the river, then... and may whatever you catch bite your shriveled old carcass in half."


    With that, Frostbite unsheathed and back in his hand, war-spells hovering ready, Valerian stepped from the rune-cage and plunged into battle.

 Part Three, Chapter Seventeen

    17


    That faintly glowing green path looped and swirled on the glassy black stone. About a yard wide, it seemed to fade quickly behind them while vanishing into the swallowing darkness, a few feet ahead. The pressure of evil was great, here; the power of Chaos at flood.


    Strange, random things began happening. Gildyr''s twig hairpin came to life, turned into a serpent and slithered out of his coiled bun. Dropped to his shoulder, then onto the polished obsidian ground. Reflexively, Gildyr started to reach for the hissing brown-and-green twig serpent, hair tumbling loose all about him. Only, the snake dashed off of the path to escape his grab.


    Salem''s hand on his cloak drew him roughly back. Just inches away, that hungering darkness engulfed the twig serpent, draining its spark of animate force. The small corpse turned ashen-grey, then sank into the very stone. The floor glowed, briefly; flaring from somber black to smoke grey; revealing the thousands of moldering shells trapped within it.


    "Beware, Mwef. Heed your own warning, and remain on the path," growled Salem, claws hooked deep in his old woolen cloak.


    He nodded by way of response, shifting his grip on the unconscious ranger. A few steps later, the water contained in their pouches swelled to double, then triple its volume; first filling their pouches, then bursting them.


    After that, all the tools in Salem''s thief pockets turned into sharp, metal birds. The screeching, silvery raptors rose into the air, swooping and diving in constant attack. Their knife-sharp, tool-hooked beaks and talons slashed clothing and flesh with each strike. Worse, they combined forces to take hold of Cap''n and Kalisandra, trying to wrest them away from the others.


    Salem leapt, twisting into the air to seize her noble beast, tearing him out of their claws. She came back down on the path, perfectly balanced, as Cap''n shot back into his safer golden tattoo form. Her tail, though, lashed partly out over that shadowy floor. Two feet of it¡­ all that projected beyond the path''s light¡­ went icy-numb, turned grey and broke off. Striking the ground, it twitched once, then sank in. Once more, the floor glowed, and this time there was a length of golden-ringed tail curled up there, inside.


    Salem yowled frantically, for the tail was connected to her still, by contagion magic. Her life-force was draining like water out of a broken cup. Gildyr broke the connection with Breath of the Forest. Healed her raw stump with Fresh Growth.


    "Right, so¡­" he said to her, as he patted the Tabaxi''s heaving back. "We add to the lore of this place: Never reach out past the path, either."


    He''d had to drop Kalisandra to fight off the tool-birds, but¡­ except for part of her cloak and long, scorched braid, the ranger was safe on that glowing green trail. Very carefully, Gildyr released Salem, then bent to retrieve Kalisandra. She came up, well enough. The strayed hair and cloth stayed behind, though, joining Salem''s tail and a flock of metallic birds in the tomb at their feet.


    No water, no thieves'' tools and, somehow, Gildyr''s dagger had gone missing, as well. It had been a gift from his mother, in a different plane, and the sudden loss hurt. The druid took a deep breath to steady himself.


    "Old Oak," he prayed, "If your roots stretch down this far, hear me and answer my plea. This place kills in ambush and inches, and we have a ways yet to go. Help us, Lord of the Greenwood. See us in safety to our friends, that we may help to hasten the Dawn."


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    Otherwise, the terrible winter, the long dark, might win; claiming goblin, Tabaxi and elves¡­ then the world. Salem got herself together with an effort.


    "My people follow the Sun," she told him. "Ever-bright Lady sets each night to traverse the darkness and make Her way east. She sees us here, Mwef, and her eye never closes. Take heart."


    Gildyr took and clasped the thief''s hand. Nodded, saying,


    "My regards to Ever-bright Lady. May Her light and the roots of the Oak guide us and shelter us."


    Then it was time to set off once again. Added "no food" to their list of troubles, as well. Now, reaching into a belt pouch or faerie pocket yielded nothing but hardtack that bit, and dried meat that squirmed away like flipping and writhing, uncovered worms.


    Oddly enough, they did not grow weary, thirsty or hungry all the rest of their way. Until they reached the end of that dark chamber and came within sight of a massive ice-arch built upon regular stone, their gods kept them healthy. There too was Orrin; seated atop a pile of provisions, holding Gildyr''s dagger in one hand, while the other fist twisted hard in Pretty One''s hair.


    "Well then, what''s this?" mused his former lordship, with a smile and a slight, mocking bow. "The thief who stole nearly all of my wealth¡­ and a creeping, disguised weasel. Welcome. Come and enjoy my banquet. As yourselves, and by invitation, this time. Your friend, my third guest, will be here shortly. Only High Lord Arvendahl himself could be more anticipated than you three."


    Orrin was pale and staring-eyed; spattered with blood. His breath misted, and that ghastly smile seemed frozen in place. The arch''s cold, spitting light made his features seem to flicker and fade. There were corpses frozen into the ice, except in one spot, where space had been made. A scatter of burnt, broken bodies surrounded Orrin. Dead goblins, over a hundred of them.


    Gildyr very carefully eased Kalisandra down on a safe patch of plain, humble rock. Felt around in his chaos-shifted faerie pockets, but came up with only Valerian''s seed bag.


    Pretty One was in bad shape, meanwhile. Her eyes were scrunched closed. She was gasping and panting; doing her best with both folded arms to keep loops of intestine inside of her. Sensing his presence, she started to cry, causing more blood to flow.


    "Gildyr¡­" she gasped. "Gildyr, it hurts."


    The Druid pulled out and flung a great handful of seeds, which bounced and scattered all around Orrin. Next, Gildyr shifted to bear form. Salem had begun stalking sideways; keeping to stone, yellow eyes skewering Orrin. Meanwhile, a golden tattoo moved from just over her heart to the thief''s right hand. Ready.


    Orrin just chuckled.


    "I see that the ladies have left a bit of themselves behind," he remarked. "They shall return, then. At their final gasp, they shall be dragged to their spot in the vault of souls. Oh¡­ was that a bit of a shock? So sorry. Not unlike finding my sanctum raided and all of my treasures stolen away. My wife, gone off with another."


    Gildyr held out some hope, still. In a low and rumbling voice, he said,


    "Let the girl go and come to me, Orrin. You''ve enslaved yourself to darkness, but there''s still a way to break free. I can¡­"


    The half-elf simply laughed at him.


    "Enslaved? Empowered, rather!"


    He stood up, then, jerking Pretty One upright, as well, though she pulled up her thin legs to help hold her entrails in place.


    "No one is laughing, now!" howled Orrin, swinging the dagger around.


    With a snarled spell, Gildyr caused a forest of vines to burst from the ground, twining Orrin''s legs and both arms.


    "Milady, get the girl!" he bellowed, as everything happened at once.


    Salem moved through shadow. Emerged shaken, with frost-whitened fur, but whipped off her cloak and flung it over Orrin''s bulging-eyed head. Cap''n leapt screeching, to land on the half-elf''s dagger hand. Bit him, hard enough to snap off three fingers, loosing a shower of dark, icy blood. Salem wrenched Pretty One out of Orrin''s grip, using her claws to sever the tendons at the back of his hand.


    Roaring like a volcano, Gildyr hurtled forward. Swatted Orrin with one massive paw, snapping the vines and hurling him sideways. The half-elf shrieked with laughter as he tumbled, struck cold, glassy ground and started to sink. His face came apart, then, becoming nothing but tooth-ringed mouth and a long, lashing tongue that shot out to snatch Kalisandra''s limp form by the ankle.


    "As I have lost mine, so he shall lose his!" raged all that was left of Orrin feen Arvendahl.


    Still laughing madly, the monster dragged Sandy off the stone platform, biting deep as both of them sank through the Vault of Souls.

 Part Three, Chapter Eighteen

    18


    Prince Andorin led their way in rapid bursts; rushing from alcove to side passage to shifting low tunnel, with several pauses for rest. The halts were necessary because Nalderick was still locked in sleep, and because ''This One'' could only be fully possessed for so long before he collapsed.


    The sea-elven bard remembered his path and retraced it, though he had been over a hundred years dead. Some things had changed in that time, slowing his progress, but the memorized map provided some aid.


    Why he''d come down here at all¡­ what he''d been after¡­ the prince no longer recalled; just a sudden ambush, capture, a terrible blow to the head and paralysis; the long, slow drift into death. Then year after year of just hanging on. Of making up songs like The Pearl Hunt, to keep himself sane. And then he''d found This One and two fellow shades, along with a chance at escape.


    Now, close¡­ so very near to the sea cave¡­ something quite unexpected came up. There was now a trapped room, where Andorin remembered only a stretch of bare corridor. He called a brief halt to study the altered situation, allowing the living to drop in their tracks like overrun horses. So much for the shade.


    Those who still breathed had concerns of their own. The continued absence of Lord Orrin''s mockery ought to have cheered them all. Only, something felt wrong about even that. As though His former Lordship were occupied elsewhere, or his silence had come at a very steep price. There was no way to tell, but nobody trusted the quiet.


    A small make n'' mend blaze was kindled, at which they rested and warmed themselves. Mischief and chaos got into it, though, causing the flames to turn different colors and form ghastly faces. Worse, all of their food now tasted of soap-bark and under-cooked dough, while the water fizzled with bubbles of sharp-smelling swamp gas. There was some debate about the nature of those bubbles until Sherlon exploded a handful, settling a bet with Roreck. Their wine was no better, having turned into thick, rancid butter.


    ¡­and if it wasn''t the Shortest Day, that time was terribly near.


    Once Lerendar stopped breathing frost and was able to stand again, one of the shades reclaimed him. Not Andorin, this time, but the arcane trickster, Elmaris.


    The dark-haired rogue stood up, stretched and then had a quick look around, enjoying meat-senses. Next, bowing to his audience, he said,


    "My Ladies and Lords, with your kind indulgence, I shall suss out the traps ahead of us." Once more, he held a gold coin, rolling it over his knuckles, making it vanish and reappear like some drifting bright spark. "''Ware, by the by. Something creeps up yon passage, hoping to snatch the weak or unready." His borrowed head cocked to one side, sending brown hair sliding over that sly, narrow face. "Another chuul, I think. Injured, somehow."


    Filimar lurched to his feet. Drawing his sword, the young Arvendahl nodded at Marlie, who was already rising. Together, the two of them slipped like smoke from the circle of firelight. The others surrounded Their Majesties, though Genevera, at least, was ready to fight; bow in hand and arrow nocked.


    Very quietly, knowing they''d hear him, Elmaris said,


    "One shorn-off leg at the left side, right fore-blade crippled. Easy mark."


    That done, he turned to focus on the traps that goblins and gnolls had set up to choke off Andorin''s sea cave, letting those with a pulse look after themselves.


    Elsewhere, forewarned and ready, Marlie and Filimar secreted themselves into a pair of shadowy crevices that might have held long-vanished statues. Masked their heartbeat and body temperature with basic hunt-magic, hardly breathing at all.


    The chuul, when it came, was a stalking monster of leathery flesh and tough armor; part giant mantis, part snake. Scorched and hungry, it had lost one of its six needle-tipped legs entirely, while its right fore-scythe skittered and trailed on the ground. The rest was all maddened glare and wide, toothy mouth. With it, too, was a wraith; a shadowy billow of drifting, dark cloak and red eyes.


    "An Arvendahl to the fray!" shouted Filimar, causing his sword to crackle with magical lightning. Together with Marlie (whose own blade shone like the moon) Filimar burst from concealment.


    The chuul was the greater immediate threat, so the elves focused their slashing attack on that shrieking and chittering monster. The wraith wailed like a dying old woman, meanwhile; reaching its smoke-robes at Marlie and Filimar.


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    Both swords struck home with loud, spattering cracks, one blade half-severing the chuul''s long neck, the other snapping its crippled foreleg right off. Marlie cast Moonlight¡­ one of the few spells he knew¡­ causing the wraith to ball up like dirty grey yarn. The chuul''s lone forelimb shot out fast enough to leave an airless void in its wake, creating an echoing Boom and strong shock wave.


    The elves reeled backward, heads full of stabbing pain and bright lights. Then Vashtie and Roreck raced over, calling out the team''s rallying cry:


    "Ever victorious!"


    Smaller and lighter than her twin, tawny Vashtie used Invisible Cord as she did on the playing field; binding limbs to bring down a charging opponent. Roreck leapt full in the air, coming down hard, feet and sword first, on the chuul''s plated back. Broke it in half, as his twin blew sunshine like a kiss at that balled up and shuddering wraith.


    "BAM!" she exulted, watching the foul thing crumple like burning paper.


    Roreck checked on Marlie and Filimar. Found them blinded by headaches, but otherwise sound. Returning to Vashtie, he seized the back of her neck with a hard hand and gave her a roughly affectionate shake.


    "Alright, ViVi?" he asked, looking her over with magic and eyes.


    "Better than you," she shot back. "Faster, too."


    Roreck shook his blond head.


    "What a shock that you''re still unmarried," he snorted. His twin rolled her gold eyes in response, grumping,


    "Too many muscular louts in my life, already. Maybe I''ll find a good human, instead. They don''t live long enough to be much of a problem."


    Roreck pondered that in silence for a moment. Then, once they''d disposed of the carcass and wraith-shred with fire,


    "That''s fine, I guess¡­ You''ll make sure to find one with a sister, though, right?"


    Elmaris had been busy, meanwhile; dealing first with the trapped door, which was rigged to burst into flame, and then with the room beyond.


    In life, he''d always been lucky... Until he wasn''t, way down deep in the goblin caves. He''d gone in after treasure. No quest or redeeming fine virtue, at all. Just greed and insatiable curiosity. He''d come by himself and died that way, too; left to starve in a constantly moving cell. But Lady Fortune''s smile had returned at last. He could feel it.


    Finessed the door with a smile, humming his favorite tavern song all the while. Glided on through, then dispelled the aura of life-drain that hovered, beyond. Next, he had to disarm a wildly tilting floor, which began to sway like a pendulum, the moment his foot hit the surface. The big stone platform was mounted on gimbals, causing it to rock and shift with each step. He laughed aloud at that, and at the venom-smeared spikes down below. This One''s body was strong and quick, but not especially lithe. The rogue had to allow for reduced agility, while enjoying the best time he''d had in fifty long, boring years.


    Dashing, leaping and balancing like a dancer¡­like a cat¡­ he reached a trio of iron wall-mounted switches. Stood with legs braced apart, shifting with the floor as it rocked itself back to sleep. Each lever had a riddle carved into the stone underneath. A bold thief, having got this far, was intended to solve each puzzle and pull the right lever, thus locking the floor.  Anyone belonging here would already know the correct response, but Elmaris wasn''t much worried. The correct switch would have a puzzle whose answer was "stillness" or "path" or some such, so the rogue read them through very carefully, starting at the near right.


    ''The beginning of eternity, the end of time and space, the start of every everything, and end of every place,'' he read, grunting:


    "Child''s play. Ehwaz, which turns up everywhere¡­ but will not settle this wonderful floor." Clearly, not the right switch.


    ''At night they come without being fetched, and by day they are gone, without being stolen,'' was next, written under the middle lever.


    "Eh. The stars, obviously¡­ which is no help, at all," he shrugged, moving onward.


    Last of all, inscribed in stone beneath the left switch, he read,


    ''What passes through towns and cities, but never moves?''


    Elmaris laughed in delight, as he had on the tilt-floor, answering,


    "A road, no more, no less¡­ and the one I am seeking." Started to reach for the lever, then hesitated, gold coin spinning in midair over his outstretched hand. Glancing upward, he said,


    "I am not alone here, Beautiful Lady, dispenser of riches and luck. More than the tender pink hide of Elmaris depends on my choosing correctly. Smile on us, Lovely One, that your favorite suitor may go on making ridiculous choices, and that these high elves may save their bold lord."


    With that, he filled This One''s lungs, took hold of the lever, and gave a great downward yank. Rust flaked. Gears rocked and then slowly started to turn.


    Fortunately, This One was strong of arm, for the lever did not move easily. In his own body¡­ back when he''d had one¡­ Elmaris would have been struggling. Even now, the contest seemed slanted as badly as the floor had been. Finally, though, something clicked and locked into place down below, converting that unstable panel of fun to firm, solid boredom.


    A door opened up in the eastern wall, then, releasing a powerful gout of trapped storm-wrack and seawater. Not enough to fill up the trick chamber, or it might have gone hard for Elmaris. He ended up treading cold, bitter water and ducking logs; smashed against the chamber walls like a child''s toy; coughing out warnings to those who fought and waited, behind.


    The water level dropped nearly as fast as it had climbed. Then most of his living companions peered through the doorway; battered, wet and concerned. Elmaris waved an arm at the new door, through which sunlight now flooded, along with the pounding hiss of high surf.


    "Royals, nobles and gentles, take note," he said with a bow. "I bring you success and offer you freedom!"


    At that point, exactly, just past the cave mouth, a magical gate opened up. Flaring like sunlight on water, the portal revealed His Imperial Highness, Sherazedan.

 Part Three, Chapter Nineteen

    19


    If lesser gods had cause to fear Sherazedan, the shades were utterly terrified; shrinking as far as they could in Lerendar''s mind without leaving him. The court mage stood with staff in hand, seething impatiently; silver hair tipped with sparks, and pale eyes flaring. There was nothing of rescue or hope in that tense, icy stare.


    "Come forth," he ordered, in a voice that flattened the ocean and plowed aside cloud banks. Puppet-like, Lerendar, Genevera, Filimar and the court-ball team marched out of their sheltering cave. Found themselves on a broad ledge halfway up a sheer, craggy cliff. Wind screamed past overhead, causing eddies and gusts that plucked at the gathered elves.


    Sherazedan''s gate looked like a burning hole in the sky. Through it, they saw the wizard and part of a vast, ruined city. Karellon.


    Sherazedan gestured with one ringed hand, causing Nalderick''s sleeping body to rise up out of Marlie''s arms. Reflexively, the young athlete tried to grab for his drifting emperor. No good. A brief wave of Sherazedan''s staff sent Marlie hurtling backward into the cliff face. He struck with an egg-like crack, then slid to his knees and pitched forward. Sherlon rushed to his fallen teammate, coming between Marlie and the wizard, but Sherazedan''s attention had already turned to another. With Nalderick secured, he next looked hard at Genevera, snapping,


    "Come."


    The princess fought him. Gritting her teeth and digging her heels in, she battled like one of Titania''s cats to resist that inexorable pull.


    "No!" she yelled. "You could have helped, any time! You let Dickie get hurt! You let people die! NO!"


    Filimar started forward, as did Prince Andorin, who had summoned the courage to show himself. Genevera reached for them, but couldn''t halt her own jerky, wind-up doll walk. As she passed through the gateway, Sherazedan bent his hard gaze upon Filimar.


    "You, as well," he commanded.


    A minor lordling¡­ protector of only a small, nothing town¡­ Filimar had no right at all to speak, much less object. Yet,


    "Your Highness," he pled, "your apprentice, my friend is still down there, and the sorceress may not be dead. Please, I¡­"


    "You, as well," snapped Sherazedan, using magic to force young Filimar in through the shimmering gate. He cast a brief, scornful glance at the others, then, saying,


    "The time has come ''round at last. Darkness shall waken and shift, freeing my brother, Lord Oberyn. Hide or flee as you will. It matters not. There is no safety for mice on a burning ship."


    Genevera had pulled something out of a faerie pocket; a pearl-topped hair comb. She threw it with all her might at Andorin, who still controlled Lerendar. He/ they caught the tumbling ornament, as Genevera shouted,


    "It''s a pearl, just like the song! You have to return it, Prince! We have to find each¡­"


    And then, the gate vanished away, leaving Lerendar alone with his haunts and a battered court-ball team. Out in the sunshine, over a rumbling sea.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


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    Far¡­ very far, down below, Valerian hit the stone floor, crouched briefly, then rose. Frostbite in hand, he flowed into a ready stance, facing the Mother.


    All that was trapped in this plane of that dark goddess rounded to face him. Forming a skull-topped pillar of smoke, she hissed,


    "You would fight me in the service of Chaos, sweet child? Cause unbearable strain on the shortest day, here at the root of the world?" She swayed hypnotically as she spoke, the hollows of her eyes flaring with violet light. "Win or lose, there is no escape for either of us, pretty boy. We serve to end time, at the behest of another."


    Val shook his head stubbornly.


    "I do not serve Chaos," he insisted. "I am a servant of fire. Of the Lord of Battles himself, if he accepts me."


    "Very well. You cannot be dealt with, nor turned from your course. So be it, then," whispered that pallid skull. "Let us end the world, you and I."


    With a sudden, roared spell, the Mother began summoning bits of all that had perished in darkness. Calling this shriveled corpse and that dead thing; armoring herself in fallen great beasts and smashed giants. Took the form of a massive dead hydra, studded with jerking limbs and crazed, snapping heads. Breathing poison and ice, she grew to fill the whole cavern, forcing Valerian back outside through the arch.


    He had a moment or two to see Gildyr, Salem and Pretty One (who''d been wounded unto her death). Had less than a heartbeat to betray his father; hauling the final life-scroll and bottle of potion out of their pocket, throwing them both at the Tabaxi.


    "Run!" he called to her. "Anywhere safe, just go!"


    Then the arch shattered behind him, exploding into a cloud of dagger-like shreds. Slow Time let him use fire to melt the horde of blades that would have pierced Gildyr. Last-magic cast a protective shield over Salem, Cap''n and the injured girl.


    Something dark and fluid was bulging in through the space that the arch had defined. Bodies¡­ the slaughtered goblins, Orrin and Kalisandra¡­ rose from the glassy black floor. Moving like trickling mud, they advanced in numbers too great to battle or count; drawing closer, encircling Valerian, Gildyr and Salem, while the Mother poured herself through the broken portal.


    He could have struck, then; crippling, maybe killing Her outright. Only, something felt wrong about all of this. He was being pushed. Aimed and hurled like a spear.


    Val drew his dagger. Heated its blade with a thought. Saw in his mind''s eye the sigil burnt and carved into the flesh of his grandfather''s chest.


    As a very young child he''d said to Galadin, there on the deck of the ship,


    "I want one, too!"


    Hadn''t understood, then, why his grandfather smiled and shook his head, saying,


    "It is my dearest wish that it never comes to that, Short-stuff."


    It had, though. It had very much come to that, here on the briefest of days. Valerian plunged the dagger through armor and cloth, down into his chest. Not to the heart. Not that deep, but enough to carve what he''d seen and remembered, gritting his teeth through the searing pain. Aloud, he said,


    "Shining One, I offer myself as a sacrifice. Take up your sword, Lord of Battles. Hasten the Dawn."


    Firelord answered, and he came not alone. Frost Maiden flowed into Sandy''s burnt shell; healing wounds, bringing life and shielding the hunted. There was no journeyman mage or wandering ranger, now. This was a battle of gods, in which mortals were ants on the floor.


    Firelord''s presence filled his servant with power, making Valerian glow; his outline leaping and blurring like flame. The god didn''t take over, though.


    ''I am here,'' he said in Val''s mind, ''but this battle is yours. When gods go to war, time ends and worlds crumble. Think, son of Keldaran. What is your purpose?''


    Right. Purpose. If he fought the Mother now, at the very apex of Chaos, then win or lose, he''d be feeding the darkness. Doing exactly what someone¡­ Sherazedan, probably¡­ intended.


    "But, why would he want that?" Val demanded, sorting through spells. Reflexively bisecting a lumbering corpse, he asked, "What would a court mage get by waking up Chaos?"


    ''Who would he get, rather. Who would be freed from long stasis?''


    "Lord Oberyn?" guessed Val, adding, "And all it''ll cost is everything¡­ for us. Dawn will return, all right. On top of our ashes."


    ''And all of the gods will be one,'' said the Lord of Battles, ''beginning time''s cycle anew.''


    By this point, most of that snapping and screeching horror had oozed its way into the chamber of Hungering Dark. Val had not yet attacked her. No divine blood had been shed.


    Think, he urged himself. Not fighting. Not battle. What else could he do, without tipping the balance to Chaos?

 Part Three, Chapter Twenty

    20


    And then the sun set on the Shortest Day, which now flowed into the Longest Night, a fulcrum of shifting powers and terrible portent. Strengthened Chaos squirmed free of its ancient bindings, spawning creatures of darkness and waking the violently dead.


    In troubled Karellon, the rubble-strewn ground first trembled, then cracked asunder as a massive tarrasque spawned and burst from concealment. Roaring like the storm at the end of the world, casting an aura of absolute terror, the titanic monstrosity rose to its full, awful height. Shattered buildings and screaming laborers rained from its armored flanks like dust. With a crashing flex of its spiked tail, the tarrasque demolished Karellon''s half-built palace and walls. Fires erupted and spread, setting shanties and tents ablaze all over the City.


    The creature''s frenzied bellowing cracked stone, shattered windows, rent steel.


    Its fanged mouth yawned wider, creating a tornadic vortex that sucked in mountains of rubble, fleeing oxen, terrified horses and dwarves. Only Sherazedan''s tower still hung in the sky, supported by nothing but magic and wards of defense; engulfed in lightning and flame, but never consumed.


    High Lord Arvendahl lunged from his silken pavilion; armoring up with a shouted spell. He leapt to the back of his rearing white unicorn, summoning the adamantine Spear of the Plains: Grassfire. Called his forces to battle with the Arvendahl rallying cry, projected onto the low, cloudy sky rather than spoken, for no one could hear over the monster''s continual bellows and shrieks. He was joined in the fight by three paladins and a seer of death.


    In Snowmont, a mad-eyed behir clambered out of the town''s deserted copper mine. Created by giants in the second age of the world, it had awakened to chaos and hunger and wrath. It crept into Snowmont now, seeking dragons to slaughter; dissolving all in its path with caustic juices and poisonous fumes.


    Kellen, Sandor and Arien raised the surviving town guards and a unit of elves, vowing to save their lord''s holding. As the behir slithered into the square like some slimy, acidic shadow, they were reinforced by the big male Tabaxi and Hilt, a scowling, dwarf shopkeeper.


    Over in Lobum, home of the wood-elves, a crippled, long-hidden green dragon convulsed as it rose from druidic concealment and sleep. Horns sounded and war bells rang out as the injured creature¡­ just a torso, smashed head, one ragged wing and loose organs¡­ began changing. Healing.


    They''d kept it alive all this time out of pity; an act of kindness the elves would very soon come to regret. As archers and spearmen formed up and druids prepared mighty spells, something shining and utterly good rose out of the distant plateaus. They would not fight alone.


    Further east, Starloft was all at once flooded with the animate corpses of drowned and crushed people, rising from mud and uprooted trees like a plague of undead mortals, darklings and elves. Still burning from the pyres or drenched with seawater, the awakened dead became ghouls, barghests, banshees or hobgoblins; all of them thirsty for spurting veins and warm flesh.


    Reston''s remaining troops, the noble beasts and wood-elves were quickly surrounded. Hemmed in on all sides by screeching and laughing undead. Then a portal opened up in their midst. Flickering, juddering and attacked by Chaos as soon as it formed, the gateway allowed Lady Alyanara, Lord Galadin and twenty-three others to cross from their plane. Didn''t last long. Was crushed by the gathering darkness, crumpled like burning paper onto those still trying to pass.


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    With the help of her divine mother, She-of-the-Flowers, Alyanara was able to save one or two. The rest discorporated, shrieking. Then there was only a long, bitter, back-to-back fight against a tide of undead that never stopped coming.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Down below, aware of all this through Firelord, Valerian grasped at ideas that scattered like the game pieces from an overturned board. Meanwhile, the Mother''s foul remnant had fully emerged.


    Gildyr shifted forms a few times, trying things on for size against a five-headed necrotic horror that boiled and seethed with stolen flesh and dried corpses. It hissed toxic fumes from each head but one, and from sphincters that tightened and gaped in its lumpy, mismatched hide.


    One neck, alone, did not end in the moldering head of some monster, giant or beast. One, the divine central neck, was topped by an oddly lovely, violet-eyed face. To meet that sorrowing gaze was to lose one''s will; to sense how very much She loved all of her stubborn, rebellious children. How much She only wanted to make them her own, forever.


    The druid wrenched his eyes away, then turned himself magically inside out with a last-chance, incredibly powerful spell. The chant caused irreversible transformation. All at once, there was no more gentle wood-elf. No druid. No peaceable vagrant. There was only a griffin; plumed in gold feathers, coarse hair and tough scales. Gildyr''s spark, his very self, faded entirely, overwhelmed by the hot, angry mind of a flying monster. His faerie pockets emptied all at a rush, spilling the bits and bobs of a quiet lifetime all over that littered and blood-spattered floor.


    Val wasn''t looking for battle. The opposite, rather. Taking to the air seemed like a good idea, though, and he still had all of that griffin tack along with the butt-end of slow time. Still wracking his mind for a non-violent plan, the journeyman mage misty-stepped over to his transformed friend, reaching into a pocket of his own.


    "By your leave, good druid," he said, bowing slightly, "I would request a brief ride, with the use of this bridle, for guidance."


    The griffin was very much taller than Valerian, who had to look up into that golden-eyed, fiercely-beaked face. Saw the last, drifting hint of Gildyr, there, as his friend became in truth what he''d recklessly summoned. Val''s heart clenched.


    "No¡­" he whispered, bereft of something he''d only just realized he''d had. "What have you done?"


    The griffin uttered a rattling screech, flexing great wings and lashing its dragon tail. Not attacking, because something within it remembered the high-elf. Trusted him... And the candle was burning to midnight.


    Somehow, Val got himself back together enough to strap that bridle on and fasten its buckles. No time for the saddle or harness. Just vaulted aboard, as he''d learnt to do in Mystical Steeds practice. Then powerful lion''s legs launched the great beast high into the air. The ground dropped and tilted away like a whirling trick floor. Up they climbed, higher and higher, slanting sideways to bring them over that simmering hydra.


    Down below, Salem felt her curse now as almost a separate entity; one that had long lived inside of her, controlling her fate since kittenhood. Not yet, but soon, it would emerge, rocking the plane on its crystalline hinges.


    Pretty One was healed; hauled back to life by potion and scroll. Had found her staff and gathered some manna. As the hydra''s foul zombie heads spewed poison and bile, as its beautiful central face whispered of love, Pretty One squeezed Salem''s hand, then let go. A sorceress, able to stand on her own.


    As for the ranger, she was still shaking off death. Still leaning hard on Frost Maiden, but reaching again for the weapons and strength of an arcane archer; defender of all who fled fire and steel and the hunt.


    "Draw no blood from the central head!" shouted Valerian, on griffin-back, now; swooping around for a pass at the monster. Glowing with the light of his god, he called out, "She must not be injured!"


    ¡­and that''s when he came up with a notion.

 Part Three, Chapter Twenty-One

    21


    Out on a broad, cliffside ledge, overlooking the ocean, Lerendar found himself facing his brother''s skeptical court-ball team, the Imperials. But, with Their Majesties and Filimar gone, free of the caverns, there seemed no reason to keep together.


    They were staring at him; waiting, he guessed, for directions. Seemed that teams, like warbands, functioned best with a definite leader. Lerendar was still holding Princess Genevera''s comb. Thrust it into a faerie pocket to free up his sword hand. Glancing around showed him a faint, switch-backed trail marked out here and there with shells and white rocks. Looking out over rumbling water, he saw that the cliff''s deep shadow stretched very far, and that a few shy stars were beginning to pock the eastern horizon. Clouds to the south, though, in great, dark, tumbling masses. Also, the shades had withdrawn; present, but distant and troubled.


    "Unless I am confused by my time underground," remarked Lerendar, raising his voice over sea-roar and wind, "we have reached Shortest Day, and its end, at that. There is surely a blessed spring or structure to be found on top of this cliff. I advise you to seek one out, then gather wood to summon and feed Oberyn''s flame through the night."


    "What of you?" demanded a husky and scowling blond. Roreck, he thought. "Where will you go?"


    The fellow''s golden-skinned sister kept trying to edge past him, hand at the hilt of her sword, hair whipping loose of its braid. Roreck blocked her repeatedly; every bit as protective as his twin.


    "Stop," ordered Lerendar, in a voice of bardic command. They froze in place, and he added, "You will fall from the ledge to feed Father Ocean."


    ¡­who had eaten quite well, already, to judge from the shattered wreckage and pallid corpses, below. Those bodies were likely to animate, come Longest Night, along with whatever horror crept up from the caverns behind them. Best to get moving.


    "I intend to go back down after my brother," he said, once the twins shook free of his brief, magic hold. "Shorty isn''t a warrior. He''s going to need help, and that way¡­ back through the tunnels and up¡­ lies home."


    Pointed with his chin, then, at the trail that wound up from sea-cave to clifftop.


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    "Yon path will take you to the surface, and my grandfather long ago placed many shipwreck shelters along the coast. One every five leagues, if memory serves. They are blessed and have ample supplies. If you hurry, you''ll reach one."


    Sherlon, the lithe, quick-witted runner, had been working on their fallen comrade. He looked up at his teammates and Lerendar, now, saying,


    "Marlie will have to be carried. He will live, I think, but there is great harm inside that will require a healer of power, or a really first-rate scroll."


    "That leaves two of us on defense, and we''ll be slowed," snapped Vashtie (the sister) adding aggressively, "This is your land and Val''s, Milord. We claim guest-right. See us in safety to one of those shelters you spoke of. Then chase down Valerian."


    Lerendar stiffened, feeling his muscles bunch as pre-battle tension descended. Guest-right? The insolent baggage claimed guest-right? Now?


    "Vi-vi, I don''t think¡­" started her brother, just as a wave of tumbling, smelly tan forms sped out of the cavern and onto their ledge. Goblin kitts, some of whom he knew.


    Sherlon, Vashtie and Roreck did not know them, however, and they reacted quite badly. Blades hissed free of their scabbards or popped out of faerie pockets. Spell globes sizzled and spat like the torches of sea-elves.


    Somehow, Lerendar flowed forward, moving like smoke; like a shade, himself, to come between terrified goblins and furious elves.


    "Wait," he commanded. "They are no threat to you. They''re just¡­"


    "Vermin," snarled Roreck, left hand white-knuckle tight on his sword, right fist gloved in crackling force.


    A bunch of shaking small hands took hold of Lerendar''s cloak. One of the kitts¡­ Boom-Boom¡­ summoned a purple-dark void bomb; stood looking around the elf-lord''s side with wide eyes. The rest mostly cowered, though one or two brandished sharp sticks.


    "They''re children," Lerendar corrected. "Just kids, running from Chaos. I will answer for their behavior¡­ and for their safety."


    Vashtie snorted rudely.


    "Ghosts and goblins," she sneered. "You keep very odd company¡­ Milord."


    Lerendar bit back an angry response. Nodded, instead, saying,


    "Yes. I do, and I need not explain nor apologize. Very well. You are my guests, and I have been theirs." Goblin bread and wine had kept him alive when all hope seemed lost, and he wouldn''t forget it. "I shall escort the kitts to a shelter. Follow or not, as you will."


    "S''okay," whispered someone behind him. Squinty or Dog-bait, he thought. "Junior''s a right sort. ''Ee means what he says. Stop yer snifflin'', Littles."


    Somehow, he''d changed sides, Lerendar realized. Not just unfit to rule Ilirian¡­ not even at ease among his own kind, any longer.


    "This way," he grunted, as the other elves stood aside, staring hard. "Take hands and follow close. Find a partner and see to each other''s safety. We''ll be moving fast."


    With that¡­ and with no other choice¡­ Lerendar Tarandahl led a crowd of frightened young goblins up the trail to the surface. After a moment or two, the remaining Imperials followed.

 Part Three, Chapter Twenty-Two

    25


    In Karellon, the tarrasque raged nearly unchecked. With its screaming horned head, thunderbolt tail and clawed limbs, it had already reduced most of the City to rubble. The air was thick with the stench of battle; of burning and blood and torn entrails. Fires blazed on every horizon; half smothered, then flaring to life again, whenever the titan opened its mouth for a swallowing gulp. Debris, draft animals, smashed corpses and screaming citizens¡­ all were sucked into that yawning, fanged cavern, descending to darkness, acid and terrible pressure.


    Spinning gently over Karellon''s Imperial quarter, a dragon''s golden egg hovered on high, protected by magic. Its glow drew the tarrasque, whose ground-shaking, acre-wide footfalls smashed all in their path to powder and slime.


    Lord Arvendahl''s archers surrounded the monster as best they could, aiming swarms of spelled arrows at its featureless eyes and wide mouth. Meanwhile, their liege summoned the howling wind of the plains and then set it alight with his sword, Grassfire. The resulting flame-spout caused the tarrasque to rise on its haunches, swaying like a bear, head topping the streaming dark clouds.


    Far down below, in the lee of Oberyn''s temple, three paladins drew straws. It was Vorbol¡­ Brother Humble¡­ whose thick grey fingers pulled the short one out of Meliara''s clenched fist. Gusting a rumbling sigh, the orc muttered,


    "All for His glory¡­ even when being swallowed."


    In such matters, their lord''s will was all, but¡­


    "Your club may not be the best tool for digestive wet-work, my friend," said Villem, who stood swaying from exhaustion. Just as battered and dirty as Vorbol and Nadia. "You''ll most likely require a magical sword."


    He drew Flood, then, saying,


    "Gift of the Emperor, mighty blade of the sea-elves, I would lend your strength to a friend who faces grave peril in Oberyn''s name. If you allow it, I would give you to Vorbol, my brother-in-Dawn."


    He held the sword upright as he spoke, blade skyward. Its metal reflected first fire and battle, then began to shine with a light of its own, displaying all of the ocean''s colors and moods. It rose from Brother Arnulf''s grip, then drifted across to the towering orc, who''d laid aside his spiked club. The sword''s glow was mirrored in the orc''s red eyes as, hesitantly, Brother Humble took hold of its hilt. Looked like a blue-green toothpick, at first, until Flood adjusted to match its new wielder; curving and growing in length. Vorbol grinned, displaying enough razor-sharp ivory to make an ogre back down.


    "Suppose that''s a ''yes'', then," he quipped, adding. "Now all I''ve got to do is get inside of that thing without being killed."


    Nadia had been keeping an eye on the monster, which had resumed its trek to Vernax''s glimmering egg. Glancing at her comrades, she said,


    "I''ll transport you into its path, Brother. Once there, shield yourself with Oberyn''s mist. Wait until the mouth opens up to swallow the egg, then emerge from concealment. Here, take this, too," she added, handing over a desert-tribe amulet. "This is Oasis. When invoked, it provides total invulnerability for the space of a pent breath."


    The orc lifted a heavy dark eyebrow.


    "So that''s how you do it," he rumbled, accepting the star-shaped gold amulet. "Always wondered. Thought maybe I wasn''t as faithful, or something. What''s the recharge rate?"


    Nadia grimaced.


    "Once a week, so use it wisely," she grumped. "And walk with the Dawn."


    Their oracle, Meliara, had moved closer. Gazing at Humble, the beautiful elf said,


    "I see death all around, but striking at others, not you." Busy at the coast, most likely, which was a solid black line from north end to south, in the seer''s eye. Worse yet, pocked now with the hissing green blaze of un-death.


    The priests of Oberyn perched on the roof high above, chanting and burning things; creating smoke and noise that their trapped lord didn''t need and wouldn''t respond to. Villem shook his head. Rode out another tremor, then turned his attention to Vorbol, again.


    "I will come with you, Brother," he offered.


    "And I, as well," said Meliara, taking her paladin''s gauntleted hand.


    Villem started to protest, but he''d seen the vision. He knew what was coming. They both did, and the choice was his lady''s.


    "Whatever we do, it had better be quick," remarked Sister Constant. "Arvendahl''s about to try something epically stupid, or I''m no child of the dunes."


    Tapping the silvery cuff at her left wrist, Nadia opened a gate, then widened it, standing on tiptoe to see her goal.


    "Mmmm¡­ there. That''s it." A tiny circle of light opened up, halfway across the city. "Other end''s on some kind of rubble heap, under the egg. Hurry, I can only keep the gate open a short while, at this size. In Oberyn''s name!"


    "For His glory," answered Arnulf and Humble, leaping away through the portal with Meliara in tow. When they''d gone, becoming mere stick figure silhouettes, miles away, Nadia readied her weapons and rushed into battle.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    In Snowmont, the behir breathed acid and lightning, causing a brief, blue-white glare in which hissing sleet sparkled like gems, and folk moved in jerky short-motion. Its dark blue hide bristled with mining tools and the broken bodies of dwarves. Its breath melted flesh and stone like warm butter, sometimes surging forth as a cone of branching electrical force. Created to battle dragons, the serpentine monster thumped along on ten legs; very fast, for all its great size; louder than an armored infantry charge.


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    Kellen Arvendahl found himself in command, like it or not. In what little concealment he could spell up, the young retainer grasped at strategy. Any strategy.


    "Right," he said, as the behir hurtled into Snowmont''s town square. "Here''s the plan: we surround it and strike from a distance with arrows and spells. Lionel¡­" Here, the elf paused, looking up and up at an ogre-sized mountain of cat.


    "Tristan," corrected the black-maned warrior, leaning on a huge, double-bitted axe. "I would prefer that my real name be used for my memory song. I am Tristan, of Distant Sands Oasis, clan-master and guardian."


    The raven-haired Arvendahl nodded.


    "Tristan," he repeated. "I''ll remember it, but not for any memorial. Over drinks, my friend, once we''ve carved up this horror and rebuilt the town." Then, after shaking the Tabaxi''s enormous clawed hand, "Don''t suppose you''ve got any magic, to speak of?"


    The clan-master considered.


    "I do not know that your folk would call it magic¡­ but the might and skills of my ancestors come to me at need."


    He stood fully upright, then, muscles bunching and shifting beneath his grey hide, swinging the axe up onto his shoulder.


    "My magic is combat, Elf-lord, and in that, I am unmatched."


    Kellen pulled at his lower lip for a moment, pondering.


    "Uh-huh. Other than Lord Valerian, that is. Anyhow¡­ Could you get on its back, without being caught? Try chopping the head off?" he asked.


    The Tabaxi laughed, sounding like distant thunder. Almost before the elves and Hilt saw him move, Tristan had bounded across the shattered town square and upward. Dodging a lightning blast, he landed gracefully atop the behir, just behind its ugly crocodile head.


    "Next time," Tristan bellowed, "give me a challenge!"


    Then the freed pit-fighter called on his ancestors and went to work. Kellen gaped for a stunned moment, watching slimed hide and mining tools fly off in big chunks. Collected himself well enough to signal the others forward.


    "Surround it," he shouted. "Spells, arrows and spears. Whatever you''ve got that''ll hit from a distance, but ''ware you don''t strike the Tabaxi!"


    Started across the square himself, at a dead run, calling,


    "An Arvendahl!"


    Which Sandor and Arrien finished,


    "...An Arvendahl to the fray!"


    Hilt shook her head. Spat to one side, muttering,


    "Elves."


    Then, just as fast as her short legs would carry her, the dwarf raced to the writhing behir''s other side, hurling a storm of axes. She had kin to avenge, and no time at all for fancy technique.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Out in Lobum, a green dragon rose from its sheltered glen, healing with incredible, Chaos-fed speed. In all of those cycles of hiding, it had gained no love for those that defended and kept it alive. But all that was over. Now, Slithrox the Vile rose again.


    On great emerald wings, spiny crest bristling, the dragon climbed into the air over Lobum. Darted and swooped for a moment, full of sheer, renewed energy. Then, diving low, it began jetting poisonous gas at the druids and archers beneath. The toxin burned flesh and seared lungs to black char, withering all that it touched.


    A second wave of archers went forth, stepping over the carbonized lumps of their family and friends. Shot volley after volley, but the arrows bounced off of those shining green scales like pebbles. Nor did the wood-elf druids fare any better, for spells just reflected and splintered, turning to strike at their source.


    "Die!" roared the dragon, coming around for another low pass. "Die for the years I lay helpless! Die for seeing my pain and my anguish! For pitying Slithrox¡­ DIE!"


    Thorn vines erupted from the rumbling ground to seize and bind, then pierce, all they could catch. A great tower of curling and twining briars shot from the forest floor, with a writhing wood-elf impaled on each thorn.


    "Face me who will!" Roared the green dragon, shaking off arrows and magic. "Come, save your wounded! Come pluck a fruit from my larder!"


    Then something shot out of the sky from the west. A radiant presence, shining with healing and life. An ancient feathered serpent it was, glowing like Oberyn''s bow; surrounded by Quetzali warriors.


    "Cease," it commanded, forming a sinuous double coil over Slithrox''s crested green head. "Your rampage is ended, wyrm. Your terror and poison, dispelled. Long have they hidden you, meaning nothing but good. Long have I waited and watched."


    The dragon''s long jaws parted in a low, coughing laugh.


    "I am reborn, old one," snarled Slithrox, "and I am your death!"


    They came together in midair with a crash like a battle of storm-giants, while distant mountains trembled and lurched.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Not far away, Starloft was inundated with piled and cresting undead; flooded with animate corpses that burst from the mud and the pyre, or clambered up out of the sea. Lady Alyanara warped wind and gravity to boost herself high in the air.


    Below, in a charmed and blessed circle of light, her lord fought alongside this plane''s beset warriors, surrounded for miles on all sides by hungering monsters. Their roar was like that of the ocean; ceaseless, pounding and wild.


    As the last gleam of sunlight disappeareded over the mountains, Alyanara summoned power; readying herself for one last mighty spell.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    It was probably stupid. Had not a feather''s chance in a bonfire of actually working¡­ but it was all he could think of.


    "Shining One, with your blessing and aid," whispered Valerian, voice nearly lost in the rattle and wind-noise of flight. "I have a plan. It is foolish, I''ll own¡­ but my choices are few."


    He could sense, through Firelord, what had happened in Karellon, Snowmont and Lobum. Worse yet, felt that tide of monstrous undead overwhelming his people and brother, above.


    Took a deep breath and healed himself fully; removing all traces of the scar on his lip and the sigil he''d earlier carved. All at once, the young elf-lord was completely unmarked and perfect. Clean, even.


    Tugging at the leather bridle, he brought the griffin that had been his friend swooping down over the Mother''s one living head. She had not much time in that form, he knew, for she must have a host, or perish. He could have drawn out the fight, maybe¡­ let her wither and fade on her own¡­ but every moment she lived and acted meant ever more death, outside. He had to finish this, now; without shedding blood to feed Chaos.


    "Goddess, Evathin," Valerian shouted, as Salem, Sandy and Pretty One battled Lord Orrin and all of those fast, hungry corpses. "I accept your offer! I will serve as your host... Only promise that no harm will come to my family and friends. That you will send them to safety elsewhere."


    She was a being of Chaos. Completely untrustworthy. But it didn''t matter that she kept any lying promises, only that she believed his. And lie, it was. An underhanded trick that Murchison would call an "end run".


    His concern for the others was genuine. Laughably so, to the Mother. The emotion fooled her, as did the Shining One''s seeming disgusted withdrawal.


    "Very well," she purred. "So shall it be." The other heads snapped and coiled away from her, making room. "Come nearer, Sweet Child, that I may enter."


    On the ground below, Sandy fought to keep Frost Maiden from shooting Valerian out of the sky with ice-bolts and sheer, divine fury.


    "Give him a chance," she pled, silently. "My Lady, please let him try whatever fool plan he''s come up with, this time!"


    Overhead, Valerian directed his griffin mount past the decaying heads of dragon, giant, rock-wyrm and spider. Carefully staying just out of range of her dark, grasping aura, he lured the Mother closer and closer to the cavern''s obsidian vault. Matter of timing, and he had to get it just right.


    Reached over to pat the griffin''s feathered head, wishing¡­ a great many things, but maybe for courage, most of all. Then, at just the right instant, the elf stopped dodging and wheeling. The Mother abandoned her moldering shell to rise like black smoke, pouring straight into Valerian.


    Only, his wasn''t an empty shell. Firelord lingered, rushing back in to meet the dark goddess and seal her in place. Then, in his last conscious, willed act, Valerian leapt from the griffin and plunged to the glassy, obsidian floor. Struck hard and struggled to rise, seeming almost to burst from the battle within. Then he turned grey, drained by the vault of souls. Vanished inside of it, taking with him two gods.

 Part Three, Chapter Twenty-Three

    23


    They emerged halfway across the demolished City, on a mound of shifting rubble some fifty feet below Vernax''s hovering egg. The ground rocked with the tarrasque''s thundering footfalls; each step cratering pavement and stone like a meteor. Its bellows and shrieks caused weapons and metal debris to keen in response, filling the air with a high-pitched, minor-key thrum.


    Having given the sword away, Brother Arnulf now carried his spear. Invoked his last use of the Seer''s Eye to find the best, safest place from which Brother Humble might stand and be swallowed alive. Directly under the egg, it was, on a tilted slab of shattered mosaic wall.


    "There," he said and signed. "Best spot."


    The orc didn''t bother with speech, just nodded. His expression was difficult to read in the lurid glare of fire and war-magic, but he seemed rather cheerful.


    ''Once inside, safe-me,'' replied Vorbol, in hand-sign. ''You, outside, danger-see.''


    Wreathing smoke and dust obscured visibility, but there was no way to miss the mountain of leathery armor and fangs that was rapidly lurching their way, or the elvish force that fought and died to keep up with it.


    ''All well,'' Villem signed back, releasing Meliara''s hand. ''Will hide-us. Jump out, strike belly. Ankles.'' (Which they would be much better able to reach.) ''Oberyn''s blessing,'' he added, reaching up to clasp the orc''s armored shoulder.


    Brother Humble returned the grip, his big hand all but engulfing Villem''s right arm and shoulder.


    ''Oberyn''s blessing,'' replied his fellow paladin, striving for glory in Dawn rather than lusting for battle.


    They parted, then; Vorbol silhouetted in flame-glow and egg-shine, Villem and Meliara searching for someplace to lurk that wouldn''t collapse. That didn''t look too much like fate''s awful vision.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    As for Lord Arvendahl, his plan was simple, last-ditch and desperate. Involved more than his own manna, though; requiring all of his mages'', as well. He meant to open an enormous fleet-transport gate in the titan''s path, once it was moving too fast to alter direction.


    Banishment seemed like his only real option, as straightforward attacks had accomplished nothing at all. Such violent manna- and life-drain would kill most of his spell-casters outright. Maybe himself, as well. Didn''t matter. Falcoridan had already transferred his badges of rank to Sheraaza, his heir. The girl was young, but capable. Eastermark would be left in good hands.


    At any rate, he was down to some twenty-odd fighters, of over two-hundred elves and their mounts. No further battle was possible. Not against that.


    "Take the remaining troops and withdraw from its reach," he said to Sheraaza. "I will strike from the north wall, with anyone left who has manna¡­ Anyone left, but you," he amended, as the girl''s silver-grey eyes lit with sudden fire and hope. "You are my heir, and the future of Eastermark."


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    Placing the unicorn''s reins in her hand, he said,


    "You will live on to be greater than I. Now, go."


    ''Raaza nodded. Took a deep breath, then turned to mount Beryl, the unicorn. Her lord would accept no weakness, so his heir didn''t show any. Wheeling Beryl around in a sky-lashing rear, the girl gestured southward.


    "Retreat," she called out, and cast onto the clouds. "We gather at Far-Look!"


    Would have wished Falcoridan luck; spoken of love and respect, maybe¡­ but there wasn''t time, and he was already moving. So, to the pitiless gods she whispered, instead, saying,


    "Please, let it work. Let him live."


    Should have been more specific.


    The tarrasque was picking up speed as it thundered nearer that bright, spinning dragon''s egg. Lord Arvendahl transported himself and the last fifteen war-mages onto the crumbling north wall, almost directly into its path.


    The footing was bad and the surface uneven, so there was a momentary scramble for stability when they arrived, along with a minor landslide of loose tiles and clattering stone chips. Once everyone had found a safe perch, Falcoridan looked them over. Nodded once, saying,


    "Your names will be sung, so long as the house of Arvendahl endures."


    "In the halls of our ancestors, Milord," responded their magister, expecting to meet him again, very soon.


    The egg shone just half a mile to the west, swirling with manna and the shadowy infant curled up inside. Someone else stood nearby. One of those bothersome paladins, he thought. Big fellow, whoever he was; armed and armored for battle against something too massive and awful to fight. Lord Arvendahl grunted disgustedly, then put the fool out of his thoughts.


    Began the spell, drawing manna from every available source. As midnight burnt closer, hungry corpses began to stir and arise; clawing free of the wreckage with what limbs they still had. He could not spare the attention or power to deal with them, for his spell would take everything he and his mages had left.


    Then the tarrasque was upon them, filling the sky and shaking the earth. The noise was deafening. Maddening. Another paladin raced over, this one wielding a spear and casting Light of Dawn. With him was a slim, hooded figure who poured most of her strength into Lord Falcoridan''s spell.


    The sun-bright portal that resulted would have transported a war-fleet or several armies¡­ to nowhere, for he''d set it to carry away, not deliver. No power to spare for an actual destination. It opened up in the titan''s path, just as the monster''s great jaws gaped. Just as it drew in a howling typhoon''s worth of air.


    Fifteen mages powdered to dust, utterly drained, behind Falco. The high lord himself collapsed to the rumbling ground, half buried by loose, sliding rock.


    The monster''s horned head and half of its body charged through the gateway, leaving one twitching forelimb, its hindquarters and tail still without. Reflexively, Lord Arvendahl shut down the transport gate, slicing that writhing behemoth in half.


    Its tail and back legs convulsed violently, lashing timber and bricks to fine grit. Then it just vanished, leaving nothing behind but canyon-like claw marks and an oddly-shaped crater. Done. Dead and finished.


    Only¡­ only, the egg was gone, too; having been sucked into the tarrasque''s huge mouth just as the gate opened up. Vernax''s egg¡­ gift of Oberyn to the very first emperor¡­ lost.


    Lord Falcoridan paled. Started to rise, but instead just crashed to his knees in the wreckage of Karellon. There was no excuse he could offer. No redress he could possibly make. Vernax the Golden was gone.


    His heir ported over alone, wild-eyed and pale in the raging firelight. Lord Arvendahl met her gaze briefly. Then he drew and offered up his sword, too full of guilt and anguish to speak.


    After a long, shaky moment¡­ after searching all that she knew or ever had heard for another solution¡­ Sheraaza took up the Blade of the Arvehdahls. Then, when her lord bowed his head, she lifted the sword. Braced herself, and brought it down in a whistling arc, cutting the head from his body.


    Burned his flailing and spouting remains with magical fire, then whirled to face hordes of shambling, broken undead; standing back to back with a fighter and oracle.

 Part Three, Chapter Twenty-Four

    24


    Snowmont had fared a bit better than Karellon or¡­ gods¡­ any or all of the Ghost Coast. The behir was a genuine menace; fighting to cross the town square as though trying to reach the demolished brewery. Having scented dragon or draconic ancestry, the monster battled dwarf, elves and Tabaxi like the construct of hate that it was.


    Rolled, bellowed, clawed and swatted all within reach. Constricted Tristan, snaring the clan-master in four tight coils of dark blue, crushing muscle. His arms were pinned as those coils relentlessly tightened, cracking the Tabaxi warrior''s ribs and dislocating one arm.


    Hilt rushed forward, bounding and scrambling along the broken stone of the town square; hurtling Orrin''s statue. Shouting insults and flinging axes that always came back to her hand, the dwarf did her best to distract the behir. Got her wish, too. Saw its neck arch as that ugly head reared up into the sky, and its jaws gaped.


    Cursing, Hilt dove into the shelter of tumbled, cracked flagstones, crouching down out of sight as lightning crackled and flared all around her. Most anyone else would have been killed; roasted alive by electrical fire.


    ¡­but Hilt was a dwarf, and part rock. It hurt. Holy gods, did it hurt. Scorched her flesh. Burnt away all her red hair and beard, but (stubborn daughter of stone that she was) Hilt survived. Lost consciousness; lying there sprawled and jerking, with a pair of burnt spots on her forehead and lower back.


    Lord Arvendahl had left a unit of archers behind when he departed for Karellon. Just fifty bowmen, they''d joined the fight, shooting arrows in terribly accurate, hissing waves. Surrounding the beast. Wearing it down.


    Then Sandor was badly injured; back broken when he darted too near the behir''s lashing tail. Was hit hard. Thrown end-over-end to smash onto the splintered beams of the Merry Lad. Arien rushed to defend their fallen comrade, while Kellen cried orders and fought like one possessed.


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    Anything might have happened, on this longest of nights. They were wearing it down, but not quickly enough, and one by one they were falling. Then the brewery trapdoor swung open with a wavering creak and a thump. Not flat. Too much debris in the way, but with room enough for a slim, glowing figure to creep forth.


    Lady Alfea it was, shining with all the light of Quetzali nobility. Of feathered serpent ancestry. She''d left her baby and lapdog behind with a frightened young serving maid. Now, face streaked with tears, but otherwise calm, her ladyship said,


    "Stop, please. Stop fighting. I am the one it is hunting for, and I will not have anyone else hurt, to protect me."


    Orrin''s chief steward, Raun, had followed her out of the tunnels. Stood clutching his courage and a stout cudgel. He shook like a leaf, but refused to leave her ladyship''s side.


    The behir hissed and spat, its head weaving back and forth through the cold, sleety air like a snake''s.


    "Back away, please, all of you," she requested, in a gentle voice they could not disobey. "Just¡­ take care of Pudgy and Bean for me, please. Promise to care for my babies."


    Her voice was sweet and musical. A pure distillation of light.


    "I don''t know why I am here¡­ what I did¡­ but, Creature, these others have sheltered and aided me. I offer myself, asking only that you leave them in peace once I am¡­ I ¡­ once it is over."


    The sheer wave of hate and disgust that blasted out of the monster broke the spell of Alfea''s soft voice.


    "Dragon-blood," it rumbled, "I promise nothing but doom to you and all of your filthy, devouring kind!"


    Then everything happened at once. Alfea''s small dog burst out of the trapdoor to come between his young mistress and the behir, barking wildly. Raun seized his lady and swung her out of the monster''s path. The behir lunged forward, jaws gaping, teeth alight with sparking electrical force. Kellen raced over, hit the cracked, tilted ground and rolled, coming up under the monster''s chin. Arrows rained down to quill an already bristling, clattering hide, as Tristan at last squirmed free.


    Then Kellen took up the hilt of his perfectly ordinary sword (with its stuck-on green gems and grandiose name). Drove it upward with both of his hands and all of his last-magic strength. One shot in a million. Straight up through that dropped lower jaw and the crackling roof of its mouth, cleaving its tiny, malevolent brain.

 Part Three, Chapter Twenty-Five

    25


    They struggled onto that wind- and sea-scoured clifftop just as the sun touched the western horizon. Sea mud, uprooted boulders and storm-wrack were everywhere, making the going quite rough; a matter of clambering, digging or going around all of those obstacles. Clearly, the coast had been hit with a wave of mythic and horrible power. Worse, the first shelter they came to was an utter ruin. No more than a warded circle of stones, and no shelter at all against what was coming.


    As the kitts pressed close, needing to touch and smell safety, Lerendar weighed their options. North or south, basically, for further inland, the way became rougher. He''d patrolled it enough to know.


    Felt the trickster-shade''s coin pop into his right hand as he stood, thinking¡­ but the decision seemed too important to leave to a toss. Too many lives rode on making the right choice.


    His brother''s court-ball team had stopped a few yards away, amid the tangled and broken remains of a ship. He ignored them. Then, coming to a decision, Lerendar spoke aloud, saying,


    "I do not want to retrace our steps. It just feels wrong, and we''re in a hurry. Southward, then, toward the next shelter. The terrain is hilly, that way, and something may have survived. If not, we''ll find the best spot we can, and dig in. Follow or not, as you choose."


    This last had been aimed at the suspiciously glowering elves, but nobody argued. Not with darkness advancing like an enemy horde. Rising wind whipped at hair, cloaks and debris, obscuring their vision. Dried mud hid pitfalls and cracks, slowing their progress, while nightfall had no curb rein, at all. The goblins were stiff with cold, though the elves didn''t feel it much. More just the frantic sense that they were going to be trapped outside on the worst, longest night of the year.


    Roreck and Sherlon took turns carrying Marlie, who was still unconscious. Vashtie sped things along by scooping up a few of the youngest goblin kitts, startling Lerendar.


    ''What?!" she snapped. "You said we''re in a hurry, and they''re slowing us down."


    He couldn''t argue with that logic, and didn''t try. Just nodded, saying,


    "I thank you for helping," before pressing onward.


    It was a very near thing, requiring the sort of speed that only a party of motivated elves could achieve, but they got there. Reached maybe the one surviving shipwreck shelter in all of Ilirian: a timber and stone octagonal hut built into the landward side of a shoulder-like hill. Its flag post was twisted, the white-and-gold ''safety'' banner torn loose, but the structure itself remained; still warded and sound.


    Locked, too, but all one had to do to get in was touch the heavy wooden door and say: Friend in need. Lerendar did so, debating whether or not to light the beacon globe on top of the hill. Its gleam was intended to summon aid from his father''s patrols¡­ but they weren''t here, and all that was left of dad was his head, still in its faerie pocket. Shadows were lengthening, stars doused like candles, leaving only that winding red serpent, high overhead, for the Strider had set entirely.


    Lerendar waved everyone in through the open door.


    ''Only enemies will see the globe''s light and come seeking,'' said Andorin, inside of his wavering mind. Londo disagreed, though.


    ''Anyone else running for shelter may see it, as well, and at least have a chance, Highness.''


    ''Or be lured into a baited trap, outside of the wards, where we dare not help them. Slaughtered mere yards from us,'' cut in Elmaris, uncharacteristically fierce.


    Lerendar sighed, turning his mental back on their argument. The fact that his facial features and clothing altered as each shade took hold, kept Roreck, Vashtie and Sherlon huddled quiet as temple mice.


    "No aid beacon," he decided aloud, shutting the wooden door. It latched with a bang, igniting powerful wards. "The light will serve only to attract unwanted attention, or lure other lost travelers to their death."


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    Husky blond Roreck nodded after a moment, adding,


    "Gods defend them, whoever they are¡­ and¡­ erm¡­ we thank you, Milord, for bringing us safely to shelter."


    "You are my guests," replied Lerendar, smiling with only one side of his mouth. "And, while this is no Tarandahl feast hall, there is food, drink and medicine here, to which you are welcome."


    He lit the hut''s glow, then, revealing ten bunks set into its walls, along with a fully stocked larder. A stone-lined fire pit and cooking tripod took up the floor''s center, with logs and kindling ready for use.


    Marlie was gently placed on one of the narrow beds; laid out for Sherlon to dose with potions and spells. The exhausted kitts filled up most of the others; piled and wriggling for the warmest, most pressed-against sleeping spot. They still smelt like rats¡­ just, wet and familiar ones, now. Vashtie and Roreck split up; one watching the door, one watching Lerendar, who was too tired to feel much insulted.


    They all sensed the wards powering up outside, just ahead of a wild, shrieking gale. Much too tense to relax, Lerendar broke out the spelled food and honey-wine, along with a pack of playing cards.


    "No gambling," he ordered. "And, no divination, either. Chaos will warp any scrying we attempt tonight. Also¡­" he nodded at Marlie, twisting and raving on a bunk across from their heavy, barred door. "Keep him alive, in all the gods'' names. Otherwise, he will reanimate, safe-space or not."


    Sherlon blanched, but assented.


    "Doing my best, Milord¡­ and not just because I don''t want to fight him. Because he''s my friend, and a fellow Imperial."


    Lerendar could have shot back with: My woman and child¡­ my brother and mum¡­ are out there, somewhere. Out where I cannot reach them to help.


    ¡­but he did not. Just settled down to tend the fire, asking any god who would listen to keep them all safe.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Westward, the last light had drained from the sky in Lobum, trickling down like spent heart''s blood. High overhead, a vicious green dragon and rainbow feathered serpent were locked in battle; shrieking, swooping and diving at each other; striking with wing-talons and barbed, lashing tails. Spurting great clouds of toxic gas in Slithrox''s case, while the Coatl breathed only divine, cleansing light. Wood-elf archers and Quetzali spearmen released volley after hissing, clattering volley. Unerringly accurate, striking always and only the dragon.


    Where before, their missiles had bounced off of emerald scales to rain on the ground, now there were gashes and bare spots to target¡­ as well as one could, through billows of poison and spattering flesh. Too, while the flood had not reached this far, the ground shook with the waking of giants, making it tough to take aim. The air was no better, as repeated shock waves scattered Quetzali like leaves.


    Then, spotting its chance, the feathered serpent struck hard. Constricting Slithrox, it flung muscular coils around the struggling dragon, pinning its wings. They plunged, spiraling into the ground, for the serpent alone could not support both their weight.


    Struck with a booming, tree-snapping crash, leveling the forest for miles in every direction. The feathered serpent sank its fangs deep into Slithrox''s long neck. Not to inject poison, but to draw it forth.


    The dragon cursed and thrashed, firing spells that fried the flesh from its captor''s skull, but the feathered serpent hung on.


    "NO!" Howled Slithrox. "They slew her, then dared to keep me alive! RELEASE ME!"


    But the inexorable drainage and pressure continued. Poison, manna and hatred itself were drawn out of Slithrox, filling the Coatl¡­ no longer colorful, no longer bright¡­ with vengeance, pain and decay.


    At battle''s end, all that remained was a dragon''s green egg and the battered form of a huge, feathered snake; wings broken, plumage gone wispy and grey.


    Stillness descended, and relative quiet, allowing those hunkered down to emerge. The chief druid-select directed her people to aid the wounded and comfort the dying. To carefully pull from their impaling thorns, Slithrox''s victims.


    The lovely forest city of the wood-elves¡­ its towering home-trees and vine-slung buildings¡­ was gone; splintered and crushed into matchwood. The dead were unnumbered. Elder Ash bowed her grey head, having no choice but to bury her anguish. There was no time to collapse in grief. Not yet, and not for a long time to come.


    Going to the Coatl''s scorched head, she murmured,


    "We have healers, Great One. They may be able to aid you, as once they did Slithrox."


    The Coatl opened one golden eye, causing its charred lid to crumble to ash.


    "There is no need, Child," it whispered. "I have lived over-long and my task is complete. There is an egg in the aerie, for my beloved tribe to tend and protect. I am content. See to your wounded, Daughter of the Greenwood, with my blessing."


    There would be chaos and horror aplenty, everywhere else, but the Coatl''s last magic wove such a charm of protection over Lobum that nothing of Chaos could manifest there for thousands of years.


    It sighed, then, expelling its spirit and life to the waiting heavens. The body broke down into shining motes that drifted away like the sparks from a bonfire, along with that of the Quetzali dead. Whatever was touched, glowed for weeks.


    Overhead, the Coatl''s people flew circles, keening their grief and their pride, joined by the song of the elves. Then, at their leader''s signal, the entire battle-wing left, flying off after the sunset.

 Part Three, chapter twenty-six

    26


    Screeching, clawing and gouging, the burned and sodden undead kept right on coming. Reston swung his sword, shouted spells, until his arms were too heavy to lift and his manna was drained like a water-pouch in the desert. Still, there were gnashing heads to slash off and clutching hands¡­ seared by the circle''s blessing¡­ to hack into quivering chunks.


    Anything falling on this side, twisted and writhed as it burned. Anything landing without, flopped until joined unto other shorn parts, forming towers of shrieking heads or tumbling masses of arms. And still, they kept coming; driven back by Lord Galadin''s weakening flame-blasts and the wood-elf paladin''s cold Holy Wind.


    Lady Alyanara had risen above them, shining like a beacon in the darkening sky. Between clouds, smoke and unending battle, there wasn''t much time to gawk at the heavens, but most of the stars had gone out. Only the serpent Epophys glowered there, now; burning like a river of coal.


    In the west, a faint brush of light still painted the clouds, and then even that disappeared. A tap to Reston''s left shoulder signaled the exhausted Lord Warden to fall back. Nodding, he withdrew into the blessed circle, allowing somebody fresher¡­ a wood-elf¡­ to take his place at the edge. Reston staggered into the circle''s warded center, where healing and rest-magic waited.


    Coughing blood and seeing double, at first, he got a chance to just¡­ gods¡­ sit. To drink a few gulps of carefully hoarded water from a cup held by another wood-elf, Speaker Annetta. Peered at her over the rim of the cup, grunting,


    "What''re¡­ you doing here? Should be back¡­ in the fortress, Speaker."


    A brief smile thawed her stern, tattooed face.


    "If we fall this night, Lord Warden, no place is safe. Not Starloft. Not Lobum. Besides, my friend Andara is here. Where else would I be?"''


    Andara, whom he''d turned his back on, all those long cycles ago. Whom he''d been fated to love¡­ but too bitter, too sorely hurt to accept.


    "Would that you and she were a thousand miles away, Speaker," he muttered, around a mouthful of crumbly waybread.


    Annetta smiled again.


    "Would that we all were, or that the times were less evil, Lord Reston¡­ but all we can do is battle the darkness, inside and out." Then, pointing upward, "But stay, look at the sorceress!"


    Indeed, he''d have been hard put not to, for Alyanara''s sudden bright glow was tough to miss. She flared like the sun, all at once; speaking in a voice not her own. Reston sensed She-of-the-Flowers along with the lake god, Irilan. Using Alyanara as a conduit, they created a pulse of white light that rocketed soundlessly outward; like a mage globe with the sorceress as its unicorn-hair filament.


    The bubble of light exploded away from Alyanara, who shone like a star at its center. Reston felt both gods, dying, flash clean through him. And where the light touched, not one dark thing, not one undead corpse remained. Fires doused. Wind stilled and, up in the sky, the crimson stars of the serpent flickered.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Down in the cavern, the shocked stillness that followed Valerian''s plunge didn''t last very long. Without the Mother''s foul will, her puppets just dropped to the ground. The cavern''s obsidian floor glowed briefly, displaying a lone preserved body.


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    Salem ignored the cries of sorrowing griffin and goblin child. Stepped over Orrin''s contorted body, which had everted like an over-cooked sausage, spilling black tentacles onto the bloody ground. Good riddance, and not her quarry.


    Instead, Salem''s curse drove her like the reins on a riding lizard, to the spot where, soon¡­


    A blazing line split the air, blossoming into a transport gate. With edges burning like paper, the portal gaped wide to reveal Mrowr''s former master, Sherazedan.


    "NO!" the elf-wizard snarled, rushing through. "It wasn''t supposed to happen like this!"


    For indeed, the center on which all was balanced, the linchpin of Chaos and Order had shifted a bit, but not cracked.


    "She was meant to be killed here, not stored! Idiot! Heedless, moronic imbecile! Five thousand years wasted! Planning beyond mortal comprehension, completely undone!"


    He would have raged more, perhaps; flinging spittle, fury and curses, but Salem had finally reached the right place and time. Here. Now.


    Moving through shadow, the night-dark Tabaxi rogue appeared directly in front of Sherazedan. Not behind him, which would have been safer. Before, as she wanted to look in his silver-pale eyes.


    With a swift flicking gesture, Salem unleashed her curse on the raging wizard. Like oily scum, it flowed from the Tabaxi''s hand onto Sherazedan, coating the startled elf in glistening darkness. All at once, he could not speak, see or breathe, and his limbs were bound up as though he''d been wrapped in adamant chains.


    "You have slain many small gods and millions of innocents, brother of Oberyn," hissed Fate, speaking through Salem. "Their cries have not gone unheard. You would free Strider, the Shepherd of Stars? Very well¡­ take his place then, Monster."


    And then her curse struck at last, its power great enough to shift a world in its orbit or summon a swarm of life-ending asteroids. The open gate behind Sherazedan changed its view. No longer displaying a cracked, tilted workroom, the portal now reached to the nexus of planes from which everything comes. To a place where darkness and light strove in balance, forever.


    Cosmic gears seemed to shift. Multi-dimensional rust and ice flaked away, as Sherazedan was hauled through the portal and out of the cavern. Locked for so long in combat with Chaos, Oberyn found himself freed, replaced by his struggling brother. The paralyzed wizard seemed to flatten and shrink, whirling to sink like a knife-blade in wood, right at the hinge of reality.


    Someone Else stumbled into the cavern then, shedding layers of stasis and frost. Oberyn.


    He was weary. Confused, at first, but able to tap the thoughts of those all around him for the truth. Strikingly tall, his hair was as silver as Sherazedan''s, but his eyebrows were dark, as were his fathomless eyes. He was armed and armored for war, in the gear of lost centuries.


    Learning what had happened from Salem''s wide-open mind, he turned away, pulling a starry cloak over his head in mourning. The mortals just waited, too heart-sore to trouble their long-absent Lord.


    "I will hear no ill spoken of my brother," said Oberyn, in a deep and resonant voice. "He has performed acts of unspeakable evil¡­ came close to unleashing Chaos¡­ for the purest of reasons. He acted from love, willing to bring down the plenum, for me. Now, he will pay and I cannot save him."


    He uncovered his head once more, looking around at the Tabaxi. Salem had changed. Where once she''d been solid black, now she sported a white chin, gloves and chest. The curse was lifted, at last.


    "Your life is your own, Kitten of Distant Sands," Said Lord Oberyn. "No more the weapon of Fate, you are free."


    Past her, then, to the stunned and silent griffin, ranger and goblin.


    "There is no cure for great loss except time," he said to them. "In helping to repair the damage done by my brother, you may find some measure of comfort, along with my blessing."


    Something rose from the glossy obsidian floor, then. A wish-globe, shining with soft, whirling colors. Oberyn wafted it over to himself with a gesture. Studied it a moment or two, then shook his head, murmuring,


    "Won in a drinking contest. Ah, well¡­ we work with the tools that we have."


    Lord Oberyn smiled a little, cupping the globe in one battle-scarred hand. Looked at the mortals again, saying,


    "Such items can only be used by the truly pure of heart, or the wish will result in disaster. One of Titania''s least merciful "gifts"... and I fear that our lost young mage would not have qualified, any more than I do."


    He tossed the wish-globe gently into the air, where it hung for a bit before curving around to hover near Pretty One. The rescued god nodded, accepting Fate''s choice.


    "Take it, little Sorceress," he said to the wide-eyed girl. "Take it and wish from the heart¡­ for all of us."

 Part Four, chapter One

    1


    Happy to the end of their days¡­?


    Later, as a trio of paladins taught, healed and rescued their way through the land, along with their runaway oracle¡­


    As Magister Serrio wrapped up his tour in Snowmont, preparing to head for distant Milardin¡­


    As the Emperor readied himself to face and befriend mighty Vernax¡­


    As an ancient and unneeded gate was removed between Starloft and the goblin tunnels¡­


    The sun rose at last on a midwinter day. Briefly present, its pale, slanting light began the shift toward Order. Those welcome rays flooded Starloft, causing jet-dark stones to warm up and hum.


    The smaller buildings inside bustled or lazed with folk just starting or ending their day. Starloft was a high-elf fortress, now; seat of the Tarandahls, where once it had housed a race of powerful giants.


    Elves do not sleep, generally, but for some reason, this night, Valerian had. He awoke to dawn creeping in through one of the vast upper windows, that wintery light causing the walls of the family compound to murmur and buzz.


    He was not in the nursery, although, why¡­? Val put that strange thought aside with an impatient headshake. Stretched himself gloriously, cleansing with a yawned spell. Rolled over, then, to kiss his wife''s bare shoulder and neck. To bury his face in her tumbled blue feathery hair. She did need to sleep, and was heavily pregnant, besides. So, Val didn''t wake her. Much.


    "Rest," he said, as she snuggled back into the covers, craning herself blindly around for a kiss. "I am beginning the day, and will see you anon. Shall I have breakfast sent up?"


    Alfea half-opened one very blue eye and mumbled something that might have been,


    "Yes, please."


    Smiling, he placed a hand on her belly, causing their child to move. Never got tired of that. Then her small dog (a hideous, happy, squash-faced monstrosity) wriggled over to lick him, wagging its coiled-up tail. Val accepted Pudgy''s affection with patience, for Alfea''s sake. She adored the brute, who wouldn''t have threatened an earthworm. He patted its gargoyle head, even, before getting up out of bed.


    He was still choosing an outfit for the day when one of the servants announced himself with a gentle door chime. Curious, Valerian spelled on something suitable, then went to the entrance hall of his room suite. (Five. Whole. Chambers¡­ plus balcony, griffin-landing and garden access.) Val smiled as he sketched a quick sigil, saying,


    "Enter."


    Anton, one of his quarter-elf cousins, opened the door, bowed and came through. Dressed in red and gold Tarandahl livery, the young man straightened from his bow and smiled back.


    "Good morning, My Lord, and fair day to you."


    "Good morning, Anton," replied Valerian, conjuring daybrew, bread and fruit, complete with low table and plates, between them. "Be at ease and take refreshment, if you would."


    Anton accepted daybrew and a sliced peach with murmured thanks. There were no apples. Whatever else Valerian summoned for meals, there was never a single one of those wretched, mealy horse-fruits.


    Said the retainer, after spelling away the remains of his snack,


    "I apologize for disturbing your morning activities, Milord, but a visitor arrived in the watches of the night, asking to speak with you."


    Val cocked an eyebrow. Finished a handful of berries and drained his porcelain cup of life-giving daybrew before inquiring further.


    "A visitor?"


    "Yes, Milored. A wood-elf druid, by the look of him. Somewhat travel-stained and smelling rather of wolf. Able to wild-shape, is Lord Reston''s guess. Gave his name as ''Gildyr Shagbark, of Lobum''."


    Valerian blinked.


    "Shagbark?" he repeated carefully, willing himself not to laugh.


    "Indeed, Milord. A true son of the Greenwood, most insistent on seeing and speaking with you. But the staff on duty deemed it wiser to wait until morning, rather than disturb your evening repose."


    The elf nodded.


    "That was well done. Convey my appreciation to the late-staff, if you will¡­ and bring the fellow round to the west formal sitting room. I shall meet with him there in half a candle-mark''s time."


    "Very good, Milord," said his cousin, bowing once more. "I will see that your wishes are carried out. Good day and glad tidings."


    "To you and to yours, as well, Anton," returned Valerian, feeling the very first brush of concern. After all, though¡­ What harm could there be in one shabby woodling?


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    About a quarter candle-mark later, Gildyr the druid wandered about in a very large and opulent chamber, feeling like the lone rolling marble in a cavernous feed bucket. Dominated by the Tarandahl griffin-crest, that sunny room could have held his family''s entire home tree with space left over for saplings and huts. It was lavishly carpeted, too; spread with thick rugs that he just about sank into.


    Breakfast had been laid out on a long ivory table by silent, efficient servants. More food than Gildyr could eat in a month of hard feasting, but he was too nervous to do more than nibble a honeyed sweet roll. Never a fan of daybrew, the druid contented himself with spring water, icy cold in its gemmed pitcher.


    He hadn''t been waiting long when someone thumped the end of a halberd on stone, out in the hall. Then the doors were opened by guards as someone announced,


    "Lord Valerian enters!"


    ¡­which was quite modest, for high-elf nobility. Well, Gildyr was already standing, having explored the chamber as wolf, ferret and sparrow. Now he made sure to dispose of shed feathers and fur, standing up a bit straighter.


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    "Good morning, My Lord," he said, at the last minute, remembering to bow.


    Was¡­ surprised? Disappointed, a bit? The vision that entered the sitting room, graceful and radiant, seemed¡­ wrong, somehow.


    The ash-blond hair was correct, but lightly caught back, rather than plaited for battle. The expression on that icily beautiful face was neutral. Mildly curious, if anything at all. As for his clothing, the young dandy wore an ornate formal robe; carefully pleated, embroidered in red and gold on a background of heavy grey silk. His dark grey breeches and soft red boots would not have stood up to a garden path, much less the road. He wore no circlet of rank. Didn''t need one. In this setting, his home, Valerian all but glowed like a jewel.


    A fancy plaything of mithral and gems hung at his side in place of a genuine sword. But His Lordship''s sleeves and white linen undercoat were so long that he probably couldn''t have wielded it, anyhow. So much for Valerian.


    "Good morning, and welcome," the high-elf responded, with a slight, gracious nod. "Be seated, if you please. Take ease and refreshment before we discuss why you wished to speak with me¡­ Gildyr, I believe?"


    "Yes, Milord," said the druid, risking a smile. "Gildyr Shagbark, son of Shavonne and Gilcrest. A druid of Lobum, at your service."


    The high-elf''s fine mouth twitched just a bit at one corner. His voice was right, Gildyr thought. Just, bland and calm rather than¡­ than whatever it was he''d been expecting.


    Valerian waved him to sit, joining the wood-elf at table. Across and aslant, naturally, as they weren''t at all equal in rank. There was some eating and drinking, then, because high-elves are terribly formal. A touch of light conversation followed, regarding the weather and the state of His Imperial Majesty''s roads. (Excellent... and... In need of service, considering all of the taxes one paid.)


    Gildyr would rather have dined on acorn bread and squirrel stew out of dried gourds, but he did justice to the sumptuous feast laid out before him. Then, once the last belly-corner was stuffed, and magic had whisked away all of the leavings but wine and two cups, it was time for actual talk.


    Valerian rose from the table, which first cleansed itself and then disappeared. Nodding permission to Gildyr, he turned and led the druid to a small grouping of comfortable chairs. The wine bottle and gemmed golden cups followed His Lordship like floating puppies, Gildyr noticed.


    As they settled into the seats and their drinks poured themselves, Valerian finally got to the point.


    "I must admit to some curiosity, Druid," he said, elbows propped on the arms of his chair, legs extended and fingers steepled. "I am truly uncertain why you would wish to see me, in particular. My grandfather is High Lord of Ilirian, and my father is his heir. My older brother¡­"


    (Well... bold, reckless Lerendar was never going to desert his human life-mate. Not for the high seat of Ilirian, or for anything else. Just playing, at first, he had come to love Beatriz¡­ but such matters were no fitting gossip for wandering druids.)


    "My brother remains in the line of succession. I am¡­ more or less officially¡­ the family layabout. It is difficult to conceive what business might bring you here."


    For his part, looking at Gildyr, Val saw a clean, but trail-worn druid, whose presence brought a mixture of deep irritation and gladness. The fellow had chosen to keep to his own rough garments rather than changing into whatever the staff had offered him. Dressed mostly in brown leather and scratchy green wool, with his dark hair caught up in an untidy bun, this Gildyr stomped about in coarse, heavy boots and a traveling cloak. Throw in the antler headdress and necklace of elk''s teeth, and he looked like a common adventurer.


    "I¡­" began Gildyr, flushing red. "I''m not sure myself, Lord Valerian. Only that¡­ it was very important to find and speak with you."


    Here, the wood-elf leaned forward in his chair, all at once feeling terribly urgent. Would have said more, but then two young girls, a goblin and half-drow, came scampering into the room from some hidden passage.


    "Lord Val! Lord Val!" cried the girls, racing over to tug at his sleeves, waving pages of scribbled-on vellum. "Look! We did it, Milord! Copied all of the runes, from Fehu to Othalan! Are we done? Is that it?"


    Valerian had placed an arm around both laughing minxes, magically fanning their work out before him.


    "Your pardon, good druid. My, erm¡­ pages lack appropriate manners and discipline."


    Gildyr shook his head, smiling warmly.


    "They''re no bother at all, Milord," he said, feeling better. The goblin child was button-cute, for her species; one of many that burrowed and roamed throughout Ilirian. The half-drow had tiger stripes and hair that seemed to be formed out of rippling water (but maybe was only illusion). Both of them crowded the high-elf, all but clambering onto his lap.


    Val corrected one or two brush-strokes, then approved their work, saying,


    "Now, you will hie yourselves to the library, there to read the first three pages of Anselm''s Bestiary," to a chorus of tragic groans. The high-elf ignored their sorrow. "After that, and your luncheon, I shall meet you outside in the upper courtyard, for sparring and spell practice."


    "Then may we go play?!" begged the girls, sounding heavy-laden enough to draw tears from a rock¡­ but not from Valerian.


    "Perhaps," he allowed. "If I am pleased enough with your progress. Now, off with you¡­ and mind you pay your respects to our visitor."


    Both girls bobbed a curtsey at Gildyr, making hideous faces and giggling as they did so.


    Val shook his head; a bit apologetic, more than a little defiant.


    "I have some talent with magic," he told the druid, once the girls clattered out to their reading. "So, I have taken on their first training, before we set off for Karellon. They, to apprenticeship and I¡­ to a stint in the guards." His Lordship did not seem enthused. Then, with a slight smile. "I shall miss our lessons. They are Miri and Pretty, in case that storm of babble was entirely incoherent."


    For a moment, mist-grey and forest green eyes met in something close to¡­ what? Memory? Of events that never happened at all, back in the wished-away ever-not?


    "Val," Gildyr blurted, while that warmth still brought life to the haughty young lord. "Something is wrong. Like¡­ as if¡­ we keep coming up to this one perfect day, but no further. Don''t you sense it, Milord?"


    Valerian''s expression hardened, and he looked away.


    "I have another engagement soon, Druid," he said. "But I would hear more on this matter. After dinner, if you please. In the meantime," he arose, still not looking at Gildyr. "Be welcome in Starloft. I shall assign servants to attend you. Good day."


    Two of those retainers appeared out of seemingly nowhere, smiling politely at Gildyr, who''d just been dismissed.


    "I¡­ yes. Thank you, Milord. Thank you for listening. I think, with your magic and mine, we can¡­"


    But His Lordship was already moving, behaving now much more as Gildyr expected. That casual rudeness warmed the druid''s heart, bringing a measure of hope.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Or¡­


    As history faded to legend and myth¡­


    As erosion and uplift wore away mountains, changed coastlines, merged continents¡­


    As a rumbling earthquake split apart great chunks of black stone¡­


    He sat up, feeling bleary and sick; shedding bits of clattering rock. The day was warm, having advanced to near noon. A mild breeze poked around through the nodding grasses and short, stunted trees. Something¡­ two somethings¡­ tore away from his body like twin, mournful sighs. One dark as smoke, the other a flashing and glitter of flame.


    He felt suddenly empty. Alone for the first time in¡­ could honestly not say how long. Just that, nothing remained here but boulders of volcanic glass and a few tumbled ruins.


    He stood up in slow, cautious stages, tugging at clothing that powdered and tore like the stuff in a tomb. Move about much, and he''d find himself entirely naked, except for an icy-cold sword and some chain mail.


    Spotted movement as he stood there swaying and catching his breath. Not rodents or vegetation. Five or six shadowy figures trying to hide themselves behind boulders and trees. Why? Surely he wasn''t that much of a threat; held nothing of value at all but the sword. Why would anyone fear him?


    Something great and terrible, some awful mistake or disaster lay behind him¡­ but deep time had eroded his memories nearly as much as his clothing. Didn''t know. Didn''t care to find out. Just felt horribly guilty and sad... and completely alone.


    Not much hope, he supposed, that whoever was out there had come here to help? Expecting the opposite, he drew the sword, which leapt to his hand like a live thing, crackling with bluish-white frost.


    Started forward, because what could possibly happen worse than he''d already faced¡­ and utterly ruined?


    XXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Or maybe the end of all things?


    Imagine the final battle of Chaos and Order. The fall of the gods, written in fire and blood. A planet completely resurfaced, taking aeons to harden; longer still to cool enough for life to arise. Picture the dawn of science rather than magic, as the race of Men gained ascendance, squashing whatever they couldn''t control. A bleak, awful world, missing enchantment, devoted to Order. Wrested from Faerie, forever.

 Part Four, chapter two

    2


    Valerian passed through the doors without waiting for them to open. Having learnt to misty-step at a very young age, he''d been a genuine nightmare to keep track of. It had taken an entire fortress of half-elven servants and Lerendar to keep him from harm as a child; a debt he was still finding ways to pay back.


    Now, though, he burnt manna like beeswax to flit past the heavy wood door, getting away from that wretch of a druid. That¡­ Shagbark. His heart was hammering and his breath came rough, but he straightened. Took a moment to adjust his appearance as the guards pounded the shafts of their halberds upon the stone floor, tiltinAg the weapons outward in smooth unison, then snapping them sharply back.


    He knew both young men, for they''d all been named in the same year, and¡­ for a time¡­ Val had been able to range the fortress and lands with them. Rapid aging and differing rank had pulled his old friends away, but still he remembered.


    Coming in, he''d contented himself with a brisk nod. Now, Valerian spoke to them, saying,


    "Jaik¡­ Perry, good morning."


    The pair relaxed their rigid on-guard stance, both of them turning their heads to look at him.


    "Good morning, Milord," they responded, smiling.


    "All¡­ is well?" he prodded, still troubled by Gildyr''s strange questions and hints. "Nothing seems out of order, to you?"


    The pair glanced at each other, then back to Valerian. The taller guard, Perry, said,


    "All seems as it should be from our station, Milord¡­ Well enough. A bit boring, even. Arms practice feels like a waste of time, with peace on all sides, like this."


    "But no one reveals state secrets to a lowly guard," cut in dark-haired Jaik, with a quick, impish grin. "So maybe adventure is coiled to strike, even as we stand here yawning and scratching."


    "Keeping watch, rather," came a new voice, as the Lords Keldaran and Reston strode into view. "Anyone yawning at their post will find themselves guarding a sewer grate, in the third watch," snapped Reston, clearly mired in one of his three better moods (angry, morose or suspicious, take your pick; all of the rest were still worse).


    The guards froze back into alert position, looking like statues once more. Val bowed deeply, saying,


    "My lords," as his father and uncle came forward. Keldaran snorted.


    "My second heir," he responded, reaching over to clasp Valerian''s right shoulder. Gave him a brief, affectionate shake before adding, "Reston informed me of our night visitor, and that the fellow demanded to speak with you. Why is he here? What word does he bring of the Greenwood, if any?" Keldaran had rushed back in from a border ride, no doubt having a mage send him home. He was still dressed for patrol, in splendid armor; sword at his hip, helmet hovering in its faerie pocket. His long hair, a mixture of red-gold and grey, was plaited severely back¡­ not tumbled in dirt, or stiffened with drying blood.


    Val reached a hand up to clasp his father''s, awash with confused emotion and half-glimpsed, awful visions.


    "He¡­" the young elf-lord floundered. "Is just passing through on his way south, Dad¡­ He''s, erm¡­ met me before at¡­ the fair, or some such, and has come here seeking a traveling companion."


    Neither his father nor uncle found this thin story convincing, Val could tell. Two sets of bronze-colored eyes narrowed dangerously.


    "You are not due to leave for Karellon until spring, Lord Valerian," said Reston, who was older than Keldaran, but a half-elf, so not in the line of succession. "Not until after your life-mate gives birth. Would this fellow linger till then, as your guest?"


    "More importantly, Son, do you trust him?" probed Keldaran.


    Valerian blinked. Surprisingly, his reply was griffin-swift and came from the heart.


    "Yes, Sir. I do." Rather as everyone treated Val like a hero, despite his having done nothing to earn such faith, so he trusted Gildyr and¡­ and¡­ someone else. Someone he couldn''t quite call to mind, who hovered just at the edge of his thoughts.


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    Turning to regard Reston (grey-haired, bearded and scowling), Val added,


    "As to his status here, Uncle¡­ I will be answerable for him as a guest. He is a druid. Doesn''t eat much and mostly takes care of himself."


    Keldaran shook his head. Seemed more amused than forbidding, though.


    "Woodlings," he scoffed. "Half-wild from living in trees, the lot of them. Well, see that he doesn''t track mud in the house or attempt to hunt in your mother''s menagerie."


    Reston found less humor in the situation, but gave his brother and nephew a cautious nod.


    "You have spoken for him, and I accept your judgment, Valerian¡­ but it is my business to be wary for you and all the rest of the family. I shall be watching him. Closely."


    Valerian nodded, groping for armoring facts.


    "Understood, Uncle Reston. I shall require companions on my way to Karellon for Imperial Guard duty, anyhow, and¡­" Well, he did not mention Cinda. No need to bring up past scandals, although the short-tempered ranger would surely come, too. "...and a druid''s skills may prove useful."


    Keldaran heaved a great sigh, rubbing at the back of his own neck.


    "Well, there''s time yet before you must leave. It is only midwinter, and the worst is behind us. From here on, Oberyn willing, Order prevails." Then, nudging his son with an armored elbow. "Go see your mother. She will certainly have some advice and magic to offer."


    And, as a life-bearer, herself, preferred to remain in the family compound, above. Valerian nodded again.


    "I will do so directly, Sir," he promised.


    Keldaran relaxed enough to alter his clothing, magically switching from armor and riding gear into comfortable, slightly creased red-and-grey robes.


    "Be off with you, then," he said fondly, dismissing his second heir. "I shall see you upstairs at dinner. Bring the druid, if he''s well-mannered enough for the dining hall. I would meet and speak with the fellow, myself."


    "As would I," added Reston, surly-alert as a wolfhound.


    Valerian left his father and uncle, fighting the urge to forget all of this and drift back to cozy assurance; that "one perfect day" that Gildyr had spoken of.


    Because¡­ what if it all went wrong again? What if he let matters go, only this time, he wasn''t clever or strong enough to prevent disaster?


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Very far off in a bleak, distant future, an awakened young elf gripped his sword and stalked forward. Creatures had moved amid scrubby trees and low boulders, keeping to cover. Maybe friendly, but probably not. They smelled bad, too; like something dead and curled up at the side of the road. Not a good sign.


    Moving cautiously, he made as if to edge past a stone outcrop, then just sort of¡­ flowed right through it like smoke, instead. Became solid again on the other side, behind those scuttling watchers.


    There were six of them. Muscular, greyish and warty, with bats'' ears, patches of shaggy dark fur and very alarmed expressions. Armed with knobby clubs and short spears, the creatures snarled and spat, spreading out to surround him. Tried to, anyhow.


    Letting go of conscious thought, he flowed into a fighting stance, using the smoke trick and broken cover to move and lash out at will. Got in under one creature''s guard and impaled it, driving his blade in right up to the hilt with a crunch and a spatter of gummy, dark blood. Shifted location again as the others rushed to attack, and the first monster crashed to its knees. Lofted himself onto a boulder, then dropped to the ground behind a second snorting and grunting assailant. That one went down to a skull-crushing pommel strike and a blast of frost from the sword. After that, the others turned and ran for their lives, which he let them keep.


    Fighting felt good, like something he knew how to do¡­ but then you were left with cooling bodies, drained power and utter confusion. Found out that he could summon fire; make it come forth to dispose of the dead. Set a few trees alight in the process, but was able to unmake it, too; smothering flame with a thought, if he held his mind the right way.


    Then, having nothing better to do, nowhere to go, he went back to the cracked stone from which he''d emerged; walking this time, instead of transporting. Touched an outcrop of glossy black rock there, not even knowing enough to ask the right questions. Just feeling completely bereft.


    Caught sight of his own reflection in the shiny black surface. Glimpsed pointed ears, long, pale hair and light eyes. No answers, though, and no real sense of familiarity. That was him because the rock said so, not because he remembered his own appearance.


    There was something scratched on his chest, where the decaying cloth of his shirt bared the skin. A mark of some sort; like a flame and a spiraling line, but its meaning escaped him.


    Then he turned, for someone had spoken, soft and cajoling. A woman was standing there. She was shorter than he, with ears that were hardly pointed at all, and braided grey hair. Her clothing was rough, mostly tan-and-brown woven stuff. Her face was marked at the forehead and cheeks with dots and swirls of blue paint. No weapons¡­ or at least, none he could see.


    She said something to him in a weird, lilting voice, using words that were utterly foreign. Nothing he recognized, and no hand-signs, either. He shook his head, stepping backward on loose, sliding rock. Too tired and heartsick to care what she wanted, or why. All that he knew was¡­


    He''d done something wrong.


    He was here.


    Whoever had sent him did not want him back.


    ¡­and he had nothing at all left to lose.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXX


    In that other place, never-when, Midworld had lost touch with its gods as well as its magic, lurching from disaster to crisis to globe-spanning war. Alone on the planet, now, humans used science to help them break free of unending chaos, but whatever they tried only seemed to make everything worse.

 Part Four, chapter three

    3


    Gildyr wandered the high-elf fortress in the company of his attendants, touring Starloft with genuine interest and wonder. Built by giants, the structure was mountainous; dominated at its center by a crystalline pillar that spanned the entire distance from base to high peak. This central prism shed a soft and continual moonlit glow that Gildyr could feel and just about feed upon.


    They started at the noisy and bustling bottom level; the "Main Gallery", as one of his half-elf companions (Lora) informed him.


    "The garrison is here," she added proudly, "along with the stables, kennel, falcon-loft and armory. Some lesser visitors'' quarters, as well."


    Lora spoke as if to a child, but Gildyr did not correct her. He had come here for information, and why stir up conflict or wrath? Instead, the druid nodded, looking around with real curiosity at everything that his dark-haired guide pointed out.


    "Follow," she said, "and we''ll show you the runes."


    "Thank you, I''d like that," he replied gently, very aware of the difference in their accent, manners and dress. He felt very rustic alongside Lora and Randyn (a sentimental young man with mischievous eyes and ash-pale hair) ... but he did not try to match or outdo them. Just followed, observed and learned.


    The two half-elves conducted him through a small city''s worth of workshops and storehouses, mostly constructed of delicate wood and carved porphyry. Down here, the slick floor was sanded down or covered in acres of wood panels that clattered and thudded with constant traffic. "To keep the horses and dogs from slipping," Randyn explained.


    Nothing down on this level was for sale, but he received a small paper sack of popped, spicy grains and tumblers of grog whenever he paused and showed interest. All of the half- and quarter-elf craftsmen were glad to display their skills. There were dwarves and goblins there, too, working mostly as smiths or as herbalists.


    Gildyr chatted with many of them, sometimes lending a hand with the bellows or helping to sort out a basket of fragrant leaves. His patient guides did not hurry the druid, seeming pleased to be freed of their regular duties. In their company, Gildyr toured mighty Starloft¡­ as high as the third floor, that is.


    The buildings were only partly roofed, he noticed, because the weather inside was strictly controlled by resident mages. Beautiful bridges of sparkling frost or braided flame spanned the vast space overhead, creating a three-dimensional lacework of light that connected the elven platforms to those massive walls of dark stone.


    They moved past the workshops at last, for there was a great deal to see. Gildyr munched spicy grains, almost spraining his neck from looking around. At one point, nearing the central pillar, they were accosted by a class of young students running ahead of their tutor, a reserved, very beautiful high-elf.


    The kids crowded around Gildyr, daring each other to touch his travel-stained cloak and tanned, tattooed arms.


    "You''re a druid, Sir?" the eldest cried out. "Can you wild-shape for us, please? Just once, please?"


    Their elven tutor sighed, but nodded slightly, giving Gildyr permission to put on a show. Happy to entertain, he reflexively faerie-pocketed all of his clothing and items, then flashed through a few basic forms. Became a fluttering sparrow, a wolf, a slim, spotted deer and a rabbit in quick succession, dashing about through the crowd of delighted children and workers.


    Landed here on a shoulder, then took flight to strike ground and nuzzle a hand, then leapt gracefully over their heads to a clear patch of yard (where he nibbled on somebody''s potted milk-ivy). Dropping into rabbit shape, the druid next dodged and wove through a forest of legs to rejoin his attendants, taking as final form a towering, russet-furred owl-bear.


    He rose to his hind legs and stood swaying above them all, snuffing and seeing with bear and owl senses, both. Awed, the children gasped words they were not supposed to know, yet; a few of them daring enough to reach for his massive forepaws or pat his coarse and feathery hide.


    When he''d returned to his wood-elf from, a small girl pled,


    "Could you do a griffin, please, Sir? I''ve always wanted to ride on a griffin, just like Their Lordships do!"


    But Gildyr shook his head no, panting lightly, all at once flustered.


    "I''m¡­ um¡­ afraid not, Cubby. At least, not very successfully." The thought made him anxious. A little nauseous, even. "It''s not a shape I''ve mastered yet. But, hey¡­ I''ll work on it, Cublings. Next time, for certain."


    The chorus of "Awww¡­" that met this confession would have broken the heart of an underworld god. Gildyr felt very bad for disappointing his audience, but he gave them each a gold acorn¡­ good for one minor boon¡­ apiece. That cheered them up.


    Their red-haired tutor bowed and smiled. (He''d gotten one, too.) Then, with a slight shooing motion, he said,


    "Come little ones. Master druid is busy, and the runes are still distant. Our class time wanes as we stand here in idleness. You are to pick and sketch three of the runes, for today''s assignment."


    Well, that was where Gildyr and his attendants had been headed, so they tagged along. The walk took over half a candle-mark''s time, even ignoring further distractions (of which there were plenty, including a pack of black-and-grey hounds just in from a hunt). Got there at last, though.


    Gildyr stepped past the last row of dwellings to find himself on a mile-wide circle of polished red granite. Here, the crystal prism arose, towering far out of sight. And here, deeply inscribed on the floor at its base, were runes of a type that the druid had never seen before.


    Incised about ten feet into the rock, spanning some twenty feet in length, the marks looked oddly pointed and spiky. Some resembled a ship, a hand or a sun, but most were utterly foreign.


    "What do they mean?" Gildyr asked Lora, his chief guide. She spread her hands helplessly.


    "I cannot say, friend Druid. We are told that the Silmerana alone knows their true meaning, and that he can use them for transport, at need."


    Cut in Randyn, eagerly,


    "My guess would be, it''s the name that the giants used for this place, along with¡­ so to speak¡­ its transport address. Don''t know how you''d pronounce it aloud, though. They surely did not call it ''Starloft'', which isn''t an elvish title."


    "It''s human," clarified Lora. "Thought up by High Lord Galadin''s consort, on first finding the place, when all this was wilderness."


    Gildyr nodded, looking up and around at a hollowed-out mountain being lived in by elves as ants might claim a vast, empty barn. Some of the runes were out of sight behind the pillar, so his guides conducted him all the way around, weaving through busily sketching young students. One of the runes pulsed with soft light, about halfway along the prism''s east side.


    "The glow shifts from rune to rune over time," said Lora, "but it isn''t regular. At least, I''ve never worked out a pattern."


    Neither had Randyn, who was anxious to put in his bit.


    "Stay around for a while and you may see it shift¡­ or not," he said, shrugging. "Sometimes the cycle takes months, sometimes just a few days, and it doesn''t always light up the next glyph in line. I''ve been watching the things since my own classroom days, and it''s still a mystery. Much cannier sights on the next two floors, though. Better food, too."


    They reached the next level by using a magical lift, stepping onto a disk of pale light that whisked them up through the air and onto a series of arching rainbow and frost spans. Here, too, the pillar shed radiance as it passed through concentric, whirling stone rings. There was sunlight as well, shining in from windows the size of great oaks.


    "There''s nothing much on this level but soldier''s quarters, the council hall and a public kitchen," said Lora, glancing around from their perch on a bridge of crackling frost. The crowds here were thinner. More quietly purposeful, Gildyr noticed. The guards, more alert. Not all of them in uniform or elven-shape, either. Here, too, he caught his first sight of a griffin-mount.


    Very young, it was; all tawny hide and flaring red plumage, maybe ten feet from its snapping, curved beak to whipping, scaled tail. Its training flight didn''t seem to be going well, as the juvenile monster shrieked and writhed in midair to pluck off its rider.


    It flung her spinning away, then banked and dove to attack her, its screams and hers combining in shrill, ringing harmony. Gildyr shifted to sparrow-shape, meaning to dive at its golden eyes and distract the furious beast.


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    Fortunately, the plummeting groom used an escape spell, leaving her cursing fellows to recapture the screeching young rebel. Nets and compliance charms did the trick, but it was a very near thing, in which Gildyr secretly cheered for the griffin-cub.


    "They''re almost impossible to ride if they haven''t bonded to you," sighed Randyn, gazing upward with wide, wistful eyes. "Once you connect with one, though, it''s said to be the grandest feeling in all the world."


    Lora gave him a head-clearing shove, nearly tipping her partner¡­ who''d leaned out after a lone, drifting feather¡­ off of the icy bridge.


    "Not for the likes of us, Randy," she chided. "Only the nobles ride griffins, you know that. The rest of us make do with horses, or walk."


    "I know," he grumped, tucking away his caught wing-feather. "But no one can stop me from dreaming."


    By this time, Gildyr had resumed his own shape. He patted the half-elf''s slim shoulder. Having a heart-friend of his own, the druid well understood Randyn''s longing. They moved on to the third level, then, where¡­ according to Lora¡­ everything really important was located.


    "This is the Pillared Hall," she told Gildyr, waving a hand around at a floor that was over a mile in diameter. "Here, you''ll find the formal dining hall, the High Seat of the Tarandahls, two ballrooms and the Mall. Best part, if you ask me."


    "The officers live here, along with diplomats and some of the lesser nobility. Lord Lerendar¡­" Randyn hesitated, as though unsure whether or not to keep talking.


    "Well, it''s common knowledge," said Lora, frowning a little. As they wove their way past kiosks and shops selling everything under the sun and the fey-wild, she added, "His Lordship''s consort being human¡­ Well, she doesn''t live up above with the noble family, nor does their child, Lady Zara."


    "So, no more will Milord, who is a good sort, and won''t stay where they cannot," put in Randyn, lowering his voice and looking around a bit nervously.


    "Makes things awkward, as Lord Valerian''s mate is not elvish, either," mused Lora.


    "No, but she is of the fey," Randyn argued, defending Valerian. "An air sprite of some sort, said to be lovely, with no memory of her past. She is allowed in the family compound, but Honorable Beatriz must remain down here¡­ along with His Lordship and wee Lady Zara."


    Gildyr nodded, head whirling with high-elf politics. Things were so much simpler back home in the Greenwood, where a life-mate was a personal choice, and you dwelt in whichever tree would put up with your bother and noise.


    Up in the Mall there were cafes serving everything from daybrew to icewine; offering delicacies that the druid had never seen or imagined.


    "Some of it comes from other planes," Lora told him, over the Mall''s gentle, tinkling music.


    "And a lot of it''s more fashionable than delicious," finished Randyn. "But you have got to try the cloud-cream. One taste of that and you''ll not eat for days, so''s not to spoil the memory."


    Gildyr smiled.


    "I can''t wait to try it," he said to the half-elves, who''d been subtly angling him along so that the next sight came as a total surprise.


    There was a magically ported river on the third floor, cascading like a waterfall from just under the ceiling to ten feet over the floor. A river, complete with serpents, fish and occasional naiads who flashed past in slithering silhouette. It made a soft rushing sound as it fell through the air, scattering mist and cool, gusting wind.


    Gildyr stopped walking to stare. Maybe he looked like an utter rube, like an antlered druid at court, but that was amazing. Lora and Randyn nudged each other and smiled, enjoying his open wonder. Later, as they sat outside a cafe, watching the River Aradyne tumble past, Gildyr ate cloud-cream flavored with moonlight and pine. And, yes, it was like nothing he''d ever tasted; too good for mere senses of flesh.


    "It''s all so peaceful," he wondered aloud. "So¡­"


    Unburned. With no tremors or screeching, hungry undead. No world-ending floods or invading dark gods. No sign of Chaos, at all.


    "It''s wonderful, all right," agreed Lora, pausing with her spoon halfway to her mouth. "Just¡­ sort of frozen. Like ripples on a pond that never reach shore."


    "Like something keeps on not happening," added Randyn, shamelessly licking the inside of his dish. His cloud-cream had been flavored with nectar and spice-bark; Lora''s with toasted bay-nuts and grated fruit.


    Gildyr leaned forward.


    "That''s what I''m here to find out," he confided, lowering his voice. "This sense that we get just so far, then keep looping around again and again, over and over. Things build up, there''s one perfect day and then¡­ poof¡­ it''s back to the start."


    The half-elves considered his words. After a moment, Lora said (very quietly),


    "Does anyone else have terrible visions, sometimes?"


    Randyn huddled on his cushioned red chair; for once, not smiling at all.


    "Like getting torn apart by a chuul, trying to shove my little sib through a door?" he asked. "Last thing I heard was Anya, screaming my name."


    Lora shuddered delicately.


    "Earthquake," she said. "Great timbers and rocks fell, crushing me as the fire¡­ as¡­ I couldn''t¡­"


    She shook her head and stopped talking. They were quiet for a time, till Gildyr ordered more cloud-cream and wine.


    "I don''t want to stir Chaos back up again," he assured his guides, when their human-fey waiter buzzed off. "But Order can''t mean that we just keep repeating the same things over and over again, can it? There must be a safe way to move onward."


    "That''s a matter for the great ones, not us," Lora decided. "I don''t want to die in a fire, hearing the people I love screaming for help all around me. Not again, Druid. Not ever again. If you brought that back, I''d track you down and kill you, myself."


    "I''d help," replied Gildyr, who''d lost his mind, lost himself, turning into a griffin. "But I have to find out what''s gone wrong, and how we can fix it."


    It was just about then that Lord Reston turned up, stepping out of a gate that opened right by their table. As everyone got to their feet with a clattering screech of chair legs on stone, Reston snapped,


    "The tour is concluded. Lora, Randyn, you will return to your posts." Then, as the servants bowed and shot off. "Druid, you are commanded to dinner tonight in the grand hall. Before that event, you must be suitably dressed and prepared. There will be no trouble from you. No disorder. I will not permit it. Are we clear?"


    Most male half-elves shaved off their facial hair, attempting to seem more like their elven parent. Not Reston Tarandahl, who sported a trim beard and had cut his grey hair at the shoulders.


    Gildyr inclined his own head, causing his topknot to shed a few twigs.


    "I did not come to cause problems, Lord Reston," he soothed. "I came to find an old friend and work out what''s happened. Nothing sneaky or dangerous, I promise."


    "For your sake, I hope so, Druid," said Reston stepping aggressively close to the slender wood-elf. "I am this family''s defender, and I will let nothing and nobody harm them."


    For Reston had visions, too.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    He retreated until broken rock scratched and stabbed at his back, but there was no escape through the unyielding stone. No way back where he''d come from. Meanwhile, that tattooed woman kept moving forward, picking her way through outcrops of volcanic rock and clumps of tall grass. Her sing-song voice and twittering words were meant to be soothing, he guessed, but she smelt of power gone sideways and bad. She smelt, he thought, like a witch.


    Should have known what to do about that, but nothing sprang to mind except fire and steel, which felt wrong against one lone, slightly stooped older woman. Confused, he didn''t react in time when she gestured and snapped out a hex, creating something like a twisted, barbed cage in the air that tightened and shrank on his body. Worse, it sank in, and all at once he was caught. Had just a moment to thrust his sword¡­ away, somehow, as if deep in an unseen pocket. There, but out of his reach, and hers.


    Then there was no more edging aside. No more anything. All he could do was stand there enslaved, awaiting her orders. And that was the start of a very bad time.


    Laughing, the witch hurried forward to prod and slap at him, producing small bolts of lightning just to be sure he was thoroughly under control. The shocks hurt, as did the barbs of that choking-tight spirit cage, but he didn''t cry out. Didn''t matter. She fed upon anger and pain like a corpse fly; sensing all that he would have kept hidden.


    The witch was interested in the mark on his chest, poking at it and muttering questions. Was very displeased to learn that he did not speak her language and could not understand her commands. She had to seize his wrist and drag him back to her lair, which was no more than a hole in the bank of a sluggish brown river. Just a couple of earthen-walled rooms with a storehouse in back, it was filled with roots'' ends, insects and constantly dripping water.


    The roof sagged low, and the whole place stank of dark magic. Once inside, the witch threw an armful of rags and torn blankets onto the floor in one corner, snapping something that might have meant "sit". Next thrust a mixture of clothes at him, along with a shred of flat bread. Almost, he didn''t eat it. Only, someone had said, "You eat when you can to keep going, Milord, because sometimes, things could get better." Just a whisper of thought. A quiet voice from someone he''d lied to. Still, he listened and ate and kept going.


    Time passed, sparking an odd sort of war.


    The compulsion was strong to obey, only he was never quite sure what the witch really wanted, making possible a hundred little rebellions, delays and mistakes. Paid for that over and over with lightning, acid, drowning and paralysis, but maybe he didn''t deserve any better. As a servant, though, he wasn''t much help. Carried things for her, and sometimes killed bandits, but mostly just got in the way.


    There were two villages within a day''s walk of her lair. One had been turned all to stone by some awful calamity. People, buildings, animals, plants¡­ everything. She would go there, making him follow, to break off pieces of petrified leaf and crystalline fruit for her potions. Sometimes, laughing, to shatter a helpless stone villager. It was the sort of joke she enjoyed.


    The other village still lived. She only went there when the moon was full, and everyone huddled indoors. Just a cluster of wattle-and-daub huts with a log wall and spiked wooden gate, the town had one muddy street and twenty-some terrified residents.


    The gate presented no barrier, as the witch simply charmed it wide open, despite all the hex-bans inscribed on its surface. Once inside, she cursed the town''s well and its shrine, seizing offerings which had been put out (he thought) to appease her. No good, as her magic swirled like a whirlpool of squawking black runes, entering houses and sheds to blight and despoil. Some of those fluttering marks he could block a little, earning her wrath, yet again.


    On their fourth night-raid, he stood in her path when the witch prepared to fire a small, shuttered cottage. It was the best in the village, and there were people inside. He could hear them, trying hard to quiet a weeping child.


    "Shhh, Jazra, Shhh!"


    The witch laughed at that, then summoned a ball of fire that sizzled and spat; barely the size of her fist, but enough to touch off the dry thatch above. Seeing what she intended, he pulled the fire into himself, causing the mark on his chest to flare with sudden red light. Part of it, anyhow. The spiral part curled even tighter, which he could feel like something moving just under his bruises and scars.


    Angry, the witch pointed at him and snapped a command: "Agrash!" Then, she lit up a second blaze. This one, too, he absorbed; earning a furious curse and the feeling of thorns ripping his hide off in long, curling strips. Did not clearly recall the walk back to her lair, except that she battled the whole way to keep him under control. He fought her, pressing hard against curses and spells and the barbs of that magical slave-cage. Didn''t break free. Not quite, but scared her pretty badly. Spent the night outside on the riverbank, half in the water; paralyzed by one of her poisoned knives.


    He was awake and aware, but unable to move when fish slithered by or when animals snuffed at his clothing and hair. Nothing tried for a meal, maybe because the mark on his chest was still glowing. Maybe because she intended to kill him herself.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 Part Four, Chapter Four

    4


    Earlier, in Starloft:


    Valerian took leave of his lord father and uncle, then bowed and departed. Quickly slipped through a hidden door, moving from the beautifully appointed "noble" corridors to those winding back passages used by their servants and guards. He was in a hurry and preferred to avoid delay or chance meetings.


    The fact that Val was in there at all, meant that he did not wish to be seen. Therefore, he passed like smoke, ignored by the hurrying others, until a particular someone stepped out of a threshold and into his path. A ranger, dressed in the brown, green and grey of her calling.


    These back ways were well used, but drafty and rough; sometimes just oaken planking over a drop of several stories, with sun-warmed, humming black stone on one side, plastered beams on the other. Backstage, as it were, for the castle.


    Over the years, directions, messages and ribald jokes had been written alongside the many access doors. Here, the advice was ''Be wary. She bites,'' posted in ocher pencil on tawny, unpolished wood. Most likely not written about the ranger, that warning still very much fit.


    She threw back her green woolen hood to scowl at him, balancing easily with the oaken planks'' ship-like sway. She had dark brown hair caught back in a sensible plait (Hair that he''d seen loose in the firelight. That he''d brushed from her face before bending to kiss her.)


    She was an elf, but one with no family; having two half-elves as parents. Her skin was tanned from much time spent outdoors, and her eyes were two colors; blue on the left, brown on the right.


    Valerian halted, inclining his head slightly. Despite everything¡­ despite all they''d once had and lost¡­ he was deeply gladdened to see her.


    "Good morning, Cinda," he greeted her, smiling. "I would say, ''Well Met'', but you''ve probably come here to scold me, again."


    The ranger''s scowl deepened. In a hard, chilly voice, she said,


    "I would not have to scold, if you weren''t so utterly heedless of your own safety, My Lord."


    Valerian flinched, having no defense against one he''d been close to, and loved.


    "Pray do not call me that," he asked. "Lord Valerian, if you must¡­ but just ''Val'', if it wouldn''t kill you to say it."


    She was tall for a female. Not beautiful, exactly, but lively. Intense. Filled with electric passions and vocal opinions. Also, a wicked-fine shot.


    "Very well. At your command, Val, it shall be¡­" grumped the ranger. Then, changing the subject, "I followed this druid of yours some way through the Tanglewood, last night. He avoided all of the guard posts and sentries by wild-shaping. Gave his business to no one, before reaching the main entrance."


    Valerian grunted.


    "Understandable. I would duck any number of unwanted meetings, could I alter more than my outward shape." And then, as she stiffened. "Wait¡­ I didn''t mean this meeting, Cinda. I¡­" Val fumbled for something to say, coming up at last with, "I never see you enough, anymore."


    The ranger snorted, but her expression and voice thawed a bit.


    "You belong in the gardens or the banqueting hall, Valerian. Not on patrol or out in the forest¡­ but this druid is bad news," she insisted, returning to the point. "Send him away."


    She could not command Valerian; had no rank at all, but Cinda''s opinion still mattered to him. Rather than argue, Val summoned reason and humor.


    "The fellow seems harmless enough, to me¡­ and his surname is "Shagbark". How could anyone with a name like that make actual trouble? He wishes to talk, nothing more."


    Cinda put out a hand, seizing his arm in its ornate, brocade sleeve.


    "I don''t trust him," she snapped, stepping forward a bit. Her scent was sunlight-on-river¡­ shrill-falcon-cry¡­ bow-string-release¡­ tumbling-warmth-in-the-firelight. Pulling himself together, Valerian moved aside.


    "You join my father and uncle in this rabid distrust for wandering mooncalves," he joked lightly, adding, "And I shall take all your warnings to heart, as they are well meant¡­"


    "But¡­" Cinda prodded, withdrawing her hand.


    "But¡­ I shall do what I think best. I find that I trust him. That, somehow, he is a friend. Just a sense that I have."


    Cinda muttered a very southern, very scathing curse.


    "Sense is exactly what you don''t have, Valen," she growled, unfairly using a love-name. A heart-name. "Do as you please, then, but I will follow wherever he goes, while he troubles the peace and safety of Starloft. And if the treacherous shill leads you off on some wooly-brained quest, I''m coming along. Visibly, with an arrow trained at his back, if you accept my presence. A pace or two behind in the shadows, if you forbid me."


    All at once filled with confusing emotions, Valerian reached for the ranger. Stopped short of touching her, though, letting his hand drop back to his side, instead.


    "I would never forbid you, Cindi," he assured her. "You ended "us". Not me. Anyhow¡­ I am not a child. Not your burden to carry. Come along because we are friends, and your presence is welcome. Not because you think I need to be wrapped up and guarded."


    Their eyes locked and their thoughts touched, just briefly, showing truth on both sides. Then Cinda shifted her gaze, breaking contact.


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    "Must be the air or the water up north," she grumbled. "Stupid and stubborn grow wild here like knotgrass. Do as you will, My Lord."


    Turning away, she stalked through the servants'' door, pausing only to glance back and whisper: "I love you."


    Which, in all the gods'' names, just wasn''t fair. Valerian took a few breaths to collect himself, after she''d gone. Touched that doorway, because it had held her. After a moment, conjured a pen to write: ''And she will not be kept,'' underneath the first warning.


    Then the young elf-lord went on his way, heading far upward and in, to reach his mother''s wood-paneled workroom. He found Lady Elisindara seated by the garden-overlook doors. She''d drawn her chair up as close as she could to sunshine, fresh air and birdsong without going outside.


    Val hurried over, pushing trouble out of his heart as he crossed the stone floor. She was a life-bearer, all the more precious for carrying an unborn full elf, his future sister or brother.


    "Mum," he said, stooping to kiss her upturned face. "Good morning."


    Her frost-colored hair was worn loose, as bindings brought headaches, these days. Very frail, she seemed, with the child''s glow drawing its pulsing life from her own.


    She had Lerendar''s very blue eyes, and a face that rarely shifted its absolute calm. Beautiful, as a sculpture in marble or ice would have been; wearing the lightest of silvery robes.


    "Good morning, Valerian," she replied, returning his smile. "Come for a lesson, have you?"


    While she wasn''t supposed to be working, and the jars and shelves of her storehouse sparkled untouched, Lady Elisindara still managed to tutor her sons in magical theory. (Son, rather, for Lerendar wasn''t much of a student.)


    The truth was that Elisindara did not care for children; had left the raising of both boys to nursemaids and tutors. She hadn''t grown close to Val until well after his naming-day, when he''d at last reached full elven sentience. These magic lessons were precious to both; a chance to reforge their relationship. Now, Valerian nodded.


    "Yes, if you''ve spare time. Also, I''d like your advice about something important, Mum."


    His mother made a slight face.


    "Time?" she scoffed. "I''ve nothing but time! No one else seems to comprehend that I am pregnant, not dying!"


    Val made a sign against Chaos, scribing a sigil that sparkled and shone in the air. Again, he felt something that didn''t belong here. Some hint of terror that could not be let into Starloft.


    "Don''t ill-wish us, Mum," he said. "You told me yourself that the other worlds are less than a breath away. Something might hear you."


    She''d conjured fruit punch and ships'' biscuit, causing a chair to drift over, as well. Minor magic, and not enough to trigger alarm or endanger the child.


    "I would almost welcome a loathsome sending," snapped Elisindara. "Just for something to fight¡­ but, peace. Enough. We will talk of other matters. You asked for advice, I believe? I can sense your concern, though you guard your thoughts well. Sit, if you wish, and explain."


    Valerian adjusted the chair''s position so as not to block her view of the open glass doors. Then, caging a biscuit and silvery tumbler of juice, he said,


    "Someone has come in search of me. He arrived in the night, and it feels as though I know and should trust him, but¡­ I cannot recall ever meeting a¡­"


    "Wood-elf druid," finished his mother, growing interested as she brushed at Valerian''s recent memories. "Yes. There¡­ untidy fellow, isn''t he?" she mused. "More powerful than he chooses to let on, though. That''s interesting."


    Her voice rang in his mind as much as his hearing, now. Being a sorceress, Mum could conjure and speak with fey spirits, and slip between planes. At least, she could when she wasn''t drained by the needs of a growing child. Only females were strong enough to survive such a burden, though it taxed even them to the core.


    "Hmmm¡­ Let us look deeper, shall we?"


    Leaning forward, Elisindara flipped the silver food tray. Biscuits scattered to hang in the air like a flock of birds. Juice splashed upward, forming a ruby-dark, wobbling arch. Meanwhile, she drew a sigil onto the tray using the first finger of her spell-hand. Metal bubbled and ran like hot wax, but the glyph held its shape. Varda, it was: I perceive.


    "Look at me, and lower your wards," she instructed.


    Valerian did so, feeling himself become a conduit through which she explored space and time.


    "Um. Much here is occluded. You cannot see, or don''t wish to know, but¡­ wait. What is this?"


    His mother had found something. Trouble, very far distant in time.


    "There is pain and great sorrow¡­ lost and alone. Power has been released there, for Order and Chaos, both."


    He sensed these things as she spoke them. More than that, felt himself choking. Unable to move.


    "Too far," whispered Mum, shaking with badly-pent rage. Did what she shouldn''t have, then; risking one child to help save another. "Take courage," she offered, sending her power and will through Valerian. "Take strength for the battle, and freedom."


    Innocent enough, only, in her condition, his mother couldn''t fully control the flow.


    A sudden, high wind seemed to spring up in the workroom. The walls creaked and flexed; near as a pantry, then wide apart as those of a courtball arena. Fey spirits glistened and danced on the shelves, riding her swaying strings of dried herbs. Out in the garden menagerie, the beasts began shrieking aloud.


    Then, one by one, not bothering with gates, the family ported over. First Father, then Grandmother, Lerendar and Lord Galadin, himself. Even Alfea wobbled in from the gardens, big as a house, wielding a spade for a weapon.


    The high lord spoke a word, absorbing all of that leaking wild magic. Glowed briefly, sword in hand; looking for trouble and ready to meet it.


    "Stop," he commanded.


    And the workroom was once again small, tidy and very much crowded. Spilt, fountaining juice poured itself right back into the pitcher. Tumblers returned to their places and biscuits sailed out of the air, forming a neat little pyramid atop the cleansed tray.


    Galadin alertly hunted the room, finding nothing amiss. He would have questioned the life-bearer, but Keldaran had taken her up; stood murmuring softly and holding her close. As only one other had been there, the elf-lord''s hard gaze next settled on Val.


    "Explain," he demanded, still sparking a bit at the edges. Dressed for the council hall, he was; in full parade armor and circlet of rank. The Blade of the Tarandahls flared in his hand, reacting (as always) to Val.


    Lady Alyanara had shot over to check on their son and his wife, using her own magic to strengthen the flickering baby. Lerendar looked around, then slouched over to stand with Valerian, giving his younger brother a rough, friendly shoulder-bump. Like everyone else, he was waiting to hear what had happened.


    (Lie¡­ He needed a good, air-tight story¡­ now.)


    By this time, Val had caught Alfea, taking the spade from her hand and pulling her close. With child, herself, she had no business rushing into possible danger¡­ but he loved her for doing so. Kissed the top of his wife''s head, made brief eye-contact with Mum over Dad''s shoulder, and then cleared his throat. Trying for ''shocked'' rather than ''guilty'', he said,


    "Mum had a vision, Milord, just as we were discussing sigils of far-sight. Then something tried to draw on her power, through me." True enough, as far as it went, but leaving out Elisindara''s spell and her sending.


    Galadin''s silver-pale eyes narrowed, briefly. Then he put up the sword, which buzzed something to him in private.


    "I see," he stated, evidently accepting his grandson''s excuse. "You shall redraw the wards, Valerian, with your grandmother''s assistance." Then, turning to face his lovely, demigod wife, "Milady, if you will?"


    She inclined her head, stepping away from Keldaran and Elisindara.


    "Of course, Milord," murmured the golden sorceress, keeping her thoughts to herself.


    "Tell me later?" muttered Lerendar, leaning over a bit.


    "Everything," Val promised, not certain, himself, what they''d almost released. Then Alfea gasped, writhing against him; torn by their little one''s pangs.

 Part Four, chapter five

    5


    In the turbulent world of the third wish, nothing was quiet. No healing took place, for Chaos is never sated; can never find rest. Instead of lost magic and faith, its folk turned to invention, creating enormous machines that ravaged the earth and slaughtered whole nations. Then, with their own planet crushed underfoot, its masters turned all their power and greed on the stars, finding manna there; energy, free for the taking.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Elsewhere, down by a sluggish brown river, the night passed very slowly. Sometimes insects scuttled over his clothing and flesh. Once, a ghoul crept into view, reeking of open graves. It was too wary to feed on someone the witch had preserved like a hung gamebird, though, and soon slunk away.


    All night long he struggled to rise from the muddy ground. To move any part of his body, at all. To blink, breathe freely¡­ anything. But the dagger''s paralysis-hex seemed unbreakable, leaving him stuck on the riverbank, waiting to die.


    He''d begun to glow, a thing that startled him and attracted great swarms of bugs. That, in turn, drew something that scurried onto his back, quick and light as a ferret. For most of the night he couldn''t see the creature. It ate insects, though. He could tell from the way that it leapt and snapped at those darting midges and flies.


    Near dawn, the small animal twisted itself around to stare at his face. Odd-looking marten, with a black mask over dark-red, intelligent eyes, pointed ears and a twitching long snout. Its forepaws were clawed little hands, and its cry a shrill, creaking bark.


    It studied him for a moment, then uttered a sneeze and shot off into the rushes. No matter. He''d been handy for drawing insects, not any kind of a friend¡­ and so the lost one forgot the small creature, putting all that he had into thoughts of escape. Into just moving his hand. If he could manage that much, he could try to do more, before the witch recovered enough to come out of her hole and finish him off.


    Battling hard, he managed to dig the fingers of his left hand into warm, slimy river mud, gouging four tracks. His memory spanned less than a month since waking out of the rock¡­ but in that time he''d never done anything harder than claw at the sludge he now lay in.


    The sky had gone grey, according to its puddled reflection. He had so little time left. Couldn''t decide if staying alive mattered enough to keep trying. Then the black-masked creature came back, pushing something along with its twitching nose and small, clever hands. A globe of transparent force, containing a bit of fire. Not greenish corpse-glow. Clean, bright-red flame, stolen from somebody''s campsite or hearth.


    Making that strange, creaking bark, the marten nudged its prize forward, pushing the bottled fire against his stiff, out-flung arm. The prisoning globe vanished at once, leaving the flame to drift downward. It touched his arm, bringing warmth and a measure of strength. Then something else came to him; a surge of courage and power from terribly far away. From someone he''d long ago failed.


    ...And the witch''s poison burnt off like marsh gas. He took a great, gasping breath, moving cramped muscles at last. By this time, he was glowing bright as the coming dawn, causing birds to awaken and flutter up out of the rushes.


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    Got to his feet with a grunt, trying to will the sword back. It was near. He could feel it, along with a lot of other stored things, hanging somewhere just out of sight.


    The masked creature''s warning bark probably saved his life, for he pivoted to face the witch''s lair just as she slammed her door open.


    "Aragash! Fathmorak!" she snarled at him, summoning magic. "Irithic farg!"


    Her spells were acid and lightning, weakness and utter despair. They struck at body and soul together, seeking to rebind and slay him. He fought back with fire, at first. Then, when the sword returned to his hand, with daggers of ice from its blade.


    The ice, she could melt. The fire she mostly deflected, sending hordes of skittering constructs and flying imps to attack him.


    He managed to shield himself, but not consistently. He didn''t really know how; was acting on pure reflex, bloodied and leaking from dozens of cuts. The runes of her seething dark magic were clearly visible, though, and that gave him an opening. He twisted their magic against her, making great arcs of lightning turn in mid-flight to smash the hag''s lair; then sent her poisonous cloud back to its raging source, forcing her to dispel it.


    Had destroyed her creations; was backing away, when he heard a noise from the east. Sounded like people. A crowd of them, moving swiftly and shouting loud threats. The witch heard them, too. Lifting her head, she screamed something vile in reply; defiant and spiteful right to the end. Lifting her arms, she next animated a trash pile, raising a pair of lurching, clattering golems.


    Good time to leave, but not before aiding those oncoming villagers. So, he called to the earth without sigil or rune, and it heeded him. Plain, raw sorcery caused two massive hands of dark clay to shoot up out of the ground and capture the witch. Wild magic filled her mouth and throat up with dirt and plastered her furious eyes shut.


    Should have killed her, maybe. Didn''t. Just burned her golems with fire, then turned and fled, leaving the hag to the justice of those whose village she''d haunted and cursed for so long.


    The masked animal followed, leaping and barking. He stooped and extended a hand, allowing the furry beast to race up his arm and onto one shoulder. After that, he cut away from the river, heading westward, where there were patches of forest and huge, rusted sections of armor.


    Didn''t slow down until the sun was high in the sky and all he could hear was birdsong and wind. Then, worn nearly dead, he collapsed in a thicket of briar and oak, near a small spring. Not a safe spot, but he''d run himself out and had to have rest.


    The marten foraged for itself, bringing back grubs and small lizards as though meaning to share. That¡­ was amusing. Made him smile for the first time in all his short span. (But he did not eat the grubs or the lizard.)


    Found a few shriveled berries and nuts on the bushes and ground. Ate those, instead, while working to reach all the stuff he could feel stored away in his magical pockets. He''d succeeded with the sword. Had put something in and then pulled it back out again. He could do the same, surely, with food. Matter of not looking directly. Just sensing, then reaching in¡­ Sideways? Slantwise? Across? Some way that worked every time, once he''d figured it out.


    The nameless animal watched with interest as he got out clothes, boots, a bow and quiver of arrows, dagger and apples. Lots and lots of apples. No other food, at all.


    Right. Mostly inside of his head, he told Nameless,


    "I think that I really hate apples."


    Ate a few, just the same. Then he stripped off and burned his old, mismatched garments, putting on what he''d drawn from invisible storage. Another reflex cleaned and healed him, causing soft light to sear away dirt, scars and bruises. Not the marks on his chest though. Those remained, regardless of potions or scrubbing. Problem for later.


    It felt very good to be clean. To stop the roaring in his stomach, even if only with water and fruit. To Nameless, before losing himself in dreams, he whispered,


    "I have not thanked you for bringing me fire. You are free to go or to stay, as you wish¡­ but I hope you will stay."


    Because no night was as dark, and no situation as bleak, with a proven friend at your side.

 Part Four, chapter six

    6


    The birth of a baby was joy and peril together, for the little one''s spirit was weak and unformed; its mother, utterly drained by her pregnancy. Thus, the scurry... The calling for healers and family; the setting of powerful wards. Otherwise, something fell and chaotic might enter that fragile new child.


    Alfea''s pangs were not false. She had gone into sudden labor; sometimes stretched out with her back arched, sometimes curled nearly double. Early, but not dangerously so, according to the Tarandahl family healer. There was not really time to shift Alfea, but she clutched at Val''s brocade robe, gasping,


    "Outside, please, Van¡­ Bean needs... needs the sky."


    He stroked the damp blue-purple hair off her forehead, nodding. Turned to Sylvia Healer, saying,


    "We''ll move her out to Mum''s garden. My lady calls for the sky, and sky she shall have."


    "Yes, Milord," responded the cross-elf¡­ a shy redhead with whom he''d once had a brief, joyful fling. "As long as the wards are set and the watchers in place, indoors or out matters not."


    Working together, Val and Sylvia moved Lady Alfea outside to the garden, using spells to lift her and ease the pain of travail. Valerian tore off his robe and cast it aside. More flexible now in just breeches and shirt, he knelt down to sit on his knees and his heels, not quite touching the mosaic patio. Lady Alfea was settled so that her head and torso rested against his thighs. They clasped hands and she gazed up at him; no longer in pain, but a little afraid.


    Grandmother Alyanara set the wards herself, pacing the figure as she called on the Tarandahl guardian spirits and She-of-the-Flowers. The goddess manifested as a soft, spring-like breeze, wafting a swirl of pale blossoms.


    Lerendar took up a sentry post at the north of that newly drawn sigil; blade and fish-spear ready in either hand. Granddad stalked the perimeter, having sent Keldaran and Elisindara to safety. He blazed with Firelord''s might, no longer quite Galadin. The tattoo shone clear through his clothing and armor, flickering heart''s-blood red.


    His sword keened aloud like a hive of assemblers, glowing painfully bright. All of this, Valerian took in with an elf''s skill at following multiple threads. Trusted his family to handle basic protection. His task was here, and equally vital.


    "Courage, Fina," he said softly. "You''ll finally meet little Bean."


    Somehow or rather, her ugly small dog had got in through the wards, and now wheezed its way up to Alfea''s side. Val let it stay. She released his hand briefly, caressing the dog and murmuring,


    "Hullo, Pudgy. I''m so glad you''re here, too!"


    Meanwhile the healer set up a magical screen, hiding what happened below from Alfea and Val. For his own part, the young elf-lord kept talking, keeping his wife''s mind occupied with this and that. Foolishness, most of it. The sort of nonsense that tender young couples are prone to. Made her laugh a few times with private jokes and fond memories, while subtly lending her strength. Little Bean was demanding, and drew on her, hard. Val made up the difference, keeping her conscious and calm.


    "Boy or girl, do you think?" Alfea wondered. She wasn''t in pain but could feel all the twisting and motion inside of her.


    "Mmm¡­ I''ll say¡­ female. Too many males in this family, already. Surely Bean has more sense than to add to the glut."


    Alfea giggled, then gave a sudden sharp gulp, squeezing his hands white-knuckle tight.


    "That¡­ that one was very strong, Van. But¡­ I shall say boy." (Though she secretly longed for a girl.) "And¡­ if Bean and I win, we shall all sail to the arch for a picnic on Sea-Horse."


    Val smiled, not minding those half-crushed fingers.


    "I see your sailing trip and raise you a child''s Crown-Game set, made of¡­ oh¡­ mithral, amber and pearl."


    He''d been trying to teach her to play, and a new set (for Bean, of course) would be useful.


    Then Alfea shuddered, closing her eyes as a last, awful spasm rocked her slight form. There was nothing to fear, he told himself. No gap through which darkness might enter to claim their young child. The healer was skilled, his family was present, while Val poured his own heart-strength and manna into Alfea and Bean. Not a thing had been left to chance.


    As he sent his own life-force into her trembling body, Alfea strengthened again. She opened her eyes to look up at him. Then, half out of her mind, the beautiful air-sprite gasped,


    "I loved you back then, too¡­ I thought¡­ you were so kind to us¡­ Beanie and me¡­ and then you found Pudgy."


    (Which was true. Sort of. He''d won the bow-legged monster at Serrio''s fair. Had immediately thrust it onto his cooing young bride.)


    Valerian smiled again. His hands were too numb to squeeze back, but he teased her a bit, saying,


    "That was then. Now, I shall only be third in your heart, behind Master Pudge and Little Bean. You shall have to pencil me in for engagements. ''Twoday, first watch, second candle-mark, brunch with What''s-his-name.'' "


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    She giggled, relaxing as that final great spasm receded.


    "Silly," she teased in return. "It''s What''s-his- face."


    Then¡­ they both heard it at once¡­ came a new sound; the fussing cry of a baby. They could not yet see their child but detected a flurry of sudden activity. The birth cord was cut by Lady Alyanara, wielding a bright little knife and all of her strongest spells, making two lives from one.


    Next, the baby was cleansed and blessed, wrapped up in fresh linen and shimmering cloth-of-dawn.


    "A little maid," announced Sylvia, handing their infant over the screen. "She has chosen the path of her mother."


    Alfea reached weakly for Bean, smiling and crying at the same time. Valerian held the baby so that his wife could look into her red and blinking small face. She looked like an unfolding bud, he thought; still crumpled and rosy. Her hair was a mix of wispy blonde curls and pale golden down. Her ears were quite pointed¡­ and she was hungry. Very. Now. Feed. (Like a newly hatched griffin, he thought.)


    He guided the baby to her mother''s breast, then summoned the tiniest spark of holy flame. Looked like a pale red star at the tip of his forefinger. Touched it to the top of his daughter''s head, giving her over to Firelord.


    Daughter. He had a child. An entire new person, formed of himself and his air-sprite wife. Alfea wanted no nursemaids. She intended to raise and feed Little Bean, by herself.


    (¡­for seven long years, without Valerian, for he would be going to Karellon. There, he would serve in the Imperial Honor Guard; very far from all that he knew and loved.)


    Later, when Alfea and Bean had been moved to their rooms, Val went out to the garden, wobbling like a colt from exhaustion. It was well past noon, and the day had grown chilly, but he hadn''t the strength to summon warm clothes. Stood there in a shirt and breeches, shivering; watching hawks and griffins train, high overhead.


    Lerendar met him out on the patio, pulling bread, cheese and fruit from his faerie pockets (packed full, for his brother was famously always prepared).


    "Thank you," grunted Val, around a big mouthful of bread.


    Lerendar laughed at him.


    "I know what it''s like," said his older brother, who''d stood watch for the full three hours, just as Val had done at the birth of Zara.


    "Lando, I''ve a request to make of you," started Valerian, after draining his brother''s magical wine flask. Again. "I have to leave in the spring¡­"


    "Guard duty," said Lerendar, nodding. As Father''s first heir, he''d not been sent off, but somebody had to go.


    "Exactly. Alfea and Bean will stay here, where they are safe and defended. I would like to ask you to look after them, please."


    Lerendar shifted his stance, seeming a little disturbed.


    "I cannot move up here, away from my own woman and child, Valno," he said. "They''re¡­"


    "No need," Val assured him, starting on more bread and cheese. He was very much drained, still, but too proud to sit down. "Fina and Bean will¡­ with your permission¡­ move in with you and Beatriz. Zara would probably love to play with a baby, and Bea can help Alfea with mother-tasks. She will not engage nursemaids, either, so she''ll need all the guidance Bea can offer."


    Lerendar grinned at him, swinging from gloom to cheerful relief in that brisk, sudden way of his.


    "Of course, we''ll help," he said, reaching over to muss the top of Val''s head. "I''ll ask, first, for the look of things, but I''m sure that Bee will say yes."


    Quite how he got there, neither Val nor Lerendar saw, but all at once Lord Galadin stood at their side. Weary, but very alert. Reached for some of Lerendar''s hovering food before remarking,


    "That went better than it had any right to, considering the chaotic outburst we''d just cleared up."


    Val and his brother exchanged wary glances, wondering how to respond. Both of them bowed respectfully. Then,


    "That''s very true, My Lord," ventured the younger Tarandahl. "But, it was a good thing that everyone was already there when Alfea''s travail began."


    "Right. How about the whole story, this time?" said his grandfather. "I am not seeking evidence against your mother, Boy, but if there is any chance that something was released, this soon after Longest Night, I need to find and destroy it."


    Val cleared his throat nervously.


    "Sire¡­ Mother did nothing wrong. She¡­ was just scrying my thoughts to learn more about the druid."


    "That grubby wood-elf?" asked Galadin, making a sandwich of¡­ pretty much everything.


    "Yes, Granddad. Him. I wanted advice, because he had made some troubling statements¡­ so I went to Mother."


    "Hmm¡­" grunted their grandfather. Maybe thinking. Possibly just with his mouth full. Then, "Go speak with him, and leave open a passive link. I will not listen so much as scry for intent. Did your mother sense anything wrong?"


    Valerian considered, then shook his head, no.


    "She said that he is more powerful than he chooses to let on, and that¡­" (carefully, with this next bit) "...there is much I cannot, or choose not, to see."


    And that, somewhere, some shade of himself was utterly lost and alone. Paralyzed.


    Galadin drummed the fingers of one hand against his tooled leather sword belt.


    "I see. A light word to her, through you, Valerian. Stop. There will be no further spell-craft from her until after the baby comes, or I will have her locked into dream-state. Understood?"


    Val inclined his head miserably; stuck with the job of bearing bad news.


    "Yes, My Lord. I will tell her."


    His grandfather''s gaze remained stern for a few heartbeats longer. Then, the high lord relaxed.


    "I welcome the birth of my latest great-grandchild, Valerian. This should be a day of celebration. Let us be certain it is."


    Galadin clasped his grandsons'' shoulders, leaving the barest hint of a link in Val and Lerendar, both. Then, lifting his hand in salute, he stepped back and faded away.


    The Tarandahl heirs looked at each other. There could be no open discussions, now. Not with their grandfather possibly listening in.


    "Tell you what," said Lerendar, after a moment. "I''ll go to Mum and deliver Granddad''s message. You go turf up your druid and have that talk. The sooner we get our charges handled¡­"


    "...The sooner we''re free. Makes sense," agreed Val. Then, as a fresh, worried thought struck him, "Is there anything special I need to be a good father?" he asked.


    Lerendar pondered that one for a moment, finally replying,


    "I think the best way to love your kid is to love their mother, whatever comes up. Bea will age. Mortals do. I can slow that, not stop it completely¡­ but I know where my heart belongs, and I am content."


    ¡­And he''d throw the high seat away with both hands, as a consequence. Val impulsively hugged his brother, swearing,


    "I am going to Karellon, Lando. There, I shall do something of such consequence as to earn His Majesty''s favor, and a boon. I shall ask that mortal consorts be given full rights and entitlements, so that you can inherit Ilirian, without losing your family."


    For a heartbeat or two, Lerendar seemed unsure what to say. Then¡­


    "That is a noble offer, and you have my thanks, just for wanting to try, but don''t risk yourself or stir up any trouble at court, Valno. Just come back in seven years, safe and well. We don''t need anything else."


    Val took a deep breath, saying one thing while plotting another.


    "When," he protested, "have you ever known me to do something rash?"

 Part Four, chapter seven

    7


    He had only a month''s worth of memories, nearly all of them hellish. Thirty-some days of captivity, torment and servitude. Pretty thin stuff on which to dream, so he kept jolting awake; not very rested, at all.


    The briar thicket and tiny spring that they''d found were shelter of sorts, but he was restless. Felt that he had to keep moving west. The masked animal had made a nest for itself in a tangle of branches and quivering leaves, overhead. It preferred to rest during the daytime, so at first, he did, too.


    No reason not to. He could see as well in the dark as in dayshine. Just, without color and some loss of depth. His senses of hearing and smell were nearly as good as the marten''s, though. That helped.


    Three days they stayed in that thicket of briar and scrub oak. Gaining strength, foraging and (him) filling bottles and flasks up with spring water. Nameless went hunting each night, along with crunching up insects and apple cores.


    The spring bubbled out of a broken grey stone, providing a cup or two of clear, icy water each day. It took a while to fill up his assorted containers and put them away in those magical pockets, so he did some scouting, between times.


    Found that he climbed well, not bending those brittle, meshed branches very much. Likely because he could alter his weight, even floating a bit, when he wanted to. Anyhow, he got high enough to look out, hood pulled low to hide the gold flash of his hair and pale skin. Nameless looked, too; forepaws dug into the cloth of his cloak, red eyes glowing.


    It was late afternoon, and what they saw wasn''t good. There were patches of wood here and there, but most of that rolling landscape consisted of rocky scrub. There were great piles of rusted armor, as well, though what monstrous warrior might have discarded such gear, he couldn''t imagine.


    Shook his head, saying,


    "There should be forest here. All the way to the mountains, like an ocean of green."


    Nameless chattered a response, then shifted to using him as a platform for catching beetles and stingers. He didn''t mind, until a falcon took notice and swooped through the air to investigate. Then, he pushed the lithe marten to safety inside. Ducked lower, himself, leaving the frustrated raptor screaming and circling high overhead.


    "There is a city, or should be," he whispered to Nameless, there in the gold-spangled shade. "It is built of mighty trees that people have hollowed to live in¡­ and a big crater with caves in its walls." Wasn''t there?


    He shook his head again, not sure of anything. Just that he had to keep going, and that this half-dreamt city was as good a target as any. Nameless cared not at all; content to stay or move on, so long as the hunting and foraging were good. Clever creature, it brought him dead voles and lizards to store up as well, having worked out that he could cache food.


    They left the next night after sundown, once the last bottle was filled, and he''d stripped all the bushes of bay-nuts and berries. Packed everything up and set off, with a swollen moon lighting their way. There were hints of a road¡­ scattered cobbles, a few badly worn milestones¡­ but no indication that anyone had come this way for a very long time.


    It was rough, broken country; trouble for anyone forced to just walk. Ravines, rocky outcrops and patches of reeking hot mud checkered the landscape. Some of these he avoided by going around. (Nice thing about not having any particular place to go? Didn''t matter how you got there. Pick a direction.)


    That which he couldn''t edge past¡­ like a long gap filled with brushwood and thorns¡­ he lifted clean over, pulling himself hand over hand along the swaying top branches. There were coverless open patches, too. These he got through by seeing himself on the other side, then willing movement. Forgot to bring Nameless, the first time and had to go back. There were too many owls and other, deadlier creatures patrolling that velvet-dark sky. Attempting to scurry across on its own, Nameless would have been killed.


    If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    He wanted to investigate one of those rusted-out armor piles, waiting until they came to one that was sprawled out alongside their path. It proved even larger up close than he''d thought. The giant was mostly buried, leaving just a battered head, part of one shoulder and a massive, three-fingered hand on the surface. One of its filmy glass eyes held an old bird''s nest, while the rest of its body was pocked by corrosion and riddled with vines. Looked more like a huge broken statue than armor, from this vantage¡­ but there was still power there.


    Ancient. Cold. Not at all natural, he thought. Something that didn''t belong. He would have gone closer, thinking to peer inside, but then Nameless screeched its clattering bark. Leaping and snapping, the marten drove him away from that rusted colossus, into safe cover.


    He raised both hands, palm outward, backing into a tangle of pine and low scrub.


    "Peace," he whispered. "I am not such a fool as all that. If you feel there is danger, I''ll keep a safe distance."


    What happened next was more felt than heard. Something terribly old and corrupt, incredibly powerful¡­ called; producing a low vibration that summoned things for hundreds of miles all around. Not him in particular. Anything at all that was vile and confused, luring them north.


    Against his will, he found himself starting to walk, but once more Nameless was there; screeching and biting in sudden, absolute frenzy. There was trouble, then, because the pull of that summons was horribly strong, causing the spiraling mark on his chest to swirl and pulse with his own racing heartbeat, prodding him northward.


    Other creatures were already moving, crossing the land in rustling tides, or blocking the stars overhead. Nameless bit down on his hand and hung on, clearing the fog from his head. Then that giant armor revived; first sparking and creaking, then starting to speak.


    Not any words that he recognized; weird squeals and beeps with a few tinny phrases mixed in. The same sounds over and over. There were glowing symbols, as well. Not green, like the witch''s sigils. Red, composed of cascading circles and dashes that drifted in broken sheets over landscape, creatures and plants.


    Backing further into the thicket, he pulled Nameless in under his cloak. Watched as the rusted giant repeatedly surged and sparked. It was trying to rise, causing a minor landslide of rocks and dirt.


    ''There is nothing here,'' he thought urgently. ''Nothing to see but branches. Nothing to hear but the wind. No scent but boiling mud.''


    The spiraling mark crept like a serpent under his skin, burning with sudden cold. Bad enough, but then something burst in on them, crashing down through the branches to land with a thump at his back. He pivoted, sword in hand, meaning to strike before the creature could move or betray his presence.


    Saw a squat, ugly goblinoid with bat-like ribbed ears and mismatched teeth. Lunging, he drove his blade home with all the power he had, slicing through leathery armor and flesh, snapping its spine. Blood spattered. The creature hissed once in shock or in pain, doubling over his blade. Then the sword''s frost magic struck, sending spears of ice through the monster''s body, freezing it solid before he''d yanked out the weapon.


    Next came two more; one a tall, hunched-over lizard thing wearing little more than a brace of long knives. He fought the darklings with fire, lightning and steel; aiming for short, silent scuffles and giving no quarter. Fortunately, nothing was hunting him. Just stumbled in accidentally. Didn''t make the fights any easier, though.


    He got a deep, poisoned gash on his spell hand, and a ringing blow to the head before that summoning call ebbed, and the creatures stopped coming. Maybe ten yards away, that giant armor gave one final clattering lurch. Then it grew still. Its glowing symbols faded at last, leaving their memory burned on his mind.


    There were no further attacks. He stood waiting a while to be sure; one hand at his sword hilt, the other one outlined in crackling flame. Only later, after sunrise, did he relax his guard. Poured water onto his face and dabbed at his wounds, but the poisoned gash wouldn''t heal. He was going to need help, very soon.


    Utterly numb, he dropped to the leaf-littered ground beside Nameless, who was joyfully crunching a rat. The monsters he''d slain lay stacked up nearby, frozen and gaping in death. At least Nameless was happy.


    "We''d better go on," he said to the marten. "And from now on, we travel by day."


    The real problem¡­ that the call he''d felt was meant to raise up the servants of darkness¡­ and that it had drawn him, as well¡­ he had no immediate answer for.


    The spiral mark had stopped moving, at least; seeming to fade behind that carved flame. Surely¡­ fire wouldn''t come at his call, earth would not answer, if he were evil. Would it?


    He just didn''t know, and had no one to ask, unless¡­


    "Westward, there is a city of people who live in the woods. We will find answers and healing there," he said firmly, more to convince himself than because he believed it. "All we have to do is keep walking. We''ll make it. I promise."


    He set off shortly afterward with Nameless riding his shoulder; searching for something he very much hoped would be there.

 Part Four, chapter eight

    8


    He''d rather have faced giant spiders or dripping cave slime than his sorceress mother in a foul mood, but Lerendar kept his word. Tracked mum down in less than two candle-marks by searching all of her usual haunts.


    Found her at last in the bubble; a perfectly spherical chamber set high in the eastern wall. There were two means of access. One, a magical lifting disk set into the passage, below. The second, a winding tunnel that curved its way down from the roof garden. He hadn''t slid down that passage for literal ages, being too broad in the shoulders and chest to slip through. Also, just¡­ he hated tunnels. Would go anywhere in the world except underground.


    For that reason, Lerendar took the lift, into a very familiar space. The bubble''s east side was translucently thin but extremely hard; shielding its occupants while making them seem to float high in the air. You could make out the village and lake from this vantage, along with part of the Huntwood and sacred grove.


    Just the right size for giants, the chamber had required a great deal of re-tooling to suit its new tenants. Lerendar stepped off the magical lift at the nadir of a great open space, sensing his mother, but not at first seeing her. Too many floating paths, drifting platforms and spell-bordered ponds in the way.


    Turned out that Lady Elisindara was very near the bubble''s apex, on a gently circling garden patch. Lerendar craned his head upward, sighed, and then started along those looping trails and cascading stones. (It was exercise, at least. Bea was forever after him about staying in shape while home from patrol. Of course, he had his own ideas about ways to burn off the latest banquet, but there was only so much time you could spend in the bedroom.)


    When he''d finally climbed to Mum''s level, Lerendar had to wait for a filmy bridge to manifest, forming a path of glittering motes from his platform to hers. The hundred-fifty-foot drop beneath him wasn''t overly troubling, because Starloft protected those of true blood. He would not be permitted to plunge to his death. Just, you know, collapse from exhaustion.


    On reaching her flowery perch, Lerendar bowed. Would have spoken, but she beat him to it.


    "If you would practice your levitation," sniped his mother, "You would not need to creep along like an insect or servant."


    The young elf-lord colored slightly.


    "I''ve tried, Mum. You know that," he objected, not quite meeting her impatient gaze. "I do not have your gift for magic¡­ or Valerian''s, either."


    "A short stay in the fey wild would soon alter that¡­but I see that you''d prefer to remain helpless and numb," she said. Sitting beside her, his father Keldaran said nothing at all.


    Lerendar shook his blond head, still not meeting her gaze.


    "I''m a warrior, Mum. Magic just doesn''t work the same way for me. I''ve tried."


    His mother made a small, frustrated noise, but let the matter drop. She was seated on a bench of carved jade, surrounded by twining roses and fluttering birds. Snowy hair loose, robe unbelted, less pregnant than she had been by three months, at least. Whatever she''d done¡­ whatever spell she''d cast on his brother¡­ had come at a cost to her baby. Keldaran stared into space, meanwhile, seeming completely entranced.


    "Magic not being your strength, I assume that you''ve come at someone else''s behest. True?" she prodded.


    Lerendar nodded once, growing concerned. He had stood sentry at the protection sigil''s northern point, warding off hungering spirits; keeping them out of his brother''s wife and newly born child. Not one of those swirling, skull-faced horrors had gotten past him. But, what if¡­


    "Yes, Milady," he responded, retreating into formality. There was no softness in Mother today. "Lord Galadin¡­" Commands? Orders? Requests? "Bans further magic on your part, until after the baby''s arrival."


    Her jewel-blue eyes narrowed, but Lady Elisindara nodded, saying,


    "I expected as much. Very well. The eavesdropping tyrant shall have his own way." Then, a little speculatively, she tilted her head to one side. Changing subject and mood, Elisindara mused, "You are not much at all like your brother, whom I have gotten to know rather well. A pity you''ve so little magic. Your father, either¡­ but what cannot be helped must be dealt with, I suppose."


    ¡­what if something had crept into Mother, instead?


    "Ah. The coin drops into the cup, at last," she mocked. "Be at ease, little elf. You will not remember this conversation, nor will your mother or grandfather. I have not the strength for great deeds. Not after so long¡­ but here, time is my ally, as is your people''s utter complacency. Go, now. Tell your lord exactly what he most longs to hear. Spin a tale of my deep, abject sorrow¡­ and keep your brother and that filthy druid away, or lose all that you love, in the cruelest way possible."


    XXXXXXXXXXXX


    Quite how he left Mum''s retreat, he didn''t know, but shortly afterward, Lerendar found himself striding along the great frost bridge of the Main Gallery. He was headed home, having (he supposed) already spoken to Granddad. Having told Galadin¡­ something.


    The vine-covered walls and tiled roof of his compound lay off to the right, down a path of floating rocks that Zara and Bea had painted with bright cartoon flowers. Only the family could see them, or turn off the bridge there, as the worried high-elf did now.


    Two guardian statues flanked an ornate mithral gate. Shaped like griffins, the rock-crystal beasts lowered their heads in salute. Lerendar paused long enough to polish the spot between both sets of crystalline ears, but with much less attention to detail than usual.


    "All well?" he asked, getting the day''s events¡­ deliveries, Bea''s shopping trip, the tutor''s arrival¡­ fed into his mind, in response. One of them pecked at his cloak; pulling something off of the cloth and crunching it into small shards. A mage trace?


    "Double the wards," he commanded, adding, "I want the walls patrolled, along with the space overhead."


    They clashed their beaks in assent, then magically divided themselves to form seven more griffins. One of these took to the air, very agile for a creature of animate quartz. The rest began circling the compound; evenly spaced; supernaturally alert.


    Only then did Lerendar open the gate and step through. Outside, the barrier was formed of dark stone and rustling ivy. Inside, he entered a garden of tropical blossoms and fruit. It was bigger in area than the walls should contain, full of fishponds, butterflies, songbirds and an entire, child-sized play village.


    "Papa!" shrieked Zara, bursting out of a thatched little bakery. "Papa, you''re here!"


    She ran up the flagstone path with her arms outflung; all streaming dark hair and merry blue eyes.


    "What?" He pretended to be surprised. "Who let a gnome into my garden? Better throw it back out, before it multiplies."


    Lerendar bent to scoop up his daughter, first tossing her high and then catching her.


    "Again!" she laughed. "Papa, throw me again! Higher, this time!" (She liked to see over the walls.)


    Lerendar obliged, too relieved to object. Got her calmed down eventually; partly with cuddles, partly with sweets from his faerie pockets. By that time, Beatriz had come speeding out of the mansion, followed by Speckles, her cat.


    Slinging Zara over one shoulder like a giggling feed sack, Lerendar strode up the path to meet his beautiful mortal consort. Hauled her into a one-armed embrace, all at once weak with relief.


    "You''re early," she exclaimed, between many deep kisses and Zara''s cries of "Ewww! Yucky! Stop it, you two!" (Around that little martinet, moms and dads were barely allowed to hold hands, much less kiss or embrace.)


    Bea leaned away from him, slightly. She squinted up into his face, her honey-dark skin warm with blushes and love.


    "Renny, what is it? Is everything all right?" (She''d called him ''Milord'' the prescribed manner once already, first thing in the morning. After that, it was pet names, or simply ''Lerendar''.)


    He pulled her head against his shoulder, kissing her curly black hair, trying to drive away worry and fear.


    "It''s nothing," he said. "Just¡­" (A roof caving in. Howling undead breaching the wards. The screams of terrified children.) "I stood sentry for the birth of Valerian''s child. There were¡­" he floundered a bit, ending lamely with, "a few disturbances. Nothing too serious, but I wanted to check in on you and the scamp."


    "We''re fine, Papa!" boasted his daughter. "I got Speckles on guard duty!"


    Bea kissed her little girl''s forehead. Laughing at Lerendar, she said,


    "Baby, nothing could get past all the wards you''ve put up¡­ and Speckles, of course." Then, swinging around to a happier topic, "How''d Fee come through? Is she all right? And the little one?"


    "Both safe and well," he assured her, shifting his grip on his woman and child, so they could start back up to the mansion together. Sighing, he fished a gold coin out of a faerie pocket. "Little girl," he admitted, handing the gold piece to Beatriz.


    "Toldja!" she crowed. "It''s all in the way she was carrying, Renny. My mother''s¡­ mom was a chemist. I know these things. Never bet against Mrs. Lordship. Not when it comes to babies, potions or medicine."


    Her people were long dead. Her city, not even a scorch mark or scatter of bricks. He and Zara were all she had left, and she loved him. (For not killing her brother that time in the village, if nothing else.) It had been many hundreds of years, but to Bea, her family''s love and their presence were fresh. He kept it that way, so she wouldn''t grieve overmuch.


    "Talking of my brother," he said, as the servants bowed them into the main hall. "You know that Valerian is leaving soon¡­"


    Bea nodded glumly, taking their daughter so that Lerendar could hand his cloak to a half-elven footman.


    "That''s going to be hard on poor Fee, so soon after the baby," she remarked.


    Lerendar nodded, murmuring,


    "Thank you, Loryk. Carry on." Then, "Exactly, Bee, which is why he and I were thinking that she could come here, with the new¡­"


    "Yes! Oh, yes! That would be wonderful!" cried Beatriz, causing small Zara to bounce up and down in her arms. "Oh, Renny, a friend, right here in the house! Not that¡­ I mean, you''re a friend, too, but¡­"


    "But not the same kind, and often away," he supplied, smiling a little. "I understand. I want you to be happy here, Bee."


    Thought about mentioning Val''s other offer but didn''t. Not yet. Too much air castle and sky-whip in that one. So, no wild promises. But protect them, keep them well and content, he absolutely would.


    This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    "Stay safe," she whispered, burrowing suddenly into his arms. "That''s our happiness, Lerendar. That''s all me and Scamp really need."


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Meanwhile, Val waited until Katina Nanny arrived before setting off. She came in through a servant''s door, though he would have preferred that she use the front entrance. He''d long since given her permission, but she would not. She just never would.


    Once Katina bustled inside, basket slung over one arm and faerie pockets brimming, Valerian ported over to greet her.


    "Good afternoon, Nana," he said (quietly, so as not to wake Fee and the baby). "Thank you for coming."


    "Of course, Milord!" she replied, frowning a little in mock injury. "Where else would I be, when my dear one''s child has been born?"


    "Enjoying yourself. Relaxing. Doing anything in the world besides caring for me," he said, feeling guilty and glad, together. Embraced her fiercely, unconsciously stroking the grey from her copper hair and the faint lines of age from her face. Katina had been the nearest thing he''d had to a mother, from infancy to early adolescence (about seventy years), and he didn''t forget.


    "Fee means to nurse the baby, herself, but she can certainly use some help with Bean while she''s recovering, and¡­" Val shrugged, taking Katina''s hands in his own. "There is no one I trust more than you."


    The split-oak basket still hovered in midair nearby, swaying slightly from its sudden release. Katina squeezed her surviving boy''s hands, then let go to retrieve the drifting container.


    "Tara''s sent up some treats," she said lightly. "Too much for the little one, yet, but she thought that Her Ladyship might have a wee bite to help build her strength."


    Val was already investigating, not being above the odd sweet, himself. Found biscuits and scones, some of them dipped in kelab, some of them baked with dried berries. And all of them (he had to sample each kind) were tasty.


    "This is good," he said with his mouth full. "So is this. Anyhow¡­" (Paused to swallow and conjure up daybrew for he and his former nurse.) "Fee and Bean will be moving into Lerendar''s compound before I leave for Karellon. I hope that you will stay on with them, Nana. Two children at once is enough to try anyone''s patience to murder. At least, if they''re elves."


    Katina kept a mostly straight face.


    "I remember," she said. "Though you were a delight, and I''ll not let anyone say any different." Her own son, Tam, had shot up like a tree and then left for adventure at twenty, when Val had barely been named. "And yes, I''ll be glad to stay on."


    Valerian bent to kiss her cheek, then stepped away.


    "That eases my heart, but I wish you''d accept being raised to the status of family."


    Katina looked outraged. Shaking her head, she snorted,


    "Me, sitting to meat with the great ones? Can you imagine? I''d muck something up straightaway, best you believe it. No, Dearest. Reston made that mistake and went grey in a month. Too much bother and fuss about clothes and duties and which fork to use. Gods shield me from all of it!"


    Valerian laughed.


    "Well, then, I''ve something to threaten you with," he teased gently. "Take two days off a week and shop for yourself¡­ including luxuries¡­ or it''s a duchess you''ll be. My oath on it!"


    He was in a very good mood, spring seeming forever away and everything sorted, when Reston turned up to meet him on the flame bridge. The glowering half-elf had brought Gildyr along but... how changed! No more antlers, elk''s teeth or fringed vest. No muddy boots or wool cloak,


    The druid (you''d have worked hard to guess his profession, now) was clean and well dressed; no longer smelling of forest and road. His brown hair had been combed out and plaited with silver thread. His nails were trimmed and buffed to a shine, and his clothing was simple, yet elegant. In short, he looked like a wood-elf ambassador, instead of a wandering beggar. There was a certain amount of tension between him and Reston, though.


    "That may have been the first bath he''s had since the midwife sponged him off," grunted the half-elf.


    "I bathe," Gildyr protested.


    "In puddles," snapped Reston. Then, shifting his attention back to Val, "I rejoice at the birth of your daughter, Nephew, and I leave this¡­ chewer of leaves¡­ in your custody, having read him the Act of Defiance."


    Right. Recalling what Katina had said about the woes and stress of ennoblement, Valerian didn''t laugh. Instead,


    "You should take some time away from your duties, Milord," he suggested. "Go fishing. Try to recover your center, a bit."


    But his uncle just shook his grey head.


    "No time. The sea-elves have sent yet another ambassador about that accursed betrothal. A prince, this time. They will not be put off for much longer."


    Gildyr was owl-eyed with interest, but Reston changed the subject, aware that he''d hinted at secrets before a mere visitor.


    "At any rate, good luck to you, Valerian, and the blessings of all the gods on your wife and new child. We''ll celebrate soon."


    He placed a hand on Val''s shoulder, gave him a friendly shake and then stepped from the flame bridge onto a traveling disk.


    "Betrothal?" probed Gildyr, once Reston was gone.


    "Long and convoluted tale. Destined to become one of the forty-eight epics," groused Valerian, starting for the griffin aerie. "It is ordained by a very old treaty, but there have been difficulties." None of which he was prepared to discuss in public. Increasing his pace, he said,


    "I intend to feed and train my griffin. You shall have my attention throughout the walk and activity, Druid."


    "Gildyr," said the fellow, sounding dejected. "My name is Gildyr, Milord. But I''ll waste no more time hoping for friendship. I''m here because¡­ do you remember the coming of Oberyn? When he lit up the whole sky and the heavens rang like a harp?"


    Valerian slowed his stride, considering. Then,


    "There was peace and joy, I think. As¡­ one experiences between dreams and waking, when everything''s possible and nothing''s begun yet."


    Gildyr nodded, tagging along behind Val. Couldn''t help himself. Hauled a wood hairpin out of a faerie pocket and then twisted his long brown hair back into a sloppy topknot.


    "That''s it exactly, Milord," he agreed. "Only it lasted a thousand years, in this plane. One thousand years of utter perfection, in which nothing moved, nothing changed, nothing happened. The perfect, unending day."


    Valerian frowned, signaling Gildyr to turn off of that fiery bridge and onto a cascade of harnessed water. They did not swim, but walked up its braided and tumbling length. Carefully.


    "Surely a thousand years of anything would grow stale," ventured the high-elf. "And, without change, how can anything live but the gods?"


    "That''s the thing," replied Gildyr, accepting a hand up onto the village-sized platform that housed the Tarandahl griffin aerie. "Perfection can''t last, Milord. Sooner or later, a leaf falls, or the breeze begins blowing¡­ any small thing. Doesn''t matter¡­ but then you have total perfection, plus one slightly flawed day. Then, there''s another small change. The sun rising higher at noon, say¡­"


    "Perfection, plus two flawed days," mused Valerian, pausing to return the aerie master''s salute and greeting. She was scarred and missing a finger from the last hatching, but healing fast, and she kept the aerie and landings in perfect order.


    Bowing deeply to Val and very slightly to Gildyr (who by this time had re-donned his antlers), the griffin-master said,


    "I have taken the liberty of bridling Sawyer for you, Milord. He has not been fed yet, so that he''ll have ample reason to listen."


    "I thank you, Martina," said Valerian. "Your work with him has been much more effective than mine."


    She blushed, bowing again to hide it.


    "They are beautiful, fearsome beasts and I love them," she said, unscarred eye twinkling. "This one will bear you loyally and well, Milord. See? He has heard your voice and cries out."


    There was indeed a sort of gurgling, bawling screech coming from one of the roomier lairs. Val smiled at the druid''s open interest.


    "It does rather take one, the first time," admitted the high-elf. Even their rank, hot-metal smell was good, to him. "Come. This way, Gildyr¡­ and mind your fingers. They''re almost invisibly fast, and they bite."


    The druid followed his lordship into a soaring, cave-pocked stone tower, hands shoved deep in his pockets. Saw a spiraling series of lairs with metal-cage doors; each of them floored in stone chips and logs. Each lair featured a tree-trunk sized post with platforms for lounging and perching. Most were occupied.


    The creatures themselves were noisy and sharp smelling; with all ages from hatchling to young adult represented. Lord Valerian led him to a lair near the tower''s base. Inside it, a partly fledged griffin chick stood on its hind legs, eagle feet grasping the bars, ears swiveled forward, dragon-tail lashing.


    Its wings seemed downy and smallish, yet, though Gildyr was no judge of griffin-flesh. The fluff that covered the avian parts of its body was grey with black speckles. Its sprouting feathers shone burnished brown-gold. Its lion hide still held a few tawny cub-spots, but the dragon tail glittered with adamant scales; a sharp-edged weapon, already.


    Gildyr stared at the chick, feeling unwell. Gazing into that snapping, bawling young monster''s gold eyes made him suddenly dizzy.


    "I¡­ if you don''t mind, Val, I''ll step outside for a bit. It''s¡­ rather close in here."


    Valerian didn''t argue, assigning one of the grooms to see Gildyr on out. Griffins weren''t for everyone, and Sawyer was particularly strong-willed.


    He donned thick gauntlets, padded armor and a face mask (because his wife didn''t need the sight of him with his cheek laid open by a monster''s love slash, again).


    Then, Valerian unbarred the lair and took hold of Sawyer''s bridle. There was a cross-piece to keep the chick''s hooked beak from closing entirely, but it leapt and clawed at him, anyhow; about the size of a hunting dog with razor talons and lion''s claws.


    "Hullo, Chicken-legs," said Val, laughing as Sawyer tried climbing him.


    Cinda was present all of a sudden, having melted right out of the shadows. Having a gyrfalcon, herself, she knew about birds and their variant crossbreeds.


    "Don''t let him do anything now that you won''t be comfortable with, when he''s five times this size, My Lord," she snapped. "Once they''ve got used to something, there''s no going back."


    And the beasts were resistant to magic, making them a real challenge to control. Start as you mean to go on, he thought, nodding. Martina stood by with a barrel of meat chunks. Kine and venison, mostly, with some goat thrown in for variety. No horse. Not ever.


    Sawyer was hungry, and eager to play; allowing Val to lead him around and launch him for fluttering practice leaps, in return for big handfuls of meat. After that, outdoors, they switched to ''fetch'', with Valerian tossing and suspending targets in midair for Sawyer to snap at or strike with his tail.


    Gildyr moved further away, looking distinctly uncomfortable. As a guest, his feelings mattered, only there was more training to do and no way to rush it. Needing assistance, Valerian turned to the ranger.


    "Go and speak with the druid," he said to Cinda, spinning alertly away from the beast''s sudden lunge. "Divert him, if you please, before he faints dead away."


    The ranger''s perpetual scowl deepened.


    "You are my charge, Valerian, not that wretched tree-lover."


    "Maybe¡­ unf¡­ so, but if I am distracted with worry for Gildyr, I cannot¡­ unh¡­ pay proper attention to Sawyer." And considering that the chick was now upright, playfully attempting to grapple and disembowel Val, this was a serious matter.


    Cinda was already moving. Once convinced, the ranger did what was needful. Griffins and Val in one place made her nervous, but he would insist on training his pet monster, rather than sensibly riding a horse.


    "You, Shagbark!" she snarled, stalking over to Gildyr. "What ails you?! How are you best diverted?"


    "What?" blurted the wilting druid, looking surprised. "I, um¡­" Had become a griffin, once, to his cost. "I was¡­" Torn apart by another winged beast, not unlike Sawyer. "That is¡­"


    Cinda snorted like a mother doe facing wolves.


    "Druid, if that moron is injured because my attention is taken up minding you, I will rip you to bloody shreds, resurrect your worthless hide and then do it all over again, from toes upward. Pull yourself together!"


    "D- Diversion? Um¡­ joke," he gasped. "You could tell me a joke or a riddle."


    Sawyer had bounded into the air, this time managing to stay aloft for a full ten-count before collapsing into his playmate''s arms. Cinda dragged her eyes away with a nearly audible rip.


    "Why is the ocean near the shore?" she demanded, gritting her teeth as she twisted away from a shower of blood.


    "What? The ocean? Well¡­" Gildyr looked momentarily confused. "Wherever it is, there''s the shore, you see, so¡­"


    "Wrong. Because it likes to sunbathe. Did you hear the one about the half-orc wench and the pine tree?"


    "Nooo¡­" admitted Gildyr, sure he was going to regret it.


    "She finally got enough w¡­"


    Then Sawyer lunged to the end of his tether, landing right between Cinda and Gildyr, drowning the punchline with clattering screeches.


    "Stay," Val commanded in a magically-ringing voice. The griffin chick peeped once more but fluffed out its feathers and stayed; waiting until the elf-lord strode over to move again. Not aggressively, though. Just a proud little writhing shimmy.


    Valerian was spattered with blood. Some from the meat chunks, some from himself¡­ but he was smiling.


    "Sawyer''s doing well, don''t you think?" he asked, through his dented facemask; that padded armor torn loose in three places.


    Gildyr thumped down on a nearby bench, swallowing hard to control his own nausea. He had never eaten in predator form, and didn''t like all of that gore. Still, Val was expecting an answer.


    "They seem like a real handful to train¡­ but you''ve certainly got him under control," he said to Valerian. Pleased, the elf-lord gave his future mount a brisk head-rub and back-scratch, then let Martina lead Sawyer away. Gildyr kept talking. "How¡­ um¡­ long before you can actually ride him?"


    "He''s too small at the moment," replied the high-elf, stripping off mask, gauntlets and bloodied armor. "And we''ve not fully bonded, yet. That requires a hunt, bringing something down, together."


    Val next used spells to cleanse and re-dress himself, much less interested in Gildyr''s petition than in which color breeches looked best with his chosen frock-coat. At last, the impatient wood-elf burst off the bench, urging,


    "Pick blue. Goes with everything, and listen, please! I mean it! This is serious, Val!"


    The elf-lord paused his color-cycling to turn and face Gildyr. Gestured once, murmuring,


    "Slow time."


    And all at once, everything¡­ everyone¡­ but Gildyr and Val slowed to a syrupy crawl. Sounds became lower, deeper, then dropped off entirely. The air turned hot and abrasive, as Valerian said,


    "I am weary of ''serious'', Gildyr. Something went wrong. This isn''t what was. I can feel back to where events were frayed and¡­ I know that I made a mistake, but there is peace now, and happiness. Why would I risk that?"


    The druid came closer, pushing his way through air like hot tar. Said, urgently,


    "Because all this is dream-stuff. It isn''t stable, Valerian. Every time we recycle, adding another, less orderly day, the situation gets more chaotic. We have to do something now. We have to break the chain or be hauled into a nightmare that''s worse than the one we escaped!"


    Fists clenched, shaking a little, Gildyr stared hard at Valerian, but the high-elf''s beautiful face was unreadable. Then,


    "That is an easy statement for you to make, Druid. You own what you carry, and no one depends on you. I¡­" his voice broke slightly. "...tried, and I failed. Everything fell apart, to be patched up at last by Lord Oberyn. What makes you think I''d succeed any better this time, if I even knew what to do?"


    Gildyr reached out to touch his friend''s arm.


    "Because," he said, "You only fail when you give up for good and stop trying¡­ and because I''ve worked out a plan."

 Part Four, chapter nine

    9


    The weather took a sudden turn for the worse, with low, scudding clouds, gusting wind and light drizzle obscuring his vision and drowning out sounds. Most scents were masked by the rain as well, making it risky to travel.


    Nameless disliked the damp; staring pointedly at him, then stalking off to groom its fur beneath bowers of tangled wood. Under such foul conditions, the scrubby landscape looked like an etching on tarnished silver. Smelled like corrosion and mud.


    He stopped at last beneath a rocky overhang. Not quite deep enough to be called a cave, but reasonably sheltered. Part of a long-gone sea, to judge by the shells and sharks'' teeth he found. Often occupied, as gauged by its many scratched pictures and words. Better yet, dry enough to build a small fire in, which he did, once Nameless was settled and the den had been thoroughly scouted for possible danger.


    Turned out to be safe and dry. Clean, too, except for a drift of dried leaves. It had been warded, once. The silvery runes still twisted and hung in the air. He could see and¡­ without thinking about it too deeply¡­ strengthen them.


    On a shelf chiseled into the back wall, he found dried food in strange packages. The material was odd and uncuttable, but it tore easily once you took hold of a certain tab. Each bundle was printed with sigils for safety and freshness.


    The food inside was hard bread and dried fruit, along with a bar of sweetened kelab and¡­ true wonder¡­ the makings for a dark, fragrant beverage, best served hot: daybrew. He knew the stuff, craved it deeply and made it first off, sharing the food with Nameless.


    Relative paradise, but he was not truly secure here. Sooner or later the fire and smells would lure predators. For now, thought, warded and snug, it was home. Then, one more surprise. Along with all of the pictures and words inscribed on its walls, someone had etched a game board onto a raised bit of floor.


    There were three rows, seven long, of gouged-in small holes, with three shallow cups¡­"havens" he thought of them as¡­ spaced just so; one at either end, and one in the center. All that was wanted to play were pieces and¡­ he fumbled a bit for the concept¡­ cubes with markings, gemmed dots on each face. Dice.


    There were many ways to play, but the simplest, child-way was "Chase". Seeing these things brought it back, so he selected a red stone from the floor for himself. Next found a pearly shell for Nameless. His magical pockets produced a trio of ivory dice set with red gems. Not spelled, either. Whatever he''d been, whoever he''d failed to defend, he would not cheat at dueling or dice.


    Turning to look at the marten (cleaning its whiskers and fur near their small fire) he said,


    "We play for great stakes, Nameless. If I win, you cease scrabbling about and settle down for the entire night. If you win¡­ I will go hunting for fish."


    He could do that, he felt; shoot fish with a bow, giving him something to eat besides apples. Nameless yawned, finished attending to the base of its tail, then waddled off to explore the back of their shelter. Hunting for midden-sand, probably.


    "I shall roll for you," said the wanderer, beginning their game. Simple. Child-version. The two pieces started out in the low haven together, until rolling a three freed them to take to the board.


    After that, numbers rolled dictated the number of hole-spaces crossed, but not how you crossed them. Forward, sideways or diagonal were all possible, depending on whether you chose to run like a hare, evade or entrap.


    See, landing on the same space as the enemy would send them back to low haven (or to the central one, if they''d already passed it). Then, they would have to expend their turn rolling and praying for three. But, all was not lost, because getting into the top haven could only happen by rolling the precise number of spaces between. Too few, and you waited there, while your enemy crept up behind. Too many, and you overshot, ending up back at the bottom.


    He''d played a lot, he sensed, with¡­ names and faces slid away; too briefly glimpsed to react to. Maybe on purpose.


    Here and now, he positioned the red stone and bright shell, then reached across to tap the dice against Nameless.


    "You can go first," he said, generously. The gods'' own luck was with that wretched animal, who rolled a three on its very first try. Not so its wandering friend, who wasted four turns stuck in the low haven.


    Playing as Nameless, he opted for straightforward flight, crossing as much ground as possible. Playing for himself, he stalked; meaning to catch and "kill" the enemy game piece. Worse luck, he was a very good player, both of him, escaping his own ambushes several times. Sent pebble and shell back to the havens for healing without pity or remorse when he did hit, striking from cover (sideways) or running the enemy down (forward). Sometimes even "encircled". Complexly, if you rolled four or above and were near enough, you could land once in every space surrounding the enemy piece. Then, they were encircled; trapped in place for four endless turns. You could then kill or just leave them there; ensnared and cursing your treachery.


    Long and the short of it was, Nameless won, achieving high haven on its third try. He would have accused the masked scoundrel of cheating, except they''d been using the same dice, and he''d rolled for them both.


    "We''ll play again," he threatened. "Directly I''ve come back from hunting."


    Put away pieces and dice, scratching "friend" on the wall and adding a win-stroke below it. Then, he set off to get dinner.


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    The sky hadn''t let up, making cover and caution imperative. Left his bow in its pocket and took up a fish-spear, instead. Smoke-stepped past clearings or skirted their edges, heading down the land''s gradual slope. If there was water¡­ a river or lake, say¡­ he''d find it cupped in a valley someplace, so that''s where he headed.


    It was clear that a terrible war had been fought in this place, in the time beyond myth. There were several crumpled, rusted-out giants mired deep in the ground. The land itself had been churned into peaks and troughs like a frozen ocean. Grassy now, fuzzed over with brush, but still badly scarred. Great broken arrows of metal lay in pieces, their segments supporting a forest of saplings and vines.


    He peered into one of these, unable to square what he saw with anything at all that he knew. Best he could come up with was "magically animated metal ship". It was hollow inside, but so was a seashell. Didn''t mean nothing had lived there, to start with. Just that the creatures were long gone, now.


    Mostly, there was nothing to learn or to salvage within. Too much time and too many scavengers had already done proper work there. The scents were complex, but mainly the leavings of weather and wildlife. Leaves rattled and dripped. Rain hissed in through holes in the roof. Odd shapes, covered in ivy, littered the floor.


    Only one thing, a sort of wheeled assembler, reacted to him at all. About knee-high and prism-shaped, it emerged as he ducked into a decaying chamber near the bow. Uttered a wavering beep, then lurched halfway out of an alcove in the curved hull.


    As that giant armor had done earlier, the automaton jetted a shower of glowing runes. Then it stopped short, trapped by intrusive vines and what looked like a twisted chair.


    Cautiously, he tapped the construct with the butt of his fish-spear. It clicked and beeped a few times in response. Then, with a pained-sounding rasp, its front surface ratcheted downward.


    There was something inside the body cavity, he saw. Pretty, but baffling. Took a good look after lifting the object out of its cabinet, but grew no wiser. Didn''t even know what questions to ask about something so utterly foreign.


    About half the length of his thumb and roughly cylindrical, it had colorful inset bands on a grey background. Not carved and not natural, it was oddly formed. Very hard, very smooth, nearly weightless, and filled with tiny flashes of brightness that swarmed to the warmth of his hand, tingling slightly. Its antecedents seemed to be blood-of-the-earth. Fire-tar, hardened, somehow.


    He tucked the strange object away in a magical pocket. As for that oddly evolved assembler, it had used up all that remained of its hoarded strength, and no spell of his could correct that. He knew not the source of its power, which didn''t appear to be magic. Aloud, he said,


    "You have fulfilled your task, watcher. I do not know where you would have this object delivered, or if any remain to accept it, but I pledge to find out." Surely, in the forest city, someone would offer advice, and any goal was a reason to keep breathing.


    A thought and a brief surge of magical force removed the dirt and corrosion of ages, so at least the construct looked whole, again. Why it had responded to him was another mystery, except that it had to be something he was rather than something he carried.


    Nothing else happened of note, except when he started a three-tailed fox from its lair, sending it bolting out of an ancient blast-hole, a ragged wound in the sky ship''s port side.


    He left after that, wondering at the awful clash that had pitched titans of metal against mighty ships of the air, marring the landscape for eons. Wondering, too... had either side actually won?


    Once outside, he set off downslope, again, picking his careful way through sodden bracken and scrub. Did at last find a trickle of water. The brook was too small for much bow-fishing, but following its course led him down to a shallow and reedy lake. Surrounded by scruffy willows, it boasted a lot of woody cover and structure for fish. Its surface was pocked and fuzzy with rainfall. Ideal, really, as the fish would be very distracted by everything washing down with the stream or blown out of those stunted old trees.


    He waded right in and got straight to work, not minding the drizzly rain. Sometimes with the spear, sometimes with his bow, he caught blue-fin, striped bass and dragon-head. More than enough for several dinners. Hated to leave, because working the shore near a fallen tree was so very successful, and because physical effort masked a stripped mind. It was also distracting. He stayed too long, wading like a heron as the sky cleared overhead.


    Then someone spoke. Hailed him in the same twittering language the witch and the villagers had used. Startled, he escape-spelled reflexively, only had nowhere to go except back to the stream.


    Again, the person called out, waving an arm. Short, like everyone else he''d seen in this place, with ears that were barely pointed at all. Brown haired and cloaked, with his hood thrown back and a broad smile on his face.


    "**** ** ***** ******* !"the fellow chirped, indicating a heavy canvas pack at his feet. Then, when stealthy retreat and a headshake was the only response,"*** ******, ***?"


    Heart pounding, breath coming fast, the wanderer backed still further upstream. Then the wind shifted, bringing with it the person''s scent. There was little magic, much travel, spicy food and general weariness there¡­ but no taint of illusion or witchcraft. The fellow smelled more like a peddler, bearing the scent of strange places and folk.


    He hesitated, ready to plunge off into the brush and smoke-step away, but terribly needing supplies. The (maybe) peddler pointed at his own chest, saying something like: "Hanish. Hah-neesh." Then he extended a hand, miming a question with lifted eyebrows and half-smile.


    No. Took another step backward, shaking his head. No name, and no past that he knew or wanted to claim. The thought brought on genuine panic.


    Seeming to sense this, the peddler lifted both hands palm outward and twittered an entire chorus'' worth of response. Spoke gently, then spread out a green pad and began laying things out that he drew from his pack. It was the food that did the trick, along with a bundle of fishing arrows.


    There were coins in his magical pockets. He''d seen them. But the ones he first offered caused Hanish to nearly fall over, rapidly shaking his head.


    Right, then. No mithral, earth-heart or gold. There were coppers, though. A few of those and a silver penny would buy up all that he''d placed on that felted green pad, the peddler indicated.


    They transacted business without speech or actual hand-sign, although Hanish kept trying to teach him gibberish words. Buying it all was simpler than bargaining would have been, so he took every bit, getting arrows, bread, dried meat, powdered spices and something like daybrew in return for a few small coins.


    Pocketed it all away, to Hanish''s open amazement. Question after question the peddler asked, seeming eager; intensely excited. Got no response but a headshake, at first, and soon not even that, because¡­


    How could you translate: Bearer of darkness, flame and ill fortune? How to say: One month and two days of life since waking from stone. Slave to a murderous witch, friend to a scavenging marten, waker of ancient battle-ghosts?


    Over and over, Hanish pointed east, saying "Oatark," or something like that. "Oatark. Aryu."


    The peddler looked hopeful, but those hints didn''t work. Couldn''t. He was headed west, to a forest city he knew had to be there. Bowed his thanks to the merchant, then spell-stepped from sight, as fast as magic would take him.

 Part Four, chapter ten

    10


    "Change the narrative," urged Gildyr, reaching forward to seize Valerian''s arm. "Do something totally unexpected, that doesn''t match what''s happened next, every other time. Break the cycle."


    The griffin aerie behind them was utterly silent, the nearby people slower than oozing tar. Scents were only detectable when you walked into them, hitting quite hard. The air felt painfully hot and abrasive, but no one and nothing could hear them now. Not even his grandfather. More confused and upset than angry, Val demanded,


    "And what if doing so just makes matters worse?"


    "Then we''ve learned something, My Lord, and next time we get to this stage in the cycle, we take a different path¡­ but the point is we have to keep trying, not simply drift along. Not when the current is sweeping us right to disaster. I think¡­"


    Val disengaged, pulling gently free of the druid''s grip as Gildyr continued.


    "...I think, maybe this isn''t the first time we''ve tried. Something''s wrong. Something''s broken, Valerian. We''re stuck, and that can''t be right. You''re important. I know that, but somebody else should be with us, too. Only, I don''t¡­ I can''t¡­"


    Listening closely, Val was seized by a sudden strange thought. He shook his head.


    "I''ve never cared overmuch for cats," groused the high-elf. "Wretched Titania''s creatures, every last one of them."


    Gildyr stared at Valerian, green eyes narrowing thoughtfully.


    "Cats," he muttered. "Cat¡­ you may have something there, Milord. It feels right, but I don''t know how to make the idea fit in. It''s like a puzzle piece from a different set."


    Val was losing his grip on the flow of time all around them. He''d never been able to stop it completely, unlike¡­ somebody else. Now, he said,


    "The only cat I know is Speckles, a sly and malicious beast belonging to Beatriz¡­ but I shall think on your words. I am due elsewhere in private, Gildyr. I shall speak with you again before dinner."


    And then time resumed normal flow, returning the clamor and reek of the aerie. Cinda stalked over, looking thunderous.


    "You did it again, didn''t you?!" she accused, glaring up at Valerian. "You went out of time so I couldn''t hear you!"


    Gildyr, wisely, betook himself to the edge of their floating platform; hands on the silvery railing, looking around at a truly stupendous view.


    "Not you, specifically," soothed Val, not wishing to argue with this vexing, prickly, very dear female. "The druid wished to converse unheard, so I slowed time to listen."


    Her scowl deepened. Touching his hand, briefly, Cinda said,


    "Valerian, don''t do anything stupid, please. Whatever his purpose here is, I don''t trust him. He''s a troublemaker."


    Val shook his head again, trying to grasp something very much bigger than just here and now.


    "It seems I am fated to always wander from home and do things I shouldn''t," he told her, reaching across the distance between them to tuck back a strand of her fuzzy dark hair. "Perhaps, Cinda, I am the one who should not be trusted."


    She was silent, leaning into the contact for a moment. Then,


    "Whatever you decide to do, I''m coming along, My Lord. Try to sneak off, and I''ll find you. My oath, that no prison will hold me. Die¡­ and I''ll cross over as well, just to kick your heedless butt-end all over the nether realm."


    Valerian laughed.


    "Very well. I accept your challenge, huntress," he teased. "Frost Maiden versus Firelord, it shall be."


    Wherever they went and whatever befell them, this time.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Val hadn''t lied to Gildyr. He really did have somewhere unofficial to be, and folk to meet that shouldn''t have mattered (but very much did).


    After leaving the ranger and druid, he nipped back on up to his living suite. Greeted Katina, then went to the bedroom, where he looked in on Fina. Very fragile, his wife seemed, sleeping with her purple feather-hair loose, and her nightgown rumpled. Pudgy was curled up beside her on the pillow. He looked up as Valerian entered the room. Grinned his wide, ugly grin, madly jerking that foolish curled tail.


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    Val scratched the small monster''s ears, letting it sniff and sneeze at griffin-scent. Then he leaned down to kiss Lady Alfea, murmuring,


    "I am just going to borrow Bean and go down to mid-meal, Fina. Won''t be long."


    Her eyes half-opened, warm with sleep and with love.


    "Lemme¡­ see ''er?" she whispered.


    Valerian nodded. The golden bassinet was right to hand by their bed, being tended by fey-lights (those smallest of fairies). Straightening, he turned a bit to reach into as heavily warded a tiny fortress as Starloft had ever seen. If the world had ended, Bean would have floated over the ocean of Chaos, snug in her little gold boat, until something new formed around her.


    Val felt the crackle of magical energies as he reached in to pick up his new daughter. Lifted the infant, who was asleep and dreaming. He traced a ''good visions'' sigil on her pink forehead, beneath tendrils of golden hair and soft yellow down. Kissed her lightly, then sat on the edge of the bed, shifting around so that Fee could see Bean without having to move.


    "Here she is," he said softly. "Safe as houses, and probably wanting a meal, soon."


    The baby was beautiful, but then, he wasn''t very objective. Alfea cooed over their little one, touching Bean''s face and her curled-up small hands. Fee was still sleepy and glowing with joy, murmuring disjointed love-words. The golden fey-lights swarmed all around them, sometimes lighting on hair or flesh, but mostly patrolling.


    "I''m going to make off with her for a bit," Val repeated. "Just down to the kitchen for mid-meal, then straight back. My oath on it."


    His own manna was still low, but he poured a bit more into Alfea, anyhow. His lady inhaled deeply, lit up and fortified by the added strength.


    "Love you," she whispered, smiling up at him. "So much."


    Maybe he wasn''t worthy of that, but she seemed to think so, and now there was Bean; alchemized from manna and tenderness, pretty and welcome as dawn.


    "Somebody has to," he joked. "And it seems you''ve been stuck with the job." Then, kissing her cheek. "I love you, too."


    Alfea''s blue eyes closed. Moments later she''d drifted back into healing sleep, smiling. Valerian drew sigils of peace, protection and safety all around her, causing the fey-lights to swirl like glittering pollen on stream water.


    That seen to, he carefully shouldered his sleeping wee scrap of a daughter, then rose from the bed. It took him longer than usual to reach ground level, as he had to take the safest, least-crowded route. No gating or misty-stepping. Not with a vulnerable, barely formed infant along for the ride. Things happened in transit, and Val was taking no chances at all.


    Got there eventually, reaching the bustling palace kitchens just as the staff were clearing up mid-meal''s remains and starting on dinner. Tara Cookie spotted him first, for she missed nothing at all that went on in her realm.


    "Lord Valerian!" she exclaimed, unfolding her crossed arms and dropping a clumsy curtsey. She was a half-elf with auburn hair and brown eyes. Another aunt, fathered by Galadin on one of his briefer mortal obsessions. "Oh, and with the little one, too!"


    Very soon, Val and Bean were surrounded by servants. By cousins, uncles and aunts, rather. They had cards and birth-gifts, most of them, but hadn''t expected to give them so soon, or in person.


    As Tara produced a quick meal¡­ simple fare: eggs scrambled with toasted bread crumbs, bits of this and that stirred in¡­ presents were given, and blessings delivered. Everyone wanted to hold "their" little lady.


    Val settled down on a chair by the big, scarred wooden prep-table. He''d been down here so often as a young boy, left with the other servants while Katina spent time with her own mortal son. Here, he''d had mid-meal and listened to stories; been passed around from lap to lap, riding a hip or on somebody''s shoulders. Here, he was cherished, and so was Bean.


    Tara brought him a plate loaded with scrap-eggs, bread and fresh butter. Someone else poured the daybrew. Everyone held the baby, while Val ate and described the events of her birth, assuring his downstairs relations that Lady Alfea was safe and peacefully sleeping.


    Then¡­ Well, his mother arrived to give sudden orders for the night''s banquet. She was holding her mind oddly, but Val put that down to displeasure at finding him below. He stood up and bowed, drawing Lady Elisindara''s attention while the servants scattered, rushing back to their duties.


    "Good afternoon, Mother," he said, taking the baby from Donnor, the chief steward. "I am very glad to see you again."


    (Bit surprised, though, given her condition. She wasn''t as pregnant as she had been, Val noticed. Worrisome, that.)


    Elisindara wasn''t tall, but she tilted her head back, looking every inch the regal Valinor princess she was. Glanced around, taking in those piled toys and small clothes, his plate of half-eaten servants'' fare. Then, in a precise, chilly voice, his mother said,


    "We shall speak of this later, Valerian."


    For, of course, no emotion, no family tensions were ever revealed before underlings. Her expression might have altered a bit as she glanced at the baby. Not softer, exactly. Just interested.


    Then, turning to the silent kitchen staff, Elisindara flicked a perfectly groomed finger, causing a list to appear and unfold in midair.


    "There has been a change. Here are the evening''s guests, with their order of rank. We fete a prince of the deeps tonight, and all must be perfect."


    Tara murmured acknowledgement, curtseying deeply.


    "Yes, Milady," replied the chief cook, but Elisindara had already shifted her gaze.


    "Return to your rooms, Valerian," she ordered, making ready to go.


    Only¡­ he could not let it pass. Couldn''t slink off as though he''d been publicly caught in some lurid misdeed.


    "They''re family, Mother," he blurted. "These are my aunts and my uncles. They''ve a right to see Bean!"


    Lady Elisindara had already summoned a family gate; its edges flaring scarlet with her pent up emotion. Now, she turned her head to regard him. Beautiful, distant and (far down inside) utterly furious.


    "We shall speak of this later," was all that she said. And then she stepped through, allowing the gate to pop like a bubble behind her.


    Val stood for a moment holding his fretful daughter, in a kitchen gone terribly quiet.


    "I am sorry," he said at last, not meeting anyone''s gaze. "I just wanted¡­"


    Tara placed a gentle hand on his arm.


    "We know, Milord. We''ve always known¡­ and we thank you for bringing the little one. If there is trouble to come, well¡­ t''was worth it, and halved by the sharing."


    Maybe so¡­but it just wasn''t fair.

 Part Four, chapter eleven

    11


    How did you measure a negative space? Test the boundaries of all that was no longer there? A critical question for Lerendar Tarandahl, who''d gone upstairs to deliver his grandfather''s orders and then¡­ found himself headed back home again, with no recollection of speaking to Mum. Just a lingering sense of unease.


    Most of this worry he kept to himself. Family politics could get pretty sticky, and there was nothing Beatriz could do about it, in any case. So, he just kept his mouth shut. Smiled his way through mid-meal; allowing Zara to sit on his lap and construct very odd sandwiches for him, while Bea talked garden and shop. Her potions were selling well down in Starshire (a source of contention with Mum, for whom nobles did not stoop to "trade").


    "Lavender Evening is everyone''s favorite," said Bea, slyly removing a mustard and honey sandwich from Lerendar''s plate. "But I''ve been working on one that I''m going to call ''Gentle Mint''... like Gentleman, right? Would you try it out for me, Ren?"


    "Your potions don''t fade, and I don''t like smelling like a fruit cup," Lerendar objected.


    "This one is strong, but subtle," Bee promised, stroking his arm. "You could just brush some on and see if anyone notices."


    Lerendar snorted, manfully chewing the cress, pickle and syrup treat that Zara had shoved at him.


    "Oh, they''ll notice, all right," he said. "I just don''t want that kind of attention. Tell you what¡­ bottle some up and I''ll splash it on Val. His wife''s a captive audience, and he ought to be finishing up the girls'' magic lesson soon."


    "I wanna learn magic!" Zara demanded, tugging hard at her father''s tunic. "Papa, I wanna learn magic, too, like Miri and Pretty!"


    "Next year, Scamp," he promised, hugging his petulant daughter. "Learn your runes, and then you can move on to actual spells. Teach some to me, even."


    He got up to leave, then, waiting while Bee darted off to fetch her latest creation.


    "This is it," she exclaimed, racing back into the formal dining room; bright-eyed and smiling. "Mind you don''t drench him, Renny. Too much, and he''ll end up fighting off horses and goats, as well."


    Uh-huh.


    "Better him than me¡­ and I''ll stand by with a club," laughed the elf-lord, gingerly accepting the green glass bottle, then kissing his beautiful consort. "I''ll be back tonight. Diplomacy calls. Stay inside, both of you. Just¡­ a feeling I have. Promise you''ll stay inside."


    "Promise," she assured him, doing that kiss-embrace-shimmy and run-her-fingertips-up-the-back-of-his-neck thing. Bee had her own kind of magic that never failed to get results.


    Wasn''t until he was outside the gate again that Lerendar picked up the thread of his earlier worry. Maybe his mother had been upset enough to just blank the whole incident? She was certainly capable. Had done it a few times before. There was that one awful banquet that no one could quite recall, for reasons Mum kept to herself, leaving everyone else to speculate.


    Hmmm¡­


    He turned off of the floating stones and back onto the main span, still plucking at missing time like a strand of unraveling thread. The memory loss might not mean anything at all. The order to stop doing magic might have just embarrassed her¡­ or, the situation might be about to collapse and go totally crispy.


    Pain in the neck, because his kind of puzzle was the sort you could stomp on or hack with a sword. Might have talked it over with his brother, but a quick trace showed that Val was still out in the courtyard with his two wards; doing something smoky and muttersome. Discussion would have to wait, Lerendar decided.


    He wasn''t idle in the meanwhile, though. As a nobleman, he had a never-ending list of duties to perform, which included attending to visiting dignitaries. The wood-elf druid was beneath Lerendar''s official notice. Not so, a possibly angry sea-elven prince¡­ and Dad had put in a summons for help with the fellow.


    Gating up to the lofty council hall, Lerendar took a moment to tuck the potion away and arrange his appearance. Then he stepped into the vast assembly chamber, searching the crowd for a sea-elf. Saw various courtiers¡­ Lord Reston¡­ ambassadors of the wood-elf and goblin realms¡­ and then, by the central prism, his red-haired father, talking to someone whose back was turned.


    Dad saw him and lifted a hand in greeting. Lerendar waved back, then started across the mosaic tiled floor. Music tinkled. Servants glided through the crowd with trays of food and drink. Conversation murmured and surged.


    "Naturally, I said¡­"


    "...left her standing there! Can you credit it? How¡­"


    "The High Lord will surely see that our petition has¡­"


    And so forth. Lerendar could follow them all at once, and did so. He was supposed to be Silmerana, some day; Warden of the North. It was his job to listen and learn.


    Got to Dad''s side without seeming to hasten. Smiled and bowed as the person his father was talking to at last turned around.


    "Prince Andorin," said Keldaran, "allow me to present my son and first heir, Lord Lerendar."


    You ever just know? Get a big, stupid grin on your face, clasp each other''s forearms and think, ''There you are'', while something inside unfreezes?


    Andorin was shorter than some part of Lerendar halfway expected, with long black hair and very dark eyes. He had that bluish-pale sea-folk skin, with faint lines of sealed gills on each side of his neck. There were swirling tattoos and a genuine smile on his face.


    "Lord Lerendar," he repeated, returning the bow. A bard, he had some sort of wooden stringed instrument slung at his back. It almost slid off his shoulder when Andorin bowed, but Lerendar caught it. Some buffoonery ensued, and much laughter.


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    "You''ve met?" guessed Keldaran, a little confused.


    Yes? No, not here, but¡­ somehow?


    Said the prince, in a resonant tenor,


    "We have walked strange paths together as brothers and friends, Lord Keldaran. The mind forgets, but the heart cannot, ever." Then, "My suit can wait. Inform the High Lord, if you please, that I shall be well satisfied to discuss this betrothal¡­ whenever."


    Lerendar''s grin broadened.


    "Don''t worry, Dad," he laughed. "I''ll show His Highness around and we''ll come up with an answer by sunset, bet me."


    They fetched up at a comfortably seedy tavern on the second level. The sort of place that catered to anyone, mortal consorts included. Where you could forget, for a while, what you were throwing away for the woman and child that you loved. The Grog Bog, it was called. Located off the spiraling way, it was run by a female half-orc named Greta Vargsdottir, a friend of Bea''s. Grey-skinned and muscular, she''d notched her tall ears for every husband outfought (though they were said to die happy).


    Lerendar had a booth permanently reserved in the wood-paneled back. Went to it now, as Greta brought fruit and fresh bread to the table.


    "Yer usual, Sir?" she rumbled, careful not to ''Lordship'' him.


    "Yes, thank you, Greta. And, for my friend, the best that you''ve got."


    The hulking taverner frowned consideringly, rubbing at one of her gold-banded tusks. Her ropy dark hair was netted away from her face with wire, but still escaped, to coil damply. Hot work, running a tavern.


    "That''d be the Lidolan vintage, Sir. Ain''t cheap¡­ but if this be a celebration, what with th'' little un''s birth¡­ I''ll donate a bottle fer free. Always wanted ter taste it m''self, like."


    "Absolutely," laughed Lerendar. "This is a definite celebration, and you''re welcome to join us in welcoming Bean."


    ¡­although they were missing some guests, he thought/ knew/ supposed.


    Greta went off to fetch their order (roast pheasant for Lerendar, baked shellfish for Andorin). Casting a glance at their departing hostess, the sea-elf leaned forward, asking,


    "Why are her ears cut into, that way?"


    Lerendar shook his blond head.


    "Former husbands. Unlucky to count them," he replied, keeping his voice down.


    "Ah. My thanks for the timely warning, Lando. So¡­ switching the subject¡­ the maiden supposed to wed Prince Zaresh is absent? I judge this from all the delay."


    Lerendar heaved a short sigh. Then, placing both hands on the table palm down, he admitted,


    "Gone. Run off with a lot of mortal paladins¡­ maybe to take up the mantle and sword, herself, for all we know. If so, she''s under Lord Oberyn''s protection and¡­"


    "Beyond the demands of diplomatic alliance," finished Andorin, looking glum. "Queen Shanella will not be pleased. Heir or not, Zaresh is no catch. She was rather counting on your Meliara to provide a new, better scion, I think."


    Lerendar grimaced.


    "If it''s a three-night she wants," he hedged, "I''m sure that something can be arranged. Maybe not with High Lord Galadin, but there''s still Dad, or my brother Valerian."


    Didn''t mention himself. Consorting officially with a mortal woman had rather lessened his trade value, and he was too proud to risk the rejection.


    Their wine and meals arrived, tacking the conversation into less troublesome waters. Greta joined them, briefly. Long enough to rest her legs and sample the best vintage known to Karandun.


    "Gods and spirits," she gasped, after savoring that first, life-changing swallow. "They ain''t lied!"


    Like a combination of honey, fire and clear-through-the-body joy, Lidolan wine was best enjoyed in small doses. Greta had brought forth no flagons or mugs. Just tiny, crystalline thimbles, in which the garnet liquid glowed like the gems on a royal circlet.


    Andorin''s gills opened, suddenly, exposing their scarlet lining.


    "Sacred Abyss," he murmured, reaching back to unsling his instrument. "That deserves its own epic."


    He fell to idly stroking those golden strings, humming and sometimes adding a word or two. There had been eavesdrop-canceling music filling the noisy tavern, guaranteeing privacy. This ended the moment that Andorin began making love to his dulcimer. Made of dark, swirling-grain driftwood, its strings shimmered at every touch. The crowd stopped their noise to listen, but Andorin shook his head.


    "Just meandering," he told them. "Letting the song write itself."


    Still beautiful, though, for he was a master. The melody was sprightly, ever-changing, like stream water picking its way through the rocks. He was still at it when Greta rose from the table to see to her work, leaving the bottle behind her. Magic glittered and surged around Andorin, summoned by music, but still unformed. It gave him a mystical, sorcerous look, and deepened their bond.


    Lerendar didn''t play, but like every elf, everywhere, he had a fine voice. A way with lyrics, too. Funny ones, usually. He and the bard forgot time and diplomacy, creating something amazing with help from the wine and the crowd.


    Then, a golden coin arced through the air to land spinning on the tabletop by Andorin''s dulcimer. Rotating, in fact, much longer than seemed natural. And that could only mean that somebody else had arrived.


    Lerendar half-stood, craning his head to see past their wooden-beamed nook. The bard stopped playing, just as a slight, active, foxy-faced elf slid onto the bench beside him. Dark-haired, with amber eyes and tanned skin, he looked like one who preferred to avoid official attention; who typically left town between dawn and morning, usually under pursuit. Smiling slightly, the rogue half bowed. To Andorin, then Lerendar, he drawled,


    "Your Most Exalted Deliquescence¡­ Breaker of tiresome chains¡­ greetings."


    His ears were quite pointed, almost satyric, and his gaze never stayed long in one place. A scarlet cloth was tied around his forehead, possibly hiding a scar. He had not expected the back-pounding welcome he got from Lerendar and Andorin, both. Relaxed into it after a moment, though.


    "I felt lucky," he told them later, over a thimble of potent red wine. "Also¡­ matters necessitated a speedy departure from Arvendahl lands, so north I came and here I am, eager to keep this fine head where it most needs to be."


    More food was ordered and stories were shared, with Andorin explaining,


    "I am a prince of the old blood, but the lines of descent favor females. My aunt was queen, until Shanella arranged matters otherwise, and thus it stands. So long as I''m harmless¡­ no more than a wandering bard¡­ I live. The moment I show any sign of ambition, though¡­" he shrugged. "You see how it is."


    Lerendar nodded.


    "Heard and felt," he agreed. "Though, in my case, there''s a woman. I guess, the wrong woman. My head knows that, but the rest of me won''t heed advice. I stand to lose the High Seat, for someone I''m going to long, long outlive."


    "Mortal?" guessed Elmaris, the rogue.


    Once again, Lerendar nodded.


    "Everything I never knew I always wanted¡­ except for permanence. I know I''m a fool, but I also know what I can''t do without, and it isn''t position or power. It''s Beatriz."


    "Odd," murmured Elmaris, shaking his head. "I mean, I''m not normally the one in the best situation. Unless I''ve been dragged by the gallows, again. Not much one can do for a dangling corpse."


    Except, two of the three had been dead. Somehow, a little, they sensed what had been. More, the presence of three made their bond stronger, yet. Elmaris toyed unconsciously with a gold coin; making it appear and disappear. Rolling it constantly over the knuckles of his left hand. Even while eating his plowman''s lunch, he could not be still. Never stopped thinking, either.


    "I believe," he said, salting an egg, "that there is one more, and that we must find him. He is near¡­ in the woods, perhaps, but will not venture closer."


    "Done," said Lerendar. He carried no money, but that hardly mattered. Greta would settle accounts with the palace seneschal at the end of the week. Lerendar never paid anything.


    "We''ll head for the Tanglewood," he decided. "It''s wilder than Huntwood, and that''s where I would go, if I didn''t want casual meetings."


    They each had another bright taste of Lidolan wine. Then Lerendar tucked the bottle away, thanked Greta and headed back out of her bustling tavern. Their missing friend was close enough for thoughts to brush up against. Lerendar caught a jumbled impression of boulders and trees. Of a stone mile marker, too. Last before reaching Starshire, off to the east.


    That something was wrong, they could all sense. Just what had happened, they meant to find out.

 Part Four, chapter twelve

    12


    The landscape and weather changed very gradually. Over the course of many days'' walk, rolling scrubland turned into a blighted and mangy forest. There were not many tall trees, most of them seeming to die before they got very old. A mixed wood of beeches and oak, mainly, with a few reedy alders near the rivers and seeps. Not what he''d expected, but better than thicket or scrub.


    The rain stopped, which was better, yet. While he did not much suffer from cold, nobody liked being drenched, and Nameless''s mood improved noticeably. Before leaving their rock shelter he''d put some of the foodstuffs he''d purchased from Hanish up on that shelf in the back, saying,


    "I was startled at fishing and tried to escape, Nameless. Some kind of reflex, I think¡­ but there was nowhere to go."


    He''d placed a hand on the rock shelter''s great, tilted slab, which rose from the ground at a low angle, creating almost a cave.


    "I could mark this place, maybe. Set it up as a refuge¡­ but I think you would have to be with me, or get left behind. I could smoke-step back for you, but that would take time."


    The animal flirted its tail, then darted off to find breakfast, promising nothing. So, he''d drawn a rune on one side of that tilted dark slab, using his forefinger to inscribe what came into his head. Felt right; like where he''d end up, now, if something went very wrong, very suddenly.


    Next shouldered his weapons and set off, trusting Nameless to catch up once it finished its hunting. Now, after pushing westward for days, they''d at last reached a forest. Just, not the one he''d imagined. Gutted memory spoke of ancient stands of great trees. Towering giants into which folk carved their homes; a city surging with magic and power.


    This place had none of that. Trees, yes, but not like the ones he almost remembered. Plenty of rabbits and lizards for Nameless, at least. For himself, there were fish in the streams and occasional quail bursting loudly out of the underbrush.


    "There is a city here," he insisted, as they pushed further west through a sparse patch of birches and oak. "It is built around a huge crater, where its folk guard a secret. Something ancient and mighty they refuse to discuss. At least, I think that is so."


    He''d been there? Knew someone? Vague and unsettled memories scattered like leaves in a gale. Nothing to pin down, even if he''d really wanted to try. (But he knew it was there. They just had to keep walking, was all.)


    Anyhow, the forage was good and the weather quite pleasant, even at night. Few traces of other people, which he was glad of. Took them nearly a week to reach the crater, which opened up at his feet very suddenly, half-hidden by ridges of bare, jagged stone. No city at all. Just a huge, steep-walled pit half-filled with loose scree. Its western rim had collapsed, he saw, leaving no trace of cave-homes or buildings. As for the forest, there remained only vast fallen trunks turned to stone, with the great curving ribs of some beast¡­ dragon, maybe¡­ eroding out of the ground.


    Well, he had to be certain, didn''t he? Saying nothing at all to Nameless, he started to walk, skirting the edge of the crater, because action smothered despair. Shut off emotion. Refused to speculate. Didn''t call out, either. Not in this blighted place.


    Eastward and south of the crater, he found something resembling a long metal dart, broken in half. Spotted with rust and corrosion, it was much smaller than the crashed airship he''d entered before. More weapon than vehicle, he thought, and still partly active.


    Tendrils of ice and unmaking spilled from its innards, sprawling over the ground for hundreds of feet. They buzzed subtly; not just killing, but voiding whatever they touched, filling the air with invisible poison.


    Nameless leapt off of his shoulder, dashing into the gold-spotted shade of a beech tree. Screeched a perfectly sensible warning cry, as it ducked out of sight.


    "Yes. Straight away," he responded, not taking his eyes from the shattered weapon.


    It came to him, then, that he''d faced something similar, once, in¡­ well, someplace else. It could not be battled directly, he thought. Could only be tricked into destroying itself, or contained.


    The air all around the weapon shimmered with unseen death. Underneath it, the ground sort of broke up into particles that slowly dissolved in the void. This object, too, produced glowing red numbers and shapes. They formed a spherical cloud with the broken thing at its center. The sphere kept switching back and forth from one set of figures to another. Stuck, he reckoned. Meant to bring wider death, but prevented somehow.


    Nameless clattered what he''d come to recognize as a summoning call.


    "Yes," he repeated. "I hear you. Just¡­ I think that I can contain this thing."


    Maybe, if the sigil he saw in his head was correct, and if it were strong enough.


    "You should go," he told Nameless. "I may not succeed, and I don''t want to hurt you." With only one friend, he had to conserve and be careful. But Nameless took good advice no better than he did. Climbed up that beech tree as high as it could, but refused to run off.


    "Very well. As you will have it. You''d just better hope I succeed, first try."


    Of the two marks on his chest, it was the one shaped like flame that stirred as he called upon power. His hands began glowing. Sparks flared to life in the air all around him. The containment magic he saw¡­ no¡­ it was something he''d walked on. Something he''d tried to repair. Not just a flat drawing, it would extend down through that crumbling ground and up to the wavering, venomous sky.


    Right.


    On the bright side, the containment sigil was burned into his mind. He couldn''t not see its constantly moving lines. Drawing the glyph wasn''t difficult. Powering it up, keeping its lines from crossing¡­ that was the problem. Something he knew how to do, though.


    Time ceased to matter as he paced out the shape that he saw in his head. Up on the ground, at times. Otherwise levitating or sinking down into compliant soil and rock; here and there murmuring keywords.


    Before, he''d been retracing. Repairing. Picking up pieces of someone whose death had been used to damage the sigil. Now, he was inscribing afresh. Not alone, either. There was still a hint of power in this place. A trace of people and magic long vanished away. It stirred at his call, lending strength to the spell.


    How long did it take? The sun flickered and wavered too much to be sure, with eye-blinks of darkness between. Ended at last, though, leaving him drained and staggering, in a sort of safe rune-cage above the completed sigil. He spoke the last key words there: "Anka" (I empower) and "Urdo" (I protect).


    Now the sparkling glyph came to life like a rotating silver prime knot. Not trefoil. Much more complex, and utterly perfect. He''d done it; sealing a broken weapon away behind magical walls, forever.


    But something else took notice. It sensed his doings and called to him, uttering the same grating drone he''d first heard by a fallen giant. The summons would have enslaved him, then, had Nameless not bitten his hand almost in half.


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    Nameless¡­ who was out there alone, with dark things coming, not safe in a rune cage. He smoke-stepped, using the sigil''s own power to propel himself out to the beech tree. The sun was setting. Overhead leered a moon tinged with blood. Around him the ground stirred, moved by things clambering up from below.


    He started to call out, but the marten dropped into his upraised arms like a trebuchet missile. Drained and exhausted, he had no defense of his own against that dark summons. Could only allow Nameless''s leaping, clattering, screeching attacks to guide his retreat. Over the rim of the crater he went, where some hint of kindly green power yet lingered.


    Landed like a cat, on a ledge of cracked stone. There was a cave perhaps ten yards to his right; within reach, if they hurried. Part of him wanted to hurl that wretched marten away, then climb back up to the surface and seek out the one who beckoned him. Part of him got bitten hard enough to scrape bone and slash tendons, once again breaking the spell.


    He allowed himself to be herded across to the cave mouth, just as a hail of arrows began hissing down. The angle was bad, and most of them struck only rock. One pierced his cloak before he could manage a shield spell.


    Edging forward, he reached the cave mouth. Now the creatures above began jabbing with spears. Not very effective or smart, for he seized the shaft of their weapons. Wrenched them right out of the attacker''s hands, or hauled them bodily over the edge; flipping them, shrieking, into the crater below.


    The survivors retreated, spurred by a showy (weak) firebolt. He tried to duck into the cave mouth, but couldn''t. Some sort of barrier blocked his entrance, flaring brighter with each pulse of that drumming command. With his hands gripping tight to the rock face, booted feet on a crumbling ledge, he couldn''t retreat or get in¡­ But Nameless could and somehow, sinking claws and teeth into his banned friend, succeeded in dragging him past the barrier.


    He felt pulled apart. Sifted. The spiraling mark on his chest broke up into glowing green motes that buzzed away northward like flies. Then he tumbled into the cave-mouth, fetching up on the chiseled steps of a shrine.


    The dark call vanished completely. Here, no evil intruded. Nor would it, till the end of all things. He was too shaken to see much, at first; his breath coming ragged and heart pounding. A few things got through, though.


    He smelled water and greenery, along with his own blood and general road-grime. Smelled Nameless, too. The marten was jetting a peculiar, musky alarm-scent. Tough to miss, or endure. (Hadn''t known the small menace could do that.)


    "If we''re to have any hope of a welcome," he whispered, "you''d better quit stinking."


    Reflexively cleansed and healed himself, then, drawing power from the shrine. Didn''t go any deeper, yet. Just sat on the steps, not being dead. Had a look around while his breathing and heartbeat calmed.


    Found himself in a large, roughly circular cavern, its stone walls flecked with tiny gold lights. They moved, creeping about on the rock, sometimes taking flight. In each glow was a winged little person. Fey-lights, he thought, the very smallest of fairies.


    At first, they avoided him. Then, a few at a time, they began to drift over. He kept very still, scarcely breathing as one of them lit on his upraised knee. It leaned forward suspiciously, fists on its miniscule hips, to stare. Having no speech, it projected a series of images flavored strongly with doubt.


    Meanwhile, Nameless had lost all trace of fear. Was leaping and snapping in a vain attempt to catch and eat fey-lights. Didn''t get any, though.


    His own mind was too slow and his concepts too big to interest the miniature fairy. It shrugged and soon left him, shooting back into the air. A swirling storm of the creatures lit up the cavern, their antics reflected in a pool of water at its base. Carved steps led down to the water''s edge, where a sort of platform or seat had been chiseled, along with a small, barren altar.


    Very carefully, signing apologies to the jostled fey-lights, he got to his feet, scooping up would-be cannibal Nameless, as he did so.


    "Stop," he hissed. "We are visitors here. No dining on the locals."


    A shrine, for certain, but not one attended for a very long time. There was no hint of offerings on that polished stone altar. Just a few drifted petals and leaves. Slowly, craning around to see if he angered anyone, he made his way down to the altar.


    "I could offer you," he told Nameless, "but who''d want a foul-smelling tree rat?"


    Set it down on the sandy cave floor with a stern injunction not to eat fairies. Next, from his magical pockets, he pulled a few coins. Not copper. Mithral and gold. These he set on the altar, along with five apples. Five, to reduce the endless supply and because five was his favorite number.


    Wasn''t sure what to do then except to say,


    "I thank you for giving us refuge here. Don''t mind the little one, pray-thee. He means no harm. Just playful, and always hungry."


    His words rang more loudly in that holy space than he''d intended, stirring the shrine to action. Something coalesced like mist, rising up from the water to take the shape of a lovely, flower-draped female. Tall, like himself, with pointed ears and long, drifting dark hair.


    "The apology is wrong-way around," she said, in a voice of water and wind. "It speaks well of you, rather, that your small companion would not take shelter unless you were admitted, as well."


    He bowed deeply, unable to quite meet those glowing pale eyes.


    "You know my language," he said, after rising once more.


    "Yes," she replied. "Though it has not been spoken for many long ages."


    "The folk here¡­"


    "Are much-blent descendants," said the spirit of the place, sounding scornful. "They have no recollection of the past¡­ but they are not the ones on trial. I sense that you do not belong here," she added, tilting her head, "but not why you''ve come. Only that you''ve been deeply tainted by Chaos."


    A thing he didn''t know enough to deny or explain. Tried, though, saying,


    "I was meant to do something, but I failed, and all through this land I have seen the result. I am here, searching for a woodland city that doesn''t seem to exist¡­ because I do not know where else to go."


    She came nearer without seeming to move, in the way of spirits and gods. Nameless stood up on its hind legs to sniff at her, eyes bright in that stripe of a mask, black nose quivering. He scooped the marten back up, before it could further offend; comforted as much as protective. But,


    "Come to the water," she said to him. "The little one will take no harm at all. You¡­ shall either be cleansed or destroyed. Or, you may simply depart. The flow of time here is different from that outside. Many months have elapsed there, and perhaps you are no longer hunted. The choice is yours, Last of the Old Ones."


    Last¡­?


    His grip on Nameless tightened convulsively. The marten nipped at him, but not very hard.


    Last.


    There was nothing left for him, out there. No place to go, nothing to lose¡­ and not much to fear from a shrine. What, after all, was the worst it could do, when killing him seemed like a genuine mercy?


    Setting Nameless aside, he stripped to his breeches, then stepped into water as cold and pure as snowmelt. There was a brief flash of pain, and a sense of disjunction, letting him see himself from outside. The water seemed almost to boil, as Chaos and darkness leached out of him. Now, the fey-lights descended in swarms, using him as a beach and a diving platform; pattering into the water like snowflakes.


    The shrine-goddess manifested in front of him. Even cleansed, he would not meet her gaze until she took his chin in her hand and tilted his face up.


    "Miche," she said to him. "Shorty." Then, "Mishe-tah. Short-stuff."


    Just like that, she gave him back some of his past and a name, before the real one. He nodded, momentarily recalling a rough hand mussing his hair. Being tossed high and then caught again, by someone long gone.


    She was suddenly further away again, saying,


    "The system of springs is active once more, now that one of the Old Ones has come. It is not complete, but you have something in your possession that may help. A stone."


    Several, actually, but he found the one she referred to in his magical pockets after searching a while. About the size of a sparrow''s egg, with the internal sheen of a moonstone, it was warm to the touch. Couldn''t say where it had come from or why he had it.


    "Yes. That one. Place it onto the altar, then dip a hand in the spring and pour some of its water onto the stone."


    He did as the spirit commanded. Nothing much happened, at first. The stone glowed and absorbed the water he''d poured onto it, was all.


    "Give it time," said the shrine spirit, seeming to sense his disappointment. "She is one of us, torn from her cave long ago. Travel the land, Miche. Visit many of our springs. You shall find her stone awaiting you, on every altar. Repeat the anointing, each time. When you have reached hers, refresh the spring."


    "How?" he asked.


    The spirit spread filmy hands.


    "I do not know, Miche. Only that the way will be clear when the moment arrives. Aiding her will help to heal us, as well. Then, perhaps, we may strengthen you further."


    He said quietly,


    "I do not have a wondrous score of successes to boast of, Goddess. One witch escaped from, one ancient weapon contained¡­ but I guess I''m all that you''ve got."


    The shrine spirit touched the top of his head.


    "You are Last of the Old Ones, Miche. If there is still hope for this shrinking world, it lies in you and your choices. Day by day, lands vanish. Evil in the north summons creatures of darkness. Perhaps, Mishe-tah, your being here is not a banishment. Perhaps, you were sent here to fight."


    It helped to think so, at least.

 Part Four, chapter thirteen

    13


    It was one thing for Lerendar, probable heir to the realm, to leave the Central Keep with a royal companion. Quite another for the shady fellow who skulked along at their rear to track His Lordship''s movements all through the bustling transit hall. A spy, at least, thought the guards; perhaps an assassin as well, sent to spark war.


    At any rate, when Lerendar and Andorin stepped onto the ''Nobles Only'' magical lift, a sudden quartet of uniformed guards pounced on Elmaris, preventing the trickster from joining his friends.


    Elmaris did not attempt to dodge or battle them. Too many eyes and drawn weapons were present, with curse-all sense of humor. Lifting his nimble hands, gold coin doing its odd little dance in front of him, the rogue simply smiled, telling them,


    "Easy, hall-patrol. I intend no harm to¡­"


    Hadn''t counted on Lerendar. His Lordship surged back off the glowing platform to stand by Elmaris.


    "What," he snarled, "is this?!"


    The highest ranked guard, a mere group leader, bowed low and saluted. So did her trio of raiders. (None of them over forty.)


    "My Lord," she said, in a tight, worried voice, "Group Leader Ava, reporting. I saw this one following you, keeping always to shadow, and I feared¡­"


    "He is my friend," snapped Lerendar, who¡­ with Reston and Keldaran¡­ ranked as Warleader, highest of all below Galadin. "My brother. You will not hinder or molest him in any way. He may go where he wishes and do whatever he chooses, on my authority."


    By this time, Andorin, too, had stepped off the magical lift. Smiling, one hand lightly brushing the strings of his dulcimer, the raven-haired bard asked,


    "There is some confusion, my friends?"


    Then, taking in the group leader''s tension¡­ the near bowel-voiding fear of her raiders¡­ he said,


    "Such commendable vigilance for the safety and health of your lord and myself, Spear-captain." Glancing at Elmaris, he joked, "I would not have trusted this reprobate, either. However, he belongs with us."


    On a sudden whim, the sea-elven prince drew a sword from one of his faerie pockets. A shining parade weapon, much more for show than for battle, it gleamed in the light of Starloft''s high windows. Winking at Lerendar (who was still tense with fury) he turned to the trickster.


    "You there, untrustworthy scoundrel and footpad!"


    Elmaris bowed elaborately, clearly enjoying the attention.


    "At your service, oh dampest, most highly soggy of wandering royals."


    "Kneel, Scofflaw," ordered Andorin.


    Elmaris quirked a dark eyebrow, but obeyed the prince. He dropped to one knee on the polished white floor of the transit hall. By this point, a small crowd of officials and guardsmen had begun to stack up. Not because they could not use the disk, but because they dared not go past, to their own freight-and-commoner lift, beyond it.


    Playing to the crowd, always a showman, Andorin lifted his sword. Made a slicing motion with it, over the startled rogue.


    "Thus, is slain Elmaris of Nowhere, whom no one is willing to claim¡­ doubtless tossed out with the night-soil, soon after his birth. Now, riseth Lord Elmar, Warden of Fardeep, rider of sharks. Mark it as written and done, all who witness this act of ennoblement."


    The trickster''s angular jaw dropped.


    "What?!" he blurted. Then, a bit pathetically, "Fardeep? I can''t¡­ I don''t even know how to swim, Andorin."


    "Prince Andorin to you, ink-not-dry-on-the-patents fresh lord," laughed the sea-elf. "Besides, Fardeep is no gift. I am well rid of the burden. Seriously. Rise, Elmar. Thou lookest a fool on thine knees, that way."


    Elmaris wobbled upright again with a hand from Lerendar (whose good humor was now restored). The elf-lord turned to grin at the pretty young group leader.


    "Any further questions?" he asked.


    Ava shook her head, making her sleek, dark braid swing.


    "No, My Lord. And¡­ I apologize for insulting your friend, thus. I will resign my rank and¡­"


    Lerendar cut her off with a brisk head shake.


    "No, Group Leader. Your instincts were sound and your perception sharp. I overreacted, seeing only a friend where you spotted possible danger." He bowed, saying, "It is I who apologize."


    Her commander, a harried Unit Second, came racing up, drawn by the crowd and commotion.


    "My Lord," he gasped. "If this one¡­"


    "Group Leader Ava deserves consideration for promotion, Unit Second," Lerendar told him. "I believe she would make a fine scout."


    "I¡­ I¡­" dithered her officer. Then, "Yes, Milord. I will see that your recommendation is passed up the chain of command."


    Ava looked ready to faint. One of her tween-aged raiders already had. She could only stare, having fallen completely in love with Lerendar; silently vowing to win his attention, again.


    Such a small act from one of the Great, costing him nothing, yet changing forever a humble young life. Meanwhile, Elmaris pulled Andorin into an alcove, telling him,


    "For the satiric ballad I sense will come of all this¡­ I was traded to a thief-lord in payment of debt, not tossed away in a bucket of night-soil."


    Andorin cocked his head, already composing.


    "I like that," he mused. "Gives you pathos and depth. Some scam gone wrong, was it? Parents trapped by a sleep spell, left to take all the blame while a fellow conspirator made off with the loot?"


    Elmaris lowered his amber eyes. For once, not smiling at all.


    "They¡­ she, rather¡­ I''ve no idea which "dad" plowed the field... Anyhow, slaves to the dream-dust, all of them. She paid off her debt the only way she knew how. With me."


    Andorin reached across to place a hand on his friend''s shoulder. What was there to say? He had come here to arrange the bloodline of two noble houses, crossing youths and maidens like horseflesh. Not all that different, really.


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    ¡­and descent into dream-dust had only one end.


    It took a little more than a candle-mark''s time to arrange for horses and ride out of Starloft. A unit of guards had been strongly suggested, but lord and prince both refused. The one they searched for would just melt away, if they came with a crowd, while Elmaris''s stance on the local constabulary was firm. His opinions hadn''t been shaken by sudden high rank.


    Anyhow, on Lerendar''s hunch, they headed eastward and north, until the vast citadel behind them was swallowed by distance and winter-bare trees. They soon left the cobbled road. Paused by a sparkling stream and dismounted to water and rest their horses. Also, to take a much-needed stretch. They were close, though; making enough gentle noise that anyone seeking would find them.


    In the meantime, the elves kept themselves busy. Lerendar hunted, coming back with a brace of partridge. Elmaris built a small, smokeless fire, in the manner of those who prefer to keep hidden. Andorin sat himself down on a fallen log to work on his epic, thus far featuring Idolan wine and a kidnapped young prince raised up as a thief.


    "Needs a love interest," he murmured, causing Elmaris to snort.


    Then¡­ all of them sensed it at once¡­ someone was there, standing off in the skeletal trees, out of sight. They glanced at one another, but it was Lerendar who stood up from plucking his gamebirds. Cleaned himself up at the stream, then slipped away into that grey-and-brown forest, deliberately crunching dead leaves and small twigs underfoot. The chilly breeze brought him few traces but moss, pine and wildlife. Seemed that the Other was nervously staying downwind.


    His sense of their missing companion was strong, but also the feeling of shyness and dread. Very much, something was wrong. Coming to a halt well away from their campsite, Lerendar said gently,


    "Here you find only safety and friends. Your presence is very much missed, Quiet One."


    There was some movement in shadow, just where a drooping willow trailed its bare branches. For an instant or two, Lerendar made out the slender shape of a ranger; cloaked and hooded in grey. Then, the figure retreated again.


    Back at the fire, Andorin began lightly strumming his dulcimer, humming courage, welcome and strength. Only sometimes resorting to words, the bard wove trust and bond-beyond-life into music.


    Another long moment passed. Then the ranger parted the willow''s long branches, exposing its gnarled grey trunk. Stepped out into branch-filtered sunshine but wouldn''t look up.


    A name came to Lerendar, then. Brondon? Bron- something? He extended a hand, saying,


    "Come to the fire, friend Bron. We are not us, without you."


    The figure signed with one hand, using the other to pull down its hood.


    ''Come, yes. Stay, no.''


    Lerendar inhaled sharply, all at once puzzled and hurt.


    "We shall not detain you, if solitude is truly your wish¡­ but at least tell us why."


    The answering sign was more gesture than notion. A combination of grief and resignation that trailed off nonsensically. The ranger followed him back to the campsite, though. That was something.


    There, Lerendar, Elmaris and Andorin got two surprises. First, that their friend was a female of the fey Winter Court. Some cast-off minion of Titania''s, with grey skin, golden eyes and dark hair. Second, once she''d lowered her hood, that a smoldering wound was eating the flesh of her face and left shoulder, exposing the damaged bone of her cheek and jaw; baring her teeth and a badly acid-burnt collarbone. Worse, the wound bubbled and stank at its edges, still growing.


    "Dragon venom," said Lerendar, who''d seen its like in the field, after a hunt gone terribly wrong.


    "The wound that cannot be healed," added Prince Andorin. Elmaris said nothing at all. Just prepared a stiff drink out of the stuff in his faerie pockets, sensing the ranger''s awful hunger and thirst.


    Problem was, she could only drink by tilting her head very far to the right, a clumsy business that dribbled off more than got in. She was in wracking pain, as well. Ate only with difficulty. Talked not at all, except in hand signs and grunts.


    Bron crouched on the ground, taking the drink that Elmaris prepared, and some soup that Lerendar made for her. Andorin sat in deep thought, meanwhile, strumming his dulcimer. The ranger''s hands shook as she struggled to feed herself and sign at the same time.


    "Left fey wild,'' she stated, between messy gulps. ''Encountered black dragon. Got its death-wound. Me, too. Only longer to die.''


    "No," said Lerendar, as he added wild garlic and herbs to the simmering broth. "There''s a solution for this. There has to be. Lord Oberyn''s brother¡­ what''s his name¡­ survived a dragon wound. Copper, I think."


    Andorin nodded, still caressing the strings of his wooden dulcimer.


    "It was, and he did, thanks to the Strider''s quick action and courage. Might be something in that. Let me think a bit."


    They did so, each caring in his own way for the critically wounded ranger.


    "Must''ve been one nether-pit of a fight," ventured Elmaris, applying his strongest potion. Didn''t heal the wound, but slowed its progress a bit, causing those bubbling edges to quiet.


    She could not smile at him. The muscles were burnt and nodding brought terrible pain. Signed, ''Yes,'' though, adding, ''Very young dragon. Very fool me.''


    Lerendar, too, hauled forth medicines, most of them Bea''s.


    "This one," he said, "is supposed to bring ease, and soothe nightmares. Bee calls it Sleep Soft."


    Very carefully, with Bron tilting her head, tears slipping out of her golden eyes, Lerendar dripped potion onto her face and shoulder. Andorin stopped making music, then, saying,


    "I have it, I think¡­ but it will need all of us to handle what cannot be healed. Only shared, as Oberyn did with his brother''s wound."


    Bron surged clumsily upright, signing,


    ''No.'' Pulled her hood back into place and made ready to misty-step off. ''No harm to you. Thanks for food, help. Leave now.''


    Andorin was at her side in a flash, placing a slim, strong hand on her arm.


    "Would you not do the same for any of us?" he demanded. "Have we not survived death together, already? What is a scar, shared out between brothers? Sibs, that is. Any of us can choose where to place their share of the mark. But yours, I fear, must remain on your shoulder or face."


    "And you really do not want this sodden warlock hunting you down," added Elmaris. "He''ll give you no peace, tagging along just to witness the end, then weave it into some tedious poem. Better off letting him tinker with magic, Bron. Sometimes, he knows what he''s doing."


    "Anyhow, this is my realm and here, I command," cut in Lerendar. "You''ve eaten my food, Bron. That makes you my guest. I have to assist you."


    And there was no gain-saying guest right. Even Bron could see that. Her answering sign was a muddle of thanks and attempted refusal, but Lerendar wouldn''t see or hear No.


    Andorin got to work soon afterward, combining potions, music and bardic magic. Set aside his dulcimer to play a far mightier instrument, which he accessed through shifted time and great distance. Formed from the exposed ribs of some vast, ancient beast, strung with magical light, its power was a thing out of legend. Llyroc.


    Manna rose up around them as the bard handed his potion around in a small silver cup. Fey lights appeared, swarming like bees at a honeybloom tree.


    At Andorin''s word, the others took hands in a circle. Even Bron, though she tried to pull free. His chanting opened a gate in the midst of their group. Through it, they saw a massive dark cliff looming high over thundering surf; heard keening wind and the shriek of white gulls. Felt stinging spindrift and tasted salt air.


    The giant harp projected over a strip of pebbly shore, slapped at by waves and scissored by wind. Its strings had formed at Andorin''s call, and they shone as he reached out to play. Its notes, his voice, along with the surge and crash of the ocean, wove themselves into a prayer of sorts.


    "Father Ocean," he sang, "a blessing we crave.


    Acid to douse, a companion to save.


    Let shared damage close that which nothing can heal.


    Let pain be divided, let death-wound be sealed.


    So may it be through the bond that was wrought,


    When four dwelt in one, and together we fought."


    Andorin left off playing to join their circle, taking Lerendar''s hand and Bron''s. The terrible wound flared deeper, seeming to slash its way through the group. All of them felt its blighting poison and searing agony. No one cried out or let go. They''d fought to the end in that hut by the sea, and would not give in, now. Through pain and fire and hell, till the last note faded, they gripped tight and hung on.


    When it was over, the portal faded like mist, taking with it that glimpse of some alien, long-ago sea. All of the group were left scarred; Lerendar, on his abdomen, just over the navel. Prince Andorin, at the top of his chest (where he could loosen his shirt to show off the mark). Elmaris¡­ somewhere safely concealed.


    As for Bron, a narrow white seam ran from the bridge of her nose to her jawline, but it no longer gaped open or burned at the edges. She was whole, once again. The ranger explored her healed face and shoulder with shaking hands. Then, she turned away from her friends, drawing her cloak up over her head. Had a good, private cry that no one disturbed


    Once she emerged again, Idolan wine flowed like water, and faerie pockets were ransacked for anything tasty. It was a party, and everyone wanted to hear how "they''d" gotten "their" scar.


    In a husky voice, eating three times as much as the males, Bron told her tale.


    "It was like this," she began.

 Part Four, chapter fourteen

    14


    In a third timeline (nothing like meanwhile) a ferocious, predator-race had all but scoured their planet of life and resources. Next turning covetous eyes toward space, they built great machines with which to reach and conquer the stars. Found others, though, already there. Some of them refugees, some of them aliens. All well-armed, determined and ready for war. And then¡­


    ''Full consciousness required, pilot. The engagement is lost. Retreat: Y/ N. Self destruct: Y/ N."


    ¡­then he awoke into battle.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    In an ivy-draped courtyard, Valerian worked off frustration by teaching his pages a bit of offensive magic. Nothing much. Just ''dart'' and how to deflect it. The girls, Mirielle and Pretty One, were eager learners, and he''d had to extract an airtight promise from each, not to use their new skills for mischief.


    "Seriously. No tormenting the staff or each other with magical bolts. I am risking censure as it is, starting your training myself."


    The girls were all wide, innocent eyes and sly, crossed stances as they ''promised''.


    "We would never, Lord Val!" protested Mirielle (tygre-striped, at the moment). Then, chanting a memorized lesson, "Magic is a powerful tool and a mighty servant, never a toy."


    "At least," giggled Pretty One, "not while you''re watching us!"


    "Not ever," he corrected, trying for ''stern'' but managing only ''distracted''. "It is terribly easy to lose control and have Chaos slip into a spell. Especially now, in the short days of winter. Do not misuse your power."


    At which point they''d had the grace to nod and look somber. Seemed reassuring enough¡­ Only then, Mirielle summoned a spirit-blade, saying,


    "And if anyone tries to centaur you, Milord, we''ll dart ''em. Right, Pretty?"


    "Oh, so much!" growled the tan-skinned goblin imp, jumping up and down on the flagstones, surrounded by shimmering darts like a school of pale fish.


    Well, you couldn''t have everything, he supposed. Attentive, capable students who also wouldn''t spend all of their free time zapping each other, was probably too much to ask.


    "I appreciate the offered defense," Val said lightly. "But I am well able to manage without silly pages, no matter the ''centaur'' or censure I face. Now, one more dart apiece, at me, this time, as I evade. Then, off to wash up and have supper."


    The day was sunny but cold, being well advanced, and the pages'' bellies were rumbling. They were too excited to quit early, though. Even for supper in the New-blade mess hall.


    Val mussed their hair with a playful spell, causing Mirielle''s candy-striped braids and Pretty''s black mane to stand up and ripple like wheat. Then, he shot off across the stone courtyard; misty-stepping at random. First to the gate, then the quartz archway and rose trellis, keeping ahead of twin, shining darts. The girls could control them a bit, once launched, sending the magic missiles where they thought he''d turn up¡­ but mostly guessing wrong.


    Stupid fun and a waste of time, but it gave him space to reflect¡­ and that, Valerian very much needed. See, he''d gone to his rooms after the disastrous encounter with Mum, taking Bean back up to Alfea. Said nothing at all about what had happened, though, and didn''t stay very long after changing. The lovely sprite was perceptive, and would have asked questions, had she been less exhausted.


    Fee had fallen asleep again soon after feeding the baby, so he''d kissed them both, then gone to check with Katina. His former nanny might have sensed something wrong, but she didn''t say so; merely fussing with his clothing and hair before sending him forth.


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    "Mind you don''t attempt too much magery, Sweetling," she''d advised, there in the cozy west sitting room. "You''ve drained yourself proper, keeping Her Ladyship well."


    Valerian nodded, accepting the kelab-dipped biscuit she''d given him. Sweets and bread really did restore manna.


    "I''ll be careful," he promised. "It is low-level training, though. What''s the wors¡­"


    Katina lifted a hand to lay gentle fingertips over his mouth, stopping the question.


    "Don''t ask, and never find out, Milord. Chaos hears, and it answers."


    Good advice, from someone who very much loved him. He''d taken her hand and squeezed it by way of response. Then, kissing his Nana''s forehead, he misty-stepped off.


    Now, with a great knot of tangled emotions and worry churning his gut, the young elf-lord flashed hither and yon through the courtyard; followed (and sometimes surprised) by glittering mage-darts. Nothing hit him, until a sudden outburst of Chaos appeared, in the direction of Lerendar''s mansion. Huge, at first, the crackling sphere instantly began to contract; shattering bridges and cleaving platforms, sending folk shrieking for safety.


    Then, utterly shocked, Valerian stopped short and sharp. Got struck, one-two, by paired darts that hit chest and right arm, for he hadn''t bothered to shield. They stung a bit going through. Minor damage, at best¡­ but he hardly noticed.


    "Mirielle, Pretty One, go to the New-blade barracks. Find Claire or Mello and stay with them. Now."


    "But, Milord," they begged, trying to catch at his hands. "We can¡­"


    "Now," he repeated, readying magic he couldn''t afford. "Move!"


    The girls scurried off, which was one less concern. For himself, Val tacked into a ley line and ported, absorbing as much manna as the stone giant fortress would loan. As always, confusingly, he sensed its willing acceptance of him as Silmerana; like Dad and Lord Galadin, Warden of the North.


    Got there in less than a heartbeat, to find the pulsating globe clenching tight like a purple-dark hand. Centered on Lerendar''s manse, it had already crushed the west wing and gardens, as terrified servants fought to escape.


    Val created a tunnel of sorts, jamming it into that bubble of roiling darkness. The noise¡­ cracking stone, splintering timber, screaming and curses¡­ was thunderous. Overwhelming. Louder yet, that chaotic sphere crackled and buzzed, flaring with tendrils of lightning each time it convulsed.


    Those who got to his safe-path abandoned the mansion. But not¡­ he couldn''t see¡­


    "Honored Beatriz and Lady Zara," he demanded, seizing the chief steward''s shoulder. "Where are they!?"


    The man, a grizzled half-elf, shook his head.


    "I don''t know, Milord! They were just in the dining room. We''d served dessert, but¡­" he looked around wildly, brown eyes frantic with misery. "I don''t see them, My Lord."


    And Val could not sense them at all. Out here, at least. Releasing the steward, he snapped,


    "Clear everyone out that you can, Rowlin. I place you in charge of evacuating the premises until the High Lord arrives."


    "Yessir. Yes, Milord!" Rowlin answered. "The dining room, Sire. They must still be in there!"


    But Val was already moving, transporting himself up the quivering tunnel, pushing its walls back with borrowed strength, as Chaos clamped down like a steel-armored fist.


    Here, Starloft''s magical feed was reduced to a trickle, choking his manna. Val pushed through, anyhow. He knew where the dining hall was. Ought to have taken a heartbeat at most to reach it. Only, there were servants¡­ people he knew and cared about¡­ crushed and dying all through the building. He couldn''t just leave them. Pages, the cook and tutor, a few tween-aged maids, Lerendar''s man-servant... These, he got to in time, yanking them into the tunnel while battling Chaos with sigil, power and word.


    Others were already pulped, and beyond his help. Those he released with clean fire, not letting the darkness swallow them up. Reached Beatriz and Zara¡­ with Speckles, the cat¡­ moments later. Bea''s pet had ballooned to lion-size, was flaring with magic, using all that it had to keep Chaos at bay. Wretched, foul-tempered monster hissed at him, as Valerian fought his way over through waves of compressive force and shattered debris. Scratched at him, too, but he dodged its clawed swipe.


    "Uncle Val!" shouted Scamp. "Over here! We''re right here!"


    She was held tight by her crouching Mum, while darkness bore down like the ocean at crush depth. Her mother gasped,


    "Can''t move. Promised. Please, help Scamp¡­ take Zara¡­ get her out of here, please!"


    Val got to the woman and child, suddenly comprehending. She must have promised his brother¡­ her lord¡­ that she''d stay in the house. Now, bound by her vow until Lando released her, Bea was trapped.


    Holy flame. Now what?


    Val might have been able to grab just Zara and flee, but the girl wouldn''t go, and he couldn''t leave Bea. Hauled them into his arms, instead, crouching low as he called upon Starloft for power and strength.


    The terrible pressure increased explosively. That chaotic globe contracted relentlessly, demolishing walls and furnishings, entombing them all in a saw-toothed and tightening death trap.

 Part Four, chapter fifteen

    15


    It was a stirring tale, animated by Andorin''s music and Bron''s vivid gestures. She told it well (there were embellishments, of course; Andorin was a bard, after all, and never met a story he couldn''t improve). But, dragon versus fey, to the death, in the wastes of the haunted north shore, would have held just about any audience.


    There were twists: she tricked it into a stony wash, just as the tide thundered in. Turns: it slithered free through a spume-vent, shooting high in the air on a column of cold and glittering spray. Surprises: the dragon changed forms, becoming a darkly lovely young girl who worked magic with ancient words and the ghost of forgotten gods. Sudden reversals: Titania''s mischievous laughter echoed, shaking the rocks and blocking the tide, causing the dragon''s vile spell to turn back on its source.


    Then, just as the gelatinous slime it had summoned flowed to engulf it¡­ as Bron''s arrow flew from her bow, lancing straight for the creature''s throat¡­ as it opened its mouth, jetting acid¡­


    Something happened, back home. Lerendar sensed it first, like a stab to the heart that the others picked up, moments later.


    "No," he whispered, knowing that Bee and the Scamp were in terrible danger, and that, somehow, it was his fault. The promise, Lerendar realized. He''d made her promise to stay in the house. "Oh, no¡­"


    The elf-lord surged to his feet, turning to rush toward Raya, his browsing horse. But, his heart-friends were moving, too. Bron doused the fire. Elmaris swept everything¡­ food, trash and belongings¡­ into a faerie pocket. Andorin''s music changed tone and pace. As the dulcimer played on, he reached out, grasping the warrior''s arm.


    "Give me a destination, Lan. I will open the way."


    The bard''s magic had already formed a swirling, watery portal; an oval of silver that hung in the frosty air. Lerendar nodded.


    "Home," was all he could say, but it was enough, for those who''d shared body and mind, back in a faraway never-when.


    At Andorin''s gesture, the portal opened to Starloft. More than that, to the half-swallowed platform on which Lerendar''s mansion was built. Mostly rubble and shattered debris now, with the two¡­ three¡­ he loved best trapped inside. Drawing his sword, the warrior leapt through, followed by a trio of former shades.


    XXXXXXXXXXXX


    Fanged with sharp, splintered lumber, armed with great blocks of dense stone, the orb of Chaos clenched tight. Valerian pushed back. Poured all that he had, life-force included, into keeping a little more space, a little bit longer; taking all of that terrible weight on himself. Got harder with every strained breath, every heartbeat, for the darkness and pressure were building, seeking to crush him and those he fought to protect.


    Sheltered beneath him, clutching the child and her shrunken cat, Beatriz gasped,


    "It''s alright¡­ it''s going to be fine, Baby-girl. I love you, Sweetheart, and Papa does, too."


    He¡­ could¡­ not¡­ let them die. Was readying last-magic, when in through that vanishing passage crept a slim, questing vine. It entered their shrinking black prison, then budded and flowered, producing a very cramped druid.


    Gildyr and Val both reached out at once, convulsively clasping hands.


    "Together, my friend," whispered the druid, shouldering some of that crushing burden. "Take heart. Help comes, and swiftly."


    Then, with a scatter of fragrant petals, Lady Alyanara''s power swept in, forcing the orb to loosen its grip. Not much, but enough to let him draw a deep, gasping breath.


    Outside, Lord Galadin had arrived, along with his lady wife. He was once again mainly Firelord, driving most everyone off with his brilliance and heat. Aly could take it. Cinda, Reston and Lerendar, too, along with the furry, black-and-white whirlwind of Skipper.


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    Having arrived through a sudden portal, their oldest grandson raced forward, hurtling rubble to skid to a halt at one side of that yards-wide Chaos ball. Yards wide, and steadily shrinking.


    Firelord/ Galadin considered a moment. Then,


    "Stay your hand," he commanded, as Lerendar raised his sword, preparing to slash at the thing that had swallowed his family. "Damage incurred by the sending will transfer to those trapped within." The high lord, Sword Arm of Alarin, spoke in a complex whisper-roar that shook all of Starloft.


    Meanwhile, Alyanara knelt by that shrunken tunnel. No more than a finger''s breadth wide, it had been threaded through by a slender vine, one growing out of a very still wood-elf; their druidic visitor.


    Andorin, Elmaris and Bron stepped through the portal in Lerendar''s wake. As the rogue summoned ''reversal of fortune'', Andorin''s music altered, becoming a powerful, orderly sea-chanty; the sort of tune that helped folk to raise sails, pull the oars and haul lines. Firelord glanced his way.


    "Water magic," he scoffed, expressing multiple threads of disgust with just two scornful words. Then, "I will broaden the tunnel. She-who-is-mate will keep them alive. You, son-of-son, will go in to retrieve them."


    Lerendar could only nod, all of his heart and acceptance plain on his face. A certain dark-haired young elf-lass¡­ a mere group leader¡­ had climbed through the shattered debris, daring Firelord''s heat to reach Lerendar.


    "I can help," Ava whispered. "My Lord, I can follow your lead, and carry whoever you tell me to."


    There would be four to extract, through a very tight, shrinking passage. Then Cinda came over to stand beside Ava.


    "I will come, too," snapped the young ranger.


    "And I," offered Bron, holding a potion of healing and light.


    Galadin/ Firelord extended a hand, palm outward. Using just force, not flame, he levered the mage-tunnel wider. A foot, two, then a yard and a half.


    "Go," he commanded, his voice cracking stone and tilting their platform.


    Lerendar sheathed his sword, then stooped low and rushed in, calling out to his woman and child. Alyanara increased the flow of sunshine, blossom and life she''d been sending, causing the stuff of Chaos to rage and recoil, turning it fragile and grey at the edges.


    In through that crumbling passage rushed Lerendar, not at all heeding the vine that he trod on, repeatedly. Got there, to shrieks of,


    "Papa! Here we are, Papa!"


    Here, in the hate-filled center of Chaos, where there was no room at all to stand up; barely to move. He reached in, caressing Bea''s face as she handed over their baby. Kissed the little one, then pushed her on back to Bron¡­ and Cinda¡­ then Ava¡­ who took hold of the child, held tight and then turned to crawl outward.


    Next, he seized Beatriz.


    "You''re released from the promise," he told her. Covered her tear-stained, beautiful face with kisses, then shifted aside to push her at Bron. Again, they chain-brigade moved someone. Cinda, this time, taking the victim and backing to freedom, though Beatriz fought her, not wanting to go without Lerendar.


    Ava took over, back at the tunnel''s mouth, for Lady Alyanara was entirely focused on keeping her manna flow steady.


    As Speckles shot past him, growling, Lerendar next took hold of his half-conscious brother.


    "Gotcha," he grunted. "Right here, Miche. Hang on."


    The druid just sort of¡­ un-budded; flowing back into his vine and then un-growing out again. Now the darkness rumbled and keened from every direction at once, pressing still harder, meaning to slaughter what it had left.


    Lerendar twisted in place, hauling Valerian over and across himself, shoving the kid at Bron.


    "Take him," he gasped. "Get him out of here."


    The ranger nodded, grabbed hold and began to inch backward. Lerendar followed as best he could, losing a boot and part of his cloak to the fast-clenching darkness behind him. Wouldn''t have made it, had Elmaris and Ava not seized him and hauled with the conjured-up strength of ten. Freed, he tumbled over that slanted and crumbling platform as Galadin sketched a binding sigil onto the shuddering orb.


    "Away," ordered Ilirian''s warden. And it went; snuffed out of existence with a rumbling shock wave that rocked the fortress on its foundations, shattered glass and ripped eardrums.


    Lerendar embraced Elmaris and Ava, then got to his feet and rushed across to Bea, who was still being tended by healers. She was semi-conscious and gasping, holding Zara, who squirmed free to hug him.


    "I knew you''d come, Papa," she said to him, dirty and runny-nosed¡­ alive, alive, oh gods, still alive. "I knew you''d come get us."


    He swallowed hard. Nodded, unable to speak as he took her and Bea into his arms. Never again¡­ not ever¡­ would he ask his woman to promise anything. Just, in a rough, husky voice,


    "Wouldn''t want to make it official, would you?" he asked, pushing the curly black hair off Bee''s scraped and beautiful face. "Stop stringing me along?"


    She snorted, coughed and then laughed at him. There might have been a "yes" in there, somewhere, but it was lost in all the confusion that followed. When neither he, nor anyone else, could find Gildyr, Cinda or Val.

 Part Four, chapter sixteen

    16


    He''d spent what felt like a night at the cavern shrine, learning all that he could from its tall, shining goddess. She gave him a map, of sorts, which became part of his mind. A thing he could sort of¡­ page back to consult. Only,


    "It has been a very long time since the springs were last active, Miche," she told him, hovering light as a leaf, over her shimmering pool. "The landscape has certainly changed since this map was produced, but the shrines should be present as marked, unless drift has altered the world and buried them."


    He nodded, getting his first real look at the place he''d awakened to. There were twelve shrines, he saw, spread out over three major continents and a scatter of islands. One of them glowed. The one he had come to, maybe?


    "You said that your lands have been vanishing," he mused, thinking aloud. "Is that why some of the map appears darkened?" Whole sections were dim; wouldn''t expand when he looked at them.


    "That is possible," the goddess replied. "We do not get out much. Our place is here, assisting the Old Ones¡­ but you are the first to command our service in age beyond record. All I know is that springs have been dropped from the chain, like beacons that no longer light. You must visit all that remain, though, returning the stone to its home."


    She looked sad as she said this, floating there with her dark hair adrift. Suddenly recalling the artifact, he drew the strange object out of its magical pocket and held it forth.


    "I was given this by a construct I met inside a dead airship," he explained. "Would you know what I am meant to do with it?"


    The cylinder rested on top of his palm; perfectly balanced, whirling smoothly now, striped with colors and filled with small sparks. Drifting nearer, the goddess cocked her head to one side. Then she reached forth a slim hand, one glowing finger outstretched to tap at it. At her touch, the object flared with sudden harsh light. She flickered, and just for an instant, everything¡­


    ***


    ¡­restored again, more or less the same as it had been. The fey-lights shot up all at once, forming a wasp-like vortex. The shrine-goddess flashed from dark-haired to light and then back again. Nameless was all at once tawny-furred, running in frantic circles and screeching madly.


    "Put it away," urged the goddess. "That is a mighty talisman for good or ill, at the whim of its bearer. Like the springs, it is part of a system, but which one, I cannot remember, if ever I knew."


    Right.


    He shoved the thing hurriedly into its pocket. Left her shrine very soon afterward, having gained many more questions than answers; armed with a map that no longer matched that dark, tortured land.


    Consulting the chart (just had to move his eyes leftward and wonder about his location) he decided to keep heading west. Why? No special reason, except that he had to go someplace, and there lay the next nearest shrine, bang in a region of darkness. So, he emerged from the cavern with Nameless and a trio of fey-lights that clung to his braided gold hair.


    Onto a sunlit ledge he stepped, then carefully over the rim of the crater. There, he crouched down to listen and wait for a while. Sensed nothing at all of his attackers, at first. No motion, no bodies or bloodstains. Just scurrying creatures, sparse trees and a hawk, circling high overhead.


    Nameless stretched in the rising sunlight, then scampered off to get breakfast. A good sign, that. As for himself, the wanderer waited half a candle-mark longer, then stood up and went to the shade of a massive, petrified stump. Had he been able to hold his own hands, forming a chain, it would have taken at least twelve of him to encircle its base. Three of him, to reach its rough top. The fallen trunk lay like a slaughtered titan, stretching away from the crater and stump.


    For some reason, he picked up a shard of its petrified wood and something that looked like a seed. After all, you never knew, he thought. There were healing springs and¡­ and¡­ somebody else that he couldn''t remember. Someone who knew about trees.


    Shrugging, he put the finds away, then poked around, very quietly. Turned out that cautious movement was good, because scouts had been posted on a crag overlooking a nearby stream. Sadly for them, they''d sky-lined themselves; were easily seen from below. Question was, what to do about it? Slip past, or solve the immediate problem?


    Nameless was still out somewhere hunting, and those goblinoid scouts weren''t all that bright. He had time to think and observe. They''d built a small blaze, but weren''t very good with it. Smokey and low, their campfire kept going out.


    Carefully staying downwind, he pulled out his bow and a barbed hunting arrow. Keeping to cover, silent as only a stalking elf can be, he looked for a good place to line up a shot.


    One of those petrified tree stumps supplied what he needed, both concealing his climb and providing a stable, high platform from which to watch the bickering scouts. The stump wasn''t smooth on top, having been twisted and splintered, seemingly yanked halfway out of the ground before turning to stone.


    There had been rooms carved into it. Someone''s abandoned home, he guessed. His lookout and shooting-blind, now. Got himself into position, sun warm on his shoulders, shadows still long. Crept forward to look down at three ugly and quarrelsome goblinoid warriors. They were lightly armored. Chainmail and leather, it looked like. The only weapons he saw were plain wooden bows, clubs and spears. From this vantage point, three easy marks for arrow or flame.


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    "One¡­ two¡­ three," he whispered. "Dead, every one of you."


    It would have been quick. Simple. The only real trouble was¡­ mercy, or common sense? Sneak off with a foe at his back, or risk raising a wider alarm?


    He hadn''t quite made up his mind (but leaning, maybe, toward avoiding trouble) when something came clanking and lumbering out of the north. An iron giant shaped like a person stomped through the woods, shaking trees with each stride, sending flocks of birds wheeling and shrieking into the sky. There was a glowing red spiral marking its chestplate, and seeing that awful mark stung. Seemed to burn his own flesh, right where the sigil of Chaos had been.


    He knew very few curses. Unpacked and snarled every one of them, now. The giant was hunting, he sensed. Drawn by shared chaos-stain, looking for him. Found something else on its way, though.


    Down on their perch, the goblin scouts howled and gibbered in terror, diving off of that stony crag. The giant (fifteen, maybe twenty feet tall) produced a beam of red light in response, blasting their outpost to rubble. With a harsh, grating cry, it stomped two of the scouts into blood-pulp and bone splinters. Then, with a whole-body lightning flash, the metal giant fried their remains off its armor.


    It stopped, then; the blank, helmeted head turning slowly around on its armor-ringed neck. A pinging noise flashed away from it, like someone repeatedly plucking the final string of a god-harp. With each ping came a globe of crackling force that hurtled outward, sweeping straight through him and the last, shaking scout.


    The goblinoid howled, throwing a useless spear that bounced off the monster''s leg with a sad little ''plik''.


    "No," hissed the watching, frustrated elf. "Don''t attack it directly. Dodge! Out-think it!"


    But the scout was too frightened to move. Moaning, the warrior froze, unable to flee as the giant''s foot rose, blocking the sun.


    Good, clean shot. Straight through the eye and into that terrified brain. He took aim, drew and released in one fluid motion, ending the goblin scout''s life before that armored boot could descend. The goblin collapsed with a final, hissed breath, felled by the best shot he''d ever made (in a month and a half of life).


    The massive foot came down like a thunderbolt, reducing its target to bone-flecked slime and then ash¡­ but the giant somehow retraced the path of his arrow; causing a shining blue ghost of his shot to zip backward from dead scout to¡­


    Holy gods. Holy flame.


    Useless to jump. Like those pulped goblins, he''d only be crushed, while the petrified tree stump was blasted to sand behind him. Instead, he leapt into one of its ancient, carved rooms and then downward, taking a narrow stairway without ever hitting its steps, plunging straight through. Scraped and bruised himself landing, but barely noticed. The entire stone tree shuddered as the giant outside began battering at it.


    He raced further in through a hollowed-out root and into a cave system, feeling the floor quake beneath him; dodging fragments of falling stone. A storm of red light pierced the cave roof, punching dozens of holes as the monster hunted him down. The ground above crumbled, becoming a web-work of craters and zigzagging cracks.


    A good thing for him, but not for the giant, which he could see, and maybe entrap. Like a mouse under the floorboards of some rustic''s hut, he darted and scurried; summoning flame as he lured the construct onto a heavily pocked section of cave.


    "This way," he grunted. "Come after me, blood-seeker."


    It did, pivoting to follow its quarry''s frenzied and darting retreat. One great metal foot came down on that tattered ceiling, then another. And then, with a loud, grinding crash, the giant fell through. Not much of a drop, for something that size, but enough to measure its length on the crumbling surface, face-first. The elf had to smoke-step wildly, to avoid being smashed by its thundering fall.


    Rejecting his bow, he called upon flame, drawing all of the manna that clung to this lost, empty place. Something flowed into him, then. More than just power; a fiery presence.


    Levitating, he shot past the giant''s thrashing right arm. Dodged a spread-fingered grab, zipping through huge metal digits, then out of the cave and high overhead.


    Next, with absolutely all that he had, he unleashed fire and rage; aiming straight at the giant''s slow-turning head. Spotted a target: a seam in the armor-plate sprung by its crashing collapse. Into that gap he poured flame and then, using his conjured sword, ice-bolt after shrilling ice-bolt.


    The giant locked up, mid-rise. Then, juddering wildly, it smashed the cavern system like a house of cards, crashing through floor after floor with a noise like thunder and great clouds of dust. Far below, trapped in stone, it exploded.


    A tremendous hail of rock and metal blasted outward, along with an earth-shaking roar. The wave of concussive force hit him first, though, swatting him out of the sky to land hundreds of yards away. He struck hard, bounced, rolled and slid, plunging over the rim and into the crater. Red-bloody-hurting-unconscious.


    It was the fey-lights that saved him. Somehow, they sank themselves into his broken body; stanching blood flow and straightening shattered limbs. He''d landed hard on a scree slope. Was riddled with bits of sharp metal and rock. Breath bubbled out with the blood from too many holes to count, until¡­ quite painfully¡­ the shards were pushed out and his wounds were repaired.


    Meanwhile, that glowing red spiral had come away from the fallen giant. It rose now to swirl through the air, hovering over the crater. Hung there for several very long heartbeats, as though watching him. Twisting, knotting and flowing.


    Finally shot away northward, back to whatever had sent it. The elf was a jangling bundle of nerves and raw pain, but the place on his chest where Chaos had marked him burned hot in response to the spiral''s last flicker.


    It had been part of him. Could always find him again¡­ and not a cursed thing he could do about it.


    The fey-lights were gone, having given their all to resurrect a near-corpse.


    "I thank you," he whispered, inclining his head. "Not sure that I''m worth it, but I honor your sacrifice, anyhow."


    Got to his feet as¡­ chirp by shy twitter¡­ birds and insects began making noise once again. That fiery presence was still inside of him, lending strength and a touch of vitality. Felt oddly familiar, but he didn''t have time to explore the thought because, there on the rim of the crater stood yet another goblin scout.


    Four? There had been four of them? One watching from cover? Wherever it came from, this one stood staring, spear in one hand, Nameless squirming and scratching in the other.


    The marten was gripped by the furry scruff of its neck. Even from this remove, he could smell the animal''s battle-stench, along with the goblinoid''s reek.


    His sword had fallen some distance away. The rest of his weapons were still in their magical pockets. Only, the scout didn''t try to descend or attack. Just released Nameless, thumped the butt of its spear on the ground, once, then backed off into the brush.


    Screeching and yapping, the marten raced down to join Miche. Smelt like twelve hells in a bottle, along with some very old egg. Didn''t matter. He knelt down to greet and embrace his small friend. Saying stupid stuff. Maybe crying a little, behind the screen of his hair.


    "You''re an idiot," he murmured. "We both are, and both of us ought to be dead¡­ but we''re here. Maybe that means we go find out what''s wrong with this place, and then fix it."


    Somehow.

 Part Four, chapter seventeen

    17


    It was Gildyr''s doing; a move he''d made suddenly, performing one of his frequent, wild swerves. He hadn''t had much of a choice, though. Not really.


    In that moment of frenzied tension¡­ noble victims rescued, their lordships safely retrieved, the sending vanquished¡­ Gildyr had seen his chance, and he''d taken it. High Lord Tarandahl was distracted, hunting the source of that nearly fatal attack. Lord Reston, busy keeping Starloft''s populace under control. Lady Alyanara focused on healing the damage, meanwhile, reversing all traces of Chaos. A bit further off, caught up in a storm of anguish and love, Lerendar wouldn''t have noticed if you''d set him on fire. As for his friends, the bard, rogue and outcast cared only for him. So much for the Tarandahls.


    There was a great deal of noise and activity. People and hounds swarmed everywhere, plowing the rubble in search of survivors. The joy, the coming together, whenever someone was found!


    In all this confusion, no one gave thought to Valerian¡­ or so it first seemed. The young elf-lord lay on a folded cloak near the edge of that tilted platform. Beside him were heaped the broken chunks of a rock-crystal griffin. His Lordship was perfectly still. Better yet, unattended.


    Work of a moment to glide right over and crouch at his side, lifting the high-elf''s cold hand. The beat at his wrist was rapid, uneven. His breathing, shallow. Val''s half-open eyes were focused on nothing. That made sense, if the visions that Gildyr had seen were accurate. If the drift of herbs on water, stirred by the wood-elf''s own breath, spoke true. If so, Val had to leave Starloft. Now.


    "What are you doing?" someone demanded, slipping from shadow and piled, broken rock. Turning his head, Gildyr found himself looking past leather, armor and wool at Cinda''s grim face. Being a ranger, she could stay hidden till motion or speech betrayed her. "He shouldn''t be moved, yet," she snapped. "I''ve dosed him with potion, and healers are coming. If you''re trying to help, Druid, lend manna."


    "Gildyr," muttered the wood-elf, not really expecting her to use his name. Instead, looking up at the scowling female, he murmured a privacy spell and said, "He has to be moved, as far and as fast as possible, Milady."


    Her face hardened; growing cold in the day''s fading light.


    "I''m not a lady. I''m nothing and no one. Like you," she snapped, adding, "Unless you convince me, quick, why Valerian needs to go anywhere, I''m calling the guards. The High Lord already suspects you. He won''t bother with prison, Druid. Talk fast."


    Sure. Seemed that her humble origin hadn''t sweetened Cinda, one bit. Rather than take offense, though, Gildyr tried hard to explain.


    "He''s in danger, here. We all are, but Valerian especially, because most of this chaos centers on him, somehow¡­ and because he''s not whole."


    The ranger snorted at that, amusement lighting her blue and brown eyes.


    "I beg to correct you, Shagbark. Having been with him often, His Lordship is missing no parts. He is entirely whole, and perfectly functional."


    Gildyr felt himself blush. Not having ever¡­ himself¡­ engaged in¡­ Anyhow, he shook his head, face burning hot.


    "Not what I meant, Honored Ranger. I believe that Valerian was split when fate came apart at a major turning point. That he''s in more than one place, now¡­ which has opened the realms to Chaos. It''s causing outbursts beyond what''s expected, if this was just Midworld, breaking away from perfection."


    Shaking his head, the druid got to his feet, urging,


    "Don''t you see? Can''t you feel it? You were there, too. You were part of all this. We''ve got to change the narrative, remove him, I think, to a physical space where his alternates are. If you care for him¡­"


    "More than you know or he does, Druid," she practically spat, all humor suddenly gone.


    "Then help me get him to safety, where we can come up with an actual plan. Here, sooner than later, he''s going to get killed."


    Cinda Whitlock was a prickly and difficult person. Proud, in her own wretched way. Also, in love.


    "Very well," she said, guardedly. "But, if you''re lying to me, Wood-elf, there won''t be enough of you left for your folk to scrape up and burn."


    Warning delivered, Cinda stepped aside. Then, glancing around to be certain that no one was watching, she called on her goddess, drawing manna to power a three-person shadow-step. Gildyr stooped to lift Valerian, who¡­


    "Oof¡­ maybe more salads than cream-cakes for a while, Milord."


    ¡­was heavier than he looked.


    "Or you could try lifting more than just twigs and dry leaves," growled Cinda, clamping a hand iron-tight to the wood-elf''s slim shoulder.


    Moments later, they''d vanished; gone between heartbeat and breath. Mostly unseen.


    XXXXXXXXX


    ''I hate this place, I hate its folk¡­ hear me all gods and powers, I hate this accursed whole land!''


    Which he meant, with every last shred of his being. Smoldered and sparked at the edges, having just absorbed an entire field''s worth of bale-fire. Only, it wasn''t the first thing that happened that day, nor the worst.


    Right. He''d set Nameless back down on the crater floor, then risen, summoning weapons and power. A goblinoid fighter had released the marten (maybe because of that nose-burning stench), made a kind of salute and then vanished. Which¡­ was tough to explain.


    "Stay close," he said to his friend, busy grooming itself with rough tongue and claws, now. "Things happen whenever you wander off."


    Nervously dusting both hands on his breeches, the elf picked a likely spot and then started back up the crater wall. The giant''s explosion had done serious damage to an already crumbling rim, making the climb even harder. Cracked rock, loose scree and shards of hot metal kept him very focused on each cautious handhold and step.


    Would have been simpler to levitate, but a floating elf makes an outstanding target, and this one meant to avoid further piercings. So¡­ no levitation or smoke-step, which he hadn''t the manna for, anyhow.


    Doing things physically took longer, but he finally got to the top and climbed over. Up on the surface, a light wind batted the grasses and leaves. Birds trilled, hopping and pecking from snapped, swinging branches to fresh-broken rock. Insects chirped. A nearby stream bubbled and chuckled its way through a stony bed, which had shifted considerably.


    No sign of persons or goblins, though. Just an open blue sky and sparse forest, along with hundreds of shattered stone trees. The giant''s path was quite clear. Arrow-straight, it carved a swath northward some five yards wide, length unknown and unguessable.


    The explosion-pit lay off to his right, still dusty and settling. Unsafe to explore, and not his goal, anyway. It was easy enough to pick up the goblin''s trail. The creature was no master of stealth; breaking twigs and stomping small plants as it shambled south. He followed a bit, but then stopped, because¡­


    What if it had only meant to return a kindness? Giving the marten back, because the elf had quickly and cleanly put down a doomed scout? Possible, he supposed¡­ but a fragile truce and prone to misunderstanding.


    Not wishing to alarm the creature, he followed no further. Didn''t say anything, either. Stood looking around for a bit, then searched his magical pockets for some kind of gift.


    Found a decent long knife and some of Hanish''s bread. Set them, as the peddler had done, on a folded cloth that he placed on the ground. There was something¡­ about goblins, or peace with them. Something important he''d realized, back in the some-when.


    Here and now, making sure that Nameless kept up, he backed off and turned to start westward, again. The fiery presence was still inside of him, nearly as drained as he was.


    Something odd about that. Once, he felt sure, the being would have used him as some kind of game piece or¡­ sword-arm? Now, he was giving it shelter. He thought that he recalled the being; that it was maybe one of the spirits that left him, back when he woke out of rock. If so¡­ would the other return, as well?


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    He had no answer for that, except to stay sharp and keep moving, making himself a surly and difficult target. Day after day he pressed onward, not letting up or relaxing.


    Further west, the ground grew rougher. The map showed nothing at all of the gullies and cliffs he encountered. Just smooth hills, with a city-dot close to a flickering shrine. Frustrating chart, more distraction than help. He persisted, though, thinking that another goddess awakened might add to his small hoard of facts. Or at least redraw the map. (''Update'', he thought, out of nowhere. Update the map, not fix or replace it.)


    The nights grew cold as he crested a ridge, leaving the flatlands behind. Stopped to look back once, seeing a broad, empty plain; blue with distance and blurry with mist. And there, just visible, rose the broken stump of a mighty fortress. Looked like the shattered horn on a dragon''s skull, from this distance. He stared for a while, saying to Nameless,


    "Of that heap of rocks, I was lord."


    But he didn''t know why. Couldn''t say when, or what had become of the place and its people. Just turned his back and kept going; running from failure and ghosts.


    Some days later they stopped and made camp at a clearing. He scouted it thoroughly first, pocketing berries and kindling. Then, having placed wards and built a small fire, he sat down to apples, water and more roasted fish. If the map could be trusted, he''d pass the city of Exarod sometime the next day, reaching the edge of darkness, soon afterward.


    He''d run out of bread (bad) and daybrew (still worse). Didn''t want to approach the city but needed supplies.


    "What do you think," he asked Nameless, who''d caught something crunchy that squeaked once, then resigned itself to the fate of all prey. "Go among strangelings, or live without daybrew?"


    The marten glanced up from its meal, but expressed no opinion. Something else happened, though. As he reached over to turn his speared fish, that presence shot out of his body, darting into the hissing and popping campfire. There, it took physical form, standing up in the flames as a person.


    Unburnt, a small red-haired boy reached out to touch the crisp trout, then pulled back his hand and put greasy fingers into his mouth, tasting the food. Made a rude face, too, crinkling eyes the color of hearth-glow and sunrise.


    "Well," said the elf, defensively, "it isn''t meant for a god."


    For, very obviously, that''s what the boy was. Slim and malnourished in this near-empty place, but a god, nonetheless.


    "Firelord," said the elf, partly recalling a title and name. Feeling a bundle of things that wouldn''t stop changing.


    "Fire-ward," repeated the bright one, in the voice of a very loud child, speaking from many directions at once. Small pebbles rattled and bounced. Leaves dropped spiraling into the fire, while Nameless scurried to hide behind Miche.


    It felt wrong to cringe or abase himself. The god wouldn''t like it, he sensed. Instead, the elf gathered an offering and fed it into the flames. Not just apples, either. Gems, and part of his dinner. Next, he sat tailor-fashion, hovering slightly over the ground. Made up a story of Firelord''s war against monstrous serpents, making him out to be terribly fierce in battle. A hero.


    The child-god listened with interest, coming out of the fire to lean into¡­ partly through, actually¡­ his lone follower. Felt like a shower of sparks.


    "That''s me. Brave and strong me," said the small god, forming a blade out of fire. "But¡­ why little?"


    "You are small because you lack worship, My Lord, but we should come to a settlement soon, and there we can build you a shrine. You''ll grow larger, as your worship expands."


    The little one cocked his head to one side, much as the goddess had done, back at the spring.


    "You love me?" he asked, looking serious. "You are mine?"


    "I¡­" the elf spread his hands. "I have two months of memory to call on, My Lord, and sometimes flashes of what came before. We woke up together, I think, along with¡­ something else."


    The child-god''s face scrunched, at that; his features literally folding up and away. One bright eye appeared a few moments later. Then, above it, the other.


    "A dark one," said the much-reduced god, despite not having a mouth. "Evil."


    "Definitely evil. But gone, I think," replied the elf, trying to sound reassuring. "Off troubling somebody else."


    The child nodded.


    "I will be strong again. I will destroy her. You will help."


    Nameless had taken refuge, scrabbling up the elf''s cloak and into his hood. From there, it peered at the god through a screen of gold hair. Made no sound at all. In fact, hardly seemed to be breathing as the elf replied,


    "One bite starts a feast, and one step, a great journey, My Lord. First, let us work on building your power."


    A weak and un-worshipped god was vulnerable, something told him; prey to things like the witch, who¡­ might not be dead. He shook his head, blocking thoughts of that hellish time in her den; when he''d been trapped and enslaved, fighting not to obey.


    They were going to have to be very careful, he realized, old one and god being more of a prize than a wandering elf, on his own. There wasn''t much rest for Miche that evening. What with Nameless scraping a nest in his clothing, the child-god plunging from fire to follower all through the night, and his own searing worry. Couldn''t wait to get up.


    The next day, bright and early, he beat the dawn setting off again. Wasn''t surprised to find no city at all, when he reached the marked spot. The map didn''t lie, though. It was just old and inaccurate. There was no Exarod here. Only a small, wretched town and some genuine trouble.


    Nameless was tucked back into his hood, Firelord once more an indwelling spirit, both as safe as the elf could make them. Edging nearer, he smelled burning. Heard a crackling roar. Saw rolling and tumbling dark smoke, lit from below by the sullen glow of fast-spreading flame.


    A millet field had been set alight; now it was burning like paper. The elf hesitated, out of sight at the edge of that scrubby forest. Not his business, he figured. Let the strangelings burn whatever they wanted to.


    Then¡­ sickened and shocked¡­ he spotted two children, screaming for help in a cage at mid-field. A sacrifice.


    Reacting faster than thought, the elf smoke-stepped from forest to field, crunching stubble, embers and ash at each landing, raising great pillars of flame. There were townsfolk posted around the sacrificed field, wielding buckets and towels. Two of them kept back a shrieking young woman. Not there to help, just to prevent the fire from reaching their warped little town.


    He ignored them. Got to the children''s small, thorny cage with no time at all to free them. Instead, he called fire, his life-long ally and friend. Pulled all of it into himself like a bracing-strong drink, feeling its burn, but not hurt. The child-god inside of him glowed like a star, causing the sign on his chest to shine through armor and clothing.


    Together, he and Firelord turned their gaze to the townsfolk, who''d dropped to the ground on their faces, squealing gibberish and making signs in the dirt. Except for the screaming woman, that is. Released, now, she plunged through the blackened field, her brown hair and long skirt catching fire more times than he bothered to count. She ran with her arms outstretched, calling something like "Laga! Vardo!"


    At his signal and word, her clothes did not burn. Nor did the rippling heat or acrid dark smoke stop her. The children reached out through the thorn-wrapped bars of their cage, careless of scratches and cuts.


    "Ama!" they called back, shouting excitedly when a man appeared. He was injured, limping across in the woman''s wake.


    From the townsfolk came worship. But, twisted. Degraded. More like the buzzing of flies on a corpse than real love for a god. Firelord recoiled inside of him, repelled by their groveling. Feeling sick, he opened the cage, releasing a girl and small boy. They tumbled out and hugged him, despite his stern face and bright glow. He didn''t push them away.


    The woman arrived moments later. Weeping aloud, she knelt down to scoop her babies into a tight embrace. Kissed the tear-streaks and soot from their faces. Then, looking up, she whispered something that might have been thanks, had he let himself listen.


    The dark-haired man reached his family by then, puffing and coughing, slapping at sparks. He had a black eye and was missing several teeth, the elf saw, their sockets still bloody and raw in a bruised, swollen jaw.


    Well, that he could heal; setting right the small hurts and clearing the drug that still lurked in the children''s blood. To them, he must have seemed like a god. He shook his head when they tried to kneel down, though. Hated this place and didn''t seek worship. Just wanted out. Away. Gone.


    He traced a blessing over his would-be followers and then backed off through crunching stubble and ash. Someone else had come over, by then, picking a mincing path through the sacrificed field. Looked like the village headman, to judge by his tarnished jewelry and carved wooden rod.


    Bowing low, the fellow started a florid, chittering speech, full of broad gestures. Didn''t get very far, though. All at once, the elf''s vision darkened. Blood thundered loud in his ears. No warning at all, just hauled off and punched the chieftain, his sudden right-cross crunching bone, sending the man flying back into his straggling folk.


    Felt good. Wrong, but deeply, enjoyably good. Behind him, the kids'' father managed to turn laughter into a coughing fit. The woman just gasped. He flinched when she reached out to pull at his cloak. Turning, he saw that she held out a small, cloth-wrapped bundle. Inside, once she loosened its leather ties, there was food and a stash of copper coins. The family''s whole wealth, he guessed. What they''d gathered to flee with.


    He shook his head again, gently folding her hands back over the offered goods with his own. Not everything here was warped. Not everyone, evil. For their sake, he didn''t go without casting a blessing on the town''s well and resetting its faded wards. There was infection here; a loathsome, ignorant malice that crept in like mist.


    Strengthened wards would help that, he thought, standing there in a beaten-earth square, surrounded by huts that clustered like mushrooms. Only two other matters of note took place in Exarod. First, among the piled offerings left at the village altar, he found daybrew powder; fragrant and dark in a fine leather pouch. That he accepted, along with some cheese and brown bread.


    Second, a girl came hurrying forth as he reached the town border. Like the rest, she was short, with rounded ears and brown hair. Her clothing was old, but clean, and her expression tearful. In her hands she held something that struggled and mewled.


    A white kitten, he saw, its back broken by somebody''s careless misstep or cruelty. The kitten''s hind legs and its tail were crushed. It had no control of its bowels, dribbling onto the girl''s hands as she held it out to him.


    She said something, then. Pleading for help, he thought. Firelord didn''t care. Hated this place and wanted away. Nameless¡­ head on his left shoulder, still in the cloak hood¡­ was mildly hungry. The innocent kitten, in too much pain and confusion to know what was happening. It kept trying to rise, crying out when it couldn''t.


    The kitten had one black ear, a black tail-tip and a tiny grey smudge on its nose, he saw. Blue, frantic eyes, with shock-widened pupils. The girl started crying.


    Well, he wasn''t a god, and manna ought not to be wasted, but¡­ He took the kitten from her trembling hands. Stroked it, reaching in with his thoughts and Firelord''s might to straighten and fix shattered limbs, crushed nerves, misplaced organs.


    Power left him, flowing into the kitten, which gained more than just life, that day. It blinked at him, then wobbled up onto all fours again. Set about furiously washing itself as he handed it back to the girl who''d trusted. Who''d dared, while most of the townsfolk hid in their huts.


    She and the rescued family followed him out to the edge of the woods. Might have gone with him farther, but he smoke-stepped away. There was nothing but trouble and danger where he was headed, and maybe the town would be better, now. Maybe there''d be no more children set out to burn in a sacrificed field.


    Maybe.

 Part Four, chapter eighteen

    18


    ''Full consciousness required, Pilot. The engagement is lost. Retreat: y/n. Self-destruct: y/n.''


    Awareness flooded his long-dormant mind. Organic and Alternate systems lit up in less than a tick, regaining operational status before V47 finished the query. The battle-mech altered around him, flowing from fighter craft into warrior mode as its pilot awoke and took over. Able to follow multiple feeds at once, he absorbed information and plunged into hell.


    12,762 sidereal days since last waking. Full spatial and temporal coordinates, ordnance and power remaining, situation report: all received and scanned in mili-ticks. Good to know. Not priority. The fight was out there, and ''our side'' was losing.


    "No", he responded, to both of the battle-mech''s queries. No retreat, no suicide burst.


    He found himself in open space beyond Glimmr, a cloud giant world. Behind him lay the orbital station and troop ship. Around him, all that remained of Gold Wing, and thousands of hurtling enemy fighters. Dark and protean, the alien ships seemed to tumble through space as though flung down the gravity well; changing their shape, mass and direction at random. Mostly resembling spiky grey meteors, they came from the deep-dark in waves, could bomb a planet to roiling magma in ticks. If they got through.


    If.


    A web of sickly green light bound the enemy vessels together. He avoided its strands reflexively. Those who had not, hung limp in its meshes; helpless and drained. There were clouds of caltrops, as well. The tiny alien weapons were night-dark and radar-invisible, able to pierce heavy armor and detonate missiles on contact.


    But so much zero-point manna! Endless power, flowing from stars and planets and distant, white sun, recharging the mech and its weapons. He and V47 were topped up and ready to fight again in nano-ticks, battle scars already fading.


    Then a Draug fighter altered its path. Sensing a weakness where V48 and V50 had been, it manipulated the energy field to hook itself planetward, rolling boulder-like through expanding hot gas and slagged metal.


    The pilot folded space, moving hundreds of miles in no time at all, placing himself between Glimmr and Draug. New locational data blinked up, was acknowledged, then shunted aside. His organic systems pulsed with adrenaline, while his overclocked brain plunged into reality base code. With the mech linked up to his muscles and nerves, he wasn''t just flying V47. He was V47.


    Faster than any purely organic pilot could manage, he fired a storm of missiles, cannons and particle beams, drawing manna in great, gulping bursts. Used part of its power to shield himself and the few living others, but mostly to fight. Three hundred miles away, at -17*27*61, another mech erupted, converting from wingman to thundering globe of fiery gas.


    Closing fast, the Draug craft switched configuration, confusing regular targeting systems. Not the living mind of an elven pilot, though. He could adjust and anticipate. Did so now, guiding his quantum-phased missiles right to their quarry. The first few strikes did only light damage, but V47 had more, and better, in store.


    Having slowed the thing down, he next fired a pair of seekers, which followed the trail of the earlier weapons, faster than augmented reflex. Hitting that roughened hull hard, they converted their mass directly to energy. Broke through its armor, injecting first antimatter, then void.


    For a nano-tick, the Draug fighter glowed like another sun. Then it was swallowed up by a tiny black hole, crushed beyond paste into particles.


    One down, but nearly a thousand remaining, and very few Goldens in shape to respond. In fact, flashed his heads-up display, only two. Well, V47 hadn''t roused him from stasis to think like a battle-mech.


    ''The shield,'' he decided. In mili-ticks, he''d reconfigured V47''s defense field from warding himself to seizing, engulfing, the enemy.


    With manna to spare, he expanded the shield and then turned it outward, encoding lines on the fly about leaving friendlies in peace. Projected by V47, powered by space itself, the shield reversed flow, swelled wildly, then swept up the enemy swarm. Draugr, caltrops and web were enclosed in a fist of shimmering force that caught them all up, then clenched hard. Intense, searing light flared, completely silent; bright enough to cut off his optics.


    Hexa-ticks later, the board was clear. All that remained of the Draug battle swarm was a sullen, infra-red proto sun; a neutronium sphere that hung in the velvet-black space beyond Glimmr. Just to be safe, he pushed the ultra-dense thing up the gravity well and away, where it could knock about among comets and misshapen rocks, forever.


    Updated OVR-Lord though, in case someone back on the planet wanted a look at his catch. Then, as salvage and medical drones rushed from the station, V47 messaged, again.


    ''Engagement concluded, Pilot. Updating systems. Update complete. Resuming stasis in 10¡­ 9¡­''


    "No," he replied aloud, surprising himself.


    ''Stasis procedure interrupted. Querying Pilot. Is further action required?''


    "I¡­" he hesitated less than a milli-tick before concluding, "I am going below. To the planet. To Glimmr, that is."


    There were two other worlds around Oberyn; both of them rocky, and both inhabited. Civilian territory, and strictly off-limits. Wasn''t going there.


    ''This is irregular, Pilot. Scanning systems and files. Scanned. No error detected. Are you fatigued?''


    A sudden burst of endorphins both cheered and refreshed him, (along with jaunty music and the transmitted flavor of daybrew) but no¡­ that wasn''t it. Fumbling for an explanation, he responded,


    "I just¡­ want to stay up for a while, V47. I want to see something besides Draugr and battle."


    The onboard system was quiet for nearly a deci-tick. Forever, in comp terms. Then,


    ''There is no command filed preventing a mech''s descent to the upper platform of Glimmr. The following advisory is offered: no contact with civilians will be permitted.''


    No problem. He didn''t know any civilians. Didn''t know anyone, other than V47.


    "Accepted," the pilot replied. Searching his files as he triggered descent, the cyborg discovered that he had been conscious just forty-three ship days out of 2,756 galactic years. Had fought in 132 engagements, achieving the rank of wing-second. That he was, in fact, very old¡­ and a baby. Had copious data to call upon, yet understood almost nothing. That he was part of a twenty-one-unit battle wing but didn''t know anyone''s face.


    Other assets. That''s all they were. Just bits of detritus that sizzled and tapped as their remains hammered his shielding and hull. Already being decanted anew, back on the orbital station.


    V47 remained in warrior mode as a courtesy, performing light repairs as it glided past the sparkling ring that was Orbital Station and the dart-shaped form of Cerulean Dream. Home, for thousands of years, though he couldn''t recall ever physically being in either. Had schematics for both. Could build either by hand, given time and sufficient materials. But, walked their passages? Breathed their air? No.


    For that matter, wasn''t sure that he''d ever stepped out of his battle-mech. Well, he''d be doing it now, the pilot decided¡­ Once there was someplace to stand. Couldn''t explain why, not even to himself. Just some spirit of try-to-stop-me stubbornness. Some post-battle ghost, slipping into his circuits and nerves.


    At orbital speed, it would have taken most of a ship-day to reach Glimmr. Not having that much patience or time, he just folded reality. Lightly, though. Not enough to stir chaos or cause many ripples in time. Once again, his actions were irregular, but no one on Glimmr had done it before, so there was no standing command to restrain him.


    The pilot entertained himself on the way by simultaneously scanning his environment, conversing with V47 and accessing stream-shows. Then, when OVR-Lord queried, requesting permission to land on the uppermost platform. That evoked some confusion. Wasn''t actually forbidden, though, so¡­


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    ''Access granted, V47 Pilot. Permission to touch down on quarantine landing pad zeta.''


    "And to debark my battle-mech?"


    A pause of nearly a tick ensued. Clearly, he was asking for prodigies. Then,


    ''Egress-permission granted, Pilot. You will be met at the quarantine landing pad.''


    By this time, Glimmr was no longer a sphere, banded with color and hanging in space. Swelling in size with each space-fold, the cloud giant now took up nearly the whole of his visual feed.


    Great, swirling, putty-like bands of dense vapor writhed far below. Vast towers of scarlet cloud flared with lightning, changing their shape in the knife-like wind. Alternate, pale golden bands streamed by still faster, rising from much deeper inside the planet.


    Glimmr was nearly a quarter the size of the sun, jetting zero-point manna and hard radiation in lethal quantities. It was big enough to occlude Oberyn''s dark star companion, Titania. Large enough to swallow up Char and Aqualia, together with all of their moons.


    A ring of ice and rock encircled the cloud giant. Pretty, but too sparse to mine. He avoided it, skimming the planet to line up with its highest stone platform. Constructed of pulverized moons and a sacrificed outer world, the platforms hung in Glimmr''s dense atmosphere like a chain of vast islands, using anti-grav tech and free manna to hold their positions. The outermost, Zeta, was his goal.


    A swift query put him in touch with Zeta''s system, which then took over to guide them on in. At this altitude there was weather, but it wasn''t as stormy or fierce as the soup down below, further along the chain.


    Not that he''d get very far, trapped on the landing pad, but that didn''t matter. He was going to go out. Stand up. Look around with actual eyes instead of just camera lenses and drones. The thought was a prod, driving him onward, making a stupid idea seem good.


    Slipping into the cloud giant''s atmosphere, he felt the intensifying heat and wind of reentry batter V47''s shielding and hull. Not dangerous, just completely unfamiliar outside of sim. The stuff of training-feed, rather than life experience.


    His battle-mech''s onboard system had switched into psychological wellness mode. It gently queried the pilot''s emotions (mixed) and physical state (agitated: high pulse rate and rapid breathing, until V47 administered relaxation drugs).


    "There is no trouble," he insisted. "No error. I''m just having a look around, V. It will not take long." Which turned out to be true.


    Zeta System guided them past a series of floating and blinking aerial buoys, then through the shield. There was traffic, mostly official and¡­ and a sky. An actual, gem-blue, goes-on-forever sky, just like in shows and training vids. Like¡­ didn''t make any sense, but¡­ like you could tear off a piece, dip it and eat it.


    Right.


    In through a cone of concentric landing rings flew V47 and pilot, until they reversed orientation to boots-down approach, making contact for the first time with something other than metal.


    Chik.


    Landed lightly, for all of their fifty-foot height and twenty-two-point-seven-one tons. Anti-grav cut off at once, allowing the planet''s own force to take hold. Had he been other than augmented elven-stock, the pilot would have been crushed.


    ''Orbital Station Hangar Control queries Pilot,'' announced V47. ''Purpose and length of absence required.''


    Oh. Well¡­


    "Length, standard candle-mark. Purpose¡­ shore leave. Rest and recreation."


    That was a genuine option, he''d learned, scanning two-thousand-plus years of data and mail. He was authorized, at his rank, to access the ship''s "lounge" and the "Mall". Also, to visit a world and request companionship, none of which rang any memory klaxons. Theoretical permissions only, he guessed. Abilities long unused.


    ''Orbital Station Hangar Control acknowledges Pilot response. Shore leave authorized.''


    Querying "Shore" brought up 12,582 images of physical land meeting turbulent water. Something he saw and accepted, but couldn''t make sense of. Still, this was no doubt a shore and he would be leaving it, after a whole standard candle-mark. What to do with all of that free time?


    Well, disembark, for one thing. As Zeta Platform Control sent maintenance swarms to decontaminate his hull, he accessed and downloaded Glimmr''s public database. Received much more than he currently understood, but the pilot figured he''d have time to parse it all, later. For the moment, he said, "Initiate egress procedure."


    ''Command received,'' replied V47, seeming almost fretful. ''Verification required, Pilot. Please re-enter command.''


    Probably meant "reconsider", but he''d made it this far, and intended to finish the thing, spurred by a fresh wave of stubbornness.


    "Initiate egress procedure," the pilot repeated, not letting himself or V47 back down. And so, connection by lancet by interface, his organic parts were sifted out of the battle-mech. Long probes slid out of their ports in his brainstem and spine. Nerves were detached from the robot''s sensor array. Only their comm systems¡­ his heads-up display and the mech''s AI¡­ remained linked.


    Hurt like the worst of the training sims. Like being decanted, leaving both of them torn and disoriented. V47, now missing its organic core, used zero-point manna to build him an elf-sized body. Uplink took just over fifteen ticks, half that again to get used to his new hardware. Felt cramped. Limited. Numbed.


    Then, with an alarm buzz, the battle-mech''s torso unfolded; panels retracting to free an armored, elven-form figure. Steps coalesced in midair, leading from cockpit to landing pad.


    He should have waited for the maintenance swarm to complete its decontamination cycle, but he was determined to leave. Got sprayed and rayed seventeen times on his way down, no doubt becoming the cleanest pilot in all of Cerulean Dream. Smelling¡­ data files pegged the scents as "Rainforest Musk" and "Gentle Mint", whatever that meant. Smelling germ-free. Anti-microbial.


    Having spent forty-three days of waking life maneuvering twenty-two tons, he wasn''t much good with a lighter body, at first. The steps helped out, though, placing themselves where they needed to be, at each wobbly footfall.


    Other than height and mass, not much had changed, though. He still received sensory data from pickups scattered all over his armor and helmet, as well as the trio of drones that launched from his shoulders and back, for the aerial view.


    Took a deep breath and felt himself doing it, as he stood on the surface of Platform Zeta. Reached up, then, unlocked his helmet and tugged it off of his head. There was a moment of blank confusion as his visual cortex tapped into his actual eyes, for the very first time. The view was initially blurry and oddly flat but improved with each passing milli-tick.


    He looked around and, through the circling drones, watched himself looking. Saw that his hair was yellow and strangely short. That his organic eyes were pale (Because they''d never been used before? Maybe they''d darken with sunlight?) Didn''t know how to interpret his own expression, though. Hadn''t spent enough time among faces.


    Through the drone feed, he spotted a flashing government air car speeding its way to the quarantine pad. Followed that thread with a shred of awareness, turning most of his processing power onto the sunlight, the wind and his mech''s long shadow, stretching out like a dagger blade, reaching the edge of the platform.


    The air had a scent, and a temperature lower than ship-normal seventy-one degrees. It moved, fanning his yellow hair and drying the contact gel on his skin. Dried his eyes, too, which had to be constantly blinked.


    In the distance, the cloud banks of Glimmr twisted and writhed like slow flames. A long chain of huge platforms arced down and away from Zeta, each a thousand miles lower than the one to its east. The last was barely visible, even with magnified optics. He had to access roving security cams in order to look at the mining settlement.


    Didn''t have to ask if V47 perceived all of this, any more than V47 questioned his pick-up of powerplant and stability data. Their systems were linked.


    ¡­and the aircar touched down, disgorging a muscular, uniformed orc and her augmented guards. They were dwarves, visibly armed and shiny with chrome. As for the dark-haired orc, her augments were subtler. Mostly internal, he guessed, though the text block that hovered beside her face was heavily redacted. Private citizen, high level government type, and very far over his need-to-know rating. What he could see was name, rank and duty status.


    The orc was vice-governor Margo Thaard. On duty, away from her post. Scanning public data at juiced-lightning speed began to give him a feel for facial expressions. His own was slack. Empty. Hers¡­ irritated? The cyborg dwarves looked tense and eager, he thought¡­ probably not to shake hands.


    In most of the shows and news vids, folk smiled upon greeting; stretching their mouths at the corners and compressing their eyes. (There were helpful tutorial videos buried back in the officer''s manual, too.) As Margo approached, he ''smiled'', inclining his upper body a few degrees forward.


    "Good day, Vice-Governor," he greeted the orc, speaking aloud in a raspy voice. (Throats dried, too, it seemed.) "Thank you for permitting a landing."


    She lowered her eyebrows, which were heavy and dark over hard-seeming, yellow-red eyes.


    "This shore leave request is irregular, V47 pilot," she replied, using a clipped, growling tone. He had to adjust his interface-time for organic communication speed, which felt impossibly slow. Could have composed millions of conflict reports in the time it took her to say, "Why have you chosen to leave your battle wing and come to this platform?"


    V47 shot a suggestion across. Seemed good, so he took it, acting before the orc could take her next breath. Aloud, he said,


    "My systems were attacked by Draug malware, a virus deemed likely to enter the wider gestalt. In transit, the virus was isolated, contained and neutralized. I did not release the information, to avoid spreading alarm."


    Margo''s expression altered, the muscles of her forehead and jaw smoothing out.


    "Your actions display commendable concern for the ship, station and crew, V47 pilot. Moreover, data feed shows you to have acted with great initiative and courage in facing a recent Draugr assault. You are hereby promoted, Pilot. Also, your shore leave is extended a further standard half-candle mark."


    The symbol beside him on his heads-up display changed all at once, gaining a second line of gold braid and another virtual gem. He was a strike-leader, now; second to V32, who wouldn''t be out of the vat for three ship days.


    Surprised, he inclined himself forward again, saluting the vice-governor. Her eyebrows relaxed even more in response. She waved off his thanks, though, turning to stride back to the waiting aircar. The cyborg guards snapped into position around her, looking (he thought) disappointed. Hexa-ticks later, Margo was gone.


    The pilot had only intended a virtual tour of Platform Zeta, but with high officer''s privileges, he could now access the city museum and Fey-space, as well. Turned out to be a most enlightening shore leave, fanning something new sparked in the pilot''s heart and his mind. How long, he started to wonder, was this war going to last?

 Part Four, chapter nineteen

    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.

 Part Four, chapter twenty

    20


    Turning his back on Exarod, the elf now picked up his pace. Was aware of an odd vibration long before he could pinpoint its source. Somewhere between high-pitched assembler whine and manna disturbance, it set his teeth on edge; a constant, barely detectable source of discomfort.


    On top of that, there was light. Out of the west, glimpsed through stunted, bare trees, came a cold, shifting glow. Not that of sunset, mage-gleam or fire. Something else, visible mostly at night¡­ and someone else might have been frightened.


    But, Miche had learned to bury emotion. Rather than face unpleasant facts, he stuffed them away, as far and as deeply as possible. Had no other method for dealing with trouble, because in order to rest and recover, he had to wander in dream-state¡­ Only, most of what he remembered, hurt. It was no lie to say that Nameless and Firelord kept him sane; gave him someone to talk to, someone to keep coming back for. That, and the daybrew.


    Getting rest wasn''t easy, but he could order his mind some by pushing forward, making plans and consulting the map. The land climbed and grew rougher as he went on. It and the map didn''t often agree, but he managed to muddle along.


    Finally, as he passed through those last, screening trees, he came to a sort of wall. The vibration''s source, it towered far out of sight upward, and continued forever to north and south. Seemed to be made out of fragments of light. These flickered and shifted continually, blotted by patches of darkness that moved. Sometimes spreading or seeming to bud, the darkness formed patterns, but¡­ (he fumbled after a concept, trying to pin the impossible) ... But wrongly. Doing damage, somehow.


    Meanwhile, the wall crept forward, almost invisibly slow. At its base and all through the air in front, there was an odor of lightning and death.


    Hunh.


    Rather explained the map''s dark spots. Also, the goddess''s claim about vanishing land. Question was, what to do about it? Take a closer look first, he supposed.


    Not being stupid, the elf plucked Nameless off of his shoulder. Set his grumbling friend on the branch of a withered elm.


    "Stay here," he said aloud. Then, to the in-dwelling god, "My Lord, for safety''s sake, I will ask you to come forth and wait in a tree. Yon oak seems partly alive."


    The god half-emerged; a being of turbulent manna and flame. Very pointedly, Firelord manifested without any face or ears, meaning he wasn''t minded to listen.


    "Right. Deserve that, I guess¡­ but at least ready yourself to depart in haste, My Lord, should trouble arise."


    Arise? There''d been nothing but trouble, from the moment he''d opened his eyes. Would have laughed at his own stupidity, except that this was life, death and eternity for Firelord. For all of them.


    "I''ll be careful," he said to the child-god and marten. "Just a quick, closer look. I promise."


    Naturally, that wasn''t what happened, at all. Firelord plunged back into whatever home he''d made in his follower''s heart. Nameless moved out as far as the naked branch would support its weight. Nose twitching, red eyes candle-bright in that masked little face.


    Tracing a blessing over the marten, he turned to start forward, picking a cautious path across dry, blasted ground. Tiny lightning bolts shot through the soil and rock, blue-white and branching. These he mostly avoided, though a few got painfully through, until he remembered to shield. Wasn''t easy, because the wall seemed to draw manna and life-force, leaving very little for use in his mage-craft.


    Closer to, he began to see symbols amid all those flashes of light. Images, too, of persons and creatures and plants. Land features were in there, as well. As if the wall had somehow recorded all it consumed.


    More hunh.


    Well, it hadn''t yet made any threatening gestures (besides ground-bolts, encroachment and general looming). So, Miche set out to learn more, waving a hand to summon a fallen branch. Behind him, Nameless screeched out a very clear warning.


    "I said I''d be careful," protested the elf. "I''m using a stick, not my arm."


    He took a deep breath, then stepped even nearer. Reaching out, touched one end of his wooden probe to the wall''s sparking surface. The vibration increased for a moment, as rings of concentric brightness spread away from the point of contact like ripples on water.


    Quickly, he pulled the branch free, to discover a very slight scorch mark and¡­ seawater. The end of the branch was wet. More than that, something had changed on his map. A very small region of brightness appeared at its far eastern edge, where the chart showed nothing but ocean.


    Extra more hunh.


    "So¡­ stepping through here, puts you out there, but possibly not still alive when you reach the far border."


    You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    Or else you were part of the wall, like all of the persons and things it engulfed. A sudden thought struck. Once more, he pulled out the object he''d been given, back at the start of his journey. Must have been the right idea, as the cylinder''s inner lights started swirling like mad. To Nameless and Lordling, Miche said,


    "There''s a shrine over there. I can see it marked on the map, just a few yards away. I intend to touch this relic to the wall. I said I would investigate, and we can''t leave without making an effort. Just be ready, in case doing so brings on another giant or summons."


    Plainly the Marten and Firelord didn''t approve. The one kept up a ceaseless, chittering bark, while the other turned even further away, facing some direction that didn''t exist.


    Well, you couldn''t be popular all of the time. Somebody¡­ someone he''d known had told him,


    "I am not in command to make friends. I''m here to stop these murderous jackerds from killing each other." Could not see a face or recall when he''d heard it. Just knew.


    There was no time to chase memories, though. Not in the face of an end-wall. Shoving confusion and worry aside, he stepped to arm''s length and then tapped that glowing cylinder right to the barrier.


    The effect was immediate. Those shifting dark patterns scattered, fleeing the contact point like a flock of wild birds. Some of the images vanished, as well, only these became real. Solid. Right there before him, as the wall swept backward over a mile and a half.


    Trees, small animals, the rocky shrine and a violent scuffle appeared. All at once there were orcs. Three of them. Two males and a female. Tough to say who was more shocked; elf, or howling combatants.


    Roughly thrusting the artifact into its magical pocket, Miche dived out of the way. Hit the ground and kept rolling. Had to, as a flying dead body came crashing straight at him. The female orc had gutted a male with her dagger, tearing him open from crotch to chin in a sudden fountain of blood. Twisted to catch and then throw him at the elf, like a tumbling, gut-leaking axe.


    Next, she pivoted, getting a headlock on the remaining male. That one struggled and cursed, fighting hard to escape her. Didn''t work. She gritted her teeth, grunted aloud, and then snapped his neck with a wet-sounding crick. Dropped the second male''s corpse a moment later. Shook herself, then straightened to full, seven-foot height.


    Very tall, very muscular, she had greyish-green tattooed skin, small tusks and masses of dark, braided hair. Dressed in scuffed leather and patches of chain mail, she looked to be wielding an armory. In those first startled moments, Miche saw two swords crossed at her back, a brace of javelins and a pair of razor-sharp axes.


    There was also the dagger, which she wiped on her thigh and re-sheathed, never taking her golden-red eyes off the elf. Seeming more glum than aggressive, she rumbled,


    "You are the stuff of legend and children''s tales, Old One. What mean you by coming to trouble the free lands?"


    In actual speech. Using a language he knew. Accented, but still recognizable¡­ which was why he answered the question, rather than drawing his sword. Warily stepping forward, he said,


    "I awoke in this place two months ago. Why I''m here, I know not¡­ except that I might have been exiled."


    She scowled, but that seemed like a normal expression, so he did not take offense.


    "You, too, uh?" the orc sighed. "Well, that lot were the last, I expect. There''ll be no more attempts at mating-right." Then, looking around herself with mounting confusion, "What''s happened to the forest? What is that lightning-wall yonder?"


    The elf shrugged.


    "A story that far predates my arrival, Lady Orc. Short answer being, I don''t know¡­ but I''m doing my best to find out."


    She studied him for a moment, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Then, jerking her head at the wall,


    "My old clan resides there, behind this strange lightning. Are they dead?"


    The elf shook his head, no.


    "I think not, Lady Orc. Say, stored, rather. Like scrolls in a library. You were in there, as well, with¡­ erm¡­ your late suitors, until the wall receded."


    She grunted once more, seeming to reach a conclusion.


    "My name is not ''Lady''. It is Margeta Thorn. Marget, for short. You have halted a mating rite, elf, causing the deaths of two who thought they could best me, together. You can now fight me, yourself, or come along as I find a new clan. Choose."


    Erm¡­ fight? As in, battle to claim her over-large charms? Oh, muck and ash, no.


    "Marget, then. I can''t seem to remember my name," he replied, with rapid mental gymnastics. (Yes, she''d just slaughtered two fellow orcs. No, that wasn''t a crime, among mountain tribes. The males had fought, failed and perished. That was the way of things.) "But the shrine goddess said I was ''Miche''," added the elf, with a very slight bow.


    Marget snorted.


    "Short One? That fits¡­ but seems more like a nickname. Um¡­ Kester?"


    "No."


    "Argot?"


    "Definite no."


    He''d unthinkingly drawn a sign of rest over both bloody corpses, releasing whatever orcs had by way of a soul. Now, glancing at their killer, he said,


    "I will give your late suitors clean fire, Lady Marget, so they do not fall prey to the raven or wolf. Will you speak words in their memory?"


    Marget nodded.


    "Thormund and Vork. They were not very good fighters. May they find rest in the hunting grounds." Then, distracted, still trying out possible names, "Waldric?"


    "No," he responded, calling flame from within.


    She hopped backward, once, surprised when Miche''s firebolts reduced both corpses to glittering ash.


    "You should call yourself Smokey or Sparky, instead," she muttered, regaining her poise. But the elf shook his head. ''Sparky the campfire god'', someone had mocked.


    "That''s not it, either," he told her. Then, changing the subject, "I am tasked with waking the local shrine, along with a number of others. It is likely to be a long journey, Milady. If we travel together, you may find a new clan and a proper claimant for mating."


    "A fine plan¡­ Galvin."


    "No," he laughed, for the second time in two months. Went and fetched Nameless, then, introducing the marten as, "Nameless, my friend."


    "Explains the smell," said Marget, nearly losing a finger poking the beast. "Most old ones were said to reek of flowers and starshine, or some such foolishness. You smell like a clansman¡­ Landon."


    Stung, he glared at the marten, who yawned.


    "Not Landon, either," growled Miche. Then, nodding at a diagonal crack amid slabs of piled stone, "There is the shrine, but I''m not sure you''ll be able to enter."


    Marget grunted, turning away.


    "Wouldn''t want to," she rumbled. "Fey-dust and falling star nonsense. Mucks with time, if half of the tales are true. I will hunt and scout, until you emerge. If you do not, if something restrains you, I will take it apart, stone by stone."


    And she meant it, too. The elf caught sight of something, then, just past her shoulder, close to the shrine. Looked like¡­ but couldn''t be¡­


    Himself?

 Part Four, chapter twenty-one

    21


    Once his shore leave ended, the pilot recalled his drones and climbed back into V47, filled with the kind of sensory data you had to unplug, to experience. Training files, stim-loads and shows were fine, as far as they went. No substitute for moving your own weight around on an actual surface, though.


    Seen from outside, V47 had towered; a strangely beautiful red-and-gold killing machine. Shaped like a blocky, mechanized warrior, because that''s what synced best with its elven-mod pilot. He''d never seen V this way before; standing proud and tall, at the base of a gravity well, shining in sky-filtered light.


    It felt odd to see himself and the spacecraft as two separate entities: mechanical weapon and bio-synthetic core. Was a relief to be back inside, again, once his virtual tour and the downloads concluded. Sending a rapid command-string, the pilot linked to his weapons, engines and scanners once more, replacing that phantom-limb feeling with solid input.


    Didn''t allow V47 to disassemble the cyborg body, though. Just had the battle-mech reconfigure their contact plates and interface probes.


    "We will return to Orbital Station," he decided. "There, I plan to disembark."


    ''Command received. Querying pilot: purpose of intended excursion?''


    Nano-ticks passed, while he parsed his own glitchy motives. Then,


    "Because I want to see where we live, V. And because other Gold Flight assets were damaged in battle, and I am their Strike-Leader. In the shows, pilots visit their damaged comrades at the recovery center."


    ''Recovery centers serve full-stock civilians, Pilot,'' replied V47. ''Incursion by modified assets is not permitted. There are no damaged Goldens within.''


    True enough, according to downloaded files. The fallen mechs would be reconstructed from archived data and ready-mass, while their pilots were synthesized in the bio lab. There, he could go, so long as his presence did not hinder production. Were the damaged pilots conscious, in vitro, he wondered? Had he been?


    Couldn''t retrieve any data. Had nothing archived but training sims and¡­ now¡­ those downloaded shows. It was something to do besides go back to long-sleep and wait for the next engagement, though.


    "Modify the proposed itinerary as follows," he said. "I will disembark at the hangar, then go to the construction bay and the synthesis lab to¡­ convey wishes for rapid decantation."


    ''Excursion modified. Excursion plan filed. Orbital Station AI is in receipt of proposed excursion. Orbital Station acknowledges.'' Then, ''Orbital Station AI queries pilot: will Gold Flight access and utilize the lounge facility?''


    He couldn''t speak for the three surviving others, already in stasis, but, for himself¡­


    "Yes. Reply: Gold Flight intends to make use of the pilot''s lounge."


    Which was an actual, physical location, not just a stim-load or data node. Interesting.


    Meanwhile, OVR-Lord had written new protocols, disallowing the folding of space within 20,000 miles of Glimmr; well out of parking orbit and far beyond the home station.


    Quick access blocked, the pilot had no choice but to jet it back home. In all of that copious downtime, he researched his downloaded files, replayed the last engagement and adjusted V47 for improved performance. Compared the mods and set-up at this battle (which he and three other pilots survived) with the last one (which none of them had).


    V47 had fey-pocket weapons, armor and thruster packs; all gimbaled in such a way that the parts could be rotated out of storage and onto the mech with just a command and a burst of manna.


    Some builds worked better than others, though, and he meant to learn, adjust and keep on not dying. Sensing this, V47 observed,


    ''Seeker missile effectiveness 100%, Pilot. Advise increasing fire rate and available munitions for seeker launch tubes. Retain launch system in shoulder mounts while adding a rear-fire option.'' Of which there were several possibilities.


    "Advice accepted, V. Also¡­ next engagement, I intend to sync with the other pilots."


    In vid shows, mech teams and ground forces spoke to each other, not just to their AI partners. They coordinated their assault plans, coming to each others'' rescue, if necessary.


    V47 withheld response for a nano-tick. Then,


    ''Handshake protocol established for V12 and V27. No other mecha are currently online, Pilot.''


    "It''s a start. Talk to them, V. Share some of our downloaded files. The ones featuring group attack plans." He was a Strike-Leader, now. He had to think of these things. Of how not to end an engagement with just four remaining assets, and still try to call it a win.


    Some of the vid shows¡­ Battle for Arda, The Tenth Protocol and Rogue Flight, especially¡­ displayed a depth of communication and feeling between pilots that he found confusing, and somehow attractive.


    He was an asset, not a person. Had no designation beyond ''V47 Pilot''. Even a bio-synthetic weapons system could try for betterment, though.


    As the humming vibration and click of the new build changed things around him, the pilot plunged even further into those downloaded files. Search criteria: Past mech units and Reasons for ongoing war. There was a great deal of data there. Tough to parse from his limited viewpoint, but fascinating.


    As he studied, Glimmr altered in rearview from an optics-blinding, screen-filling abstract wall to a vast, stormy disk. The orbital station and Cerulean Dream grew correspondingly larger. No longer blinking points, but a harbor city in space. Oddly quiet one, though; not buzzing with traffic and commerce as depicted in Battle for Arda.


    V47 contacted the station, requesting approach permission and landing vector. Received assent in much less time than the battle-mech required to touch down. The process consumed a relative eternity, but the pilot refused an offer of mass-conversion and transfer. He was awake and he wanted to stay that way. No breakdown to virtual particles, for him. Even if landing did take a subjective lifespan.


    Dropping from full-burn to approach velocity, passing through stacks of inertia-dampening fields to shed delta-v, he brought his mech closer, then handed control to Orbital Station''s AI.


    The ring-shaped station occupied 17,122 cubic miles in total volume, with outlying warehouses and docking pads adding more space. Very little of that was in use, though. Querying hangar control revealed just three docked ships, two of them military vessels on long deployment. The other, a robotic cargo lifter.


    V47 swooped past a bright, floodlit hull. The station''s exterior was painted in highly reflective silver and yellow, with ''OS 1210'' rolling by on a comm-strip that encircled the docking ring. Maintenance bots clambered or jetted from place to place on the hull. As big as V47, they were dwarfed to byte-size by distance and scale.


    He dropped nearly all of his remaining velocity passing through the final inertia field (an odd, combed-through-by-energy-fingers sensation that¡­ until now¡­ he''d never been conscious to feel).


    The port steering rockets fired to bring them around for final approach, lining V47 up with a row of directional buoys. The hangar bay was enormous, lined with glow strips and big enough to dock Zeta Platform. But¡­ quiet. Empty. Nothing going on, now that V12, 15 and 27 had landed and cradled.


    The pilot felt a sudden touch of unease. Would have shaken his head, but the cockpit fit him as snugly as a missile inside of its launch tube. Physical motion just wasn''t possible. Instead, he commanded,


    "Land, V47, but do not cradle. Remain on the pad and do not power down, please."


    V responded at once, sending,


    ''Command received, Pilot. Command acknowledged. V47 mech will not cradle or power down.'' Then, seeming puzzled, ''Please? Querying unneeded politeness to an onboard system.''


    This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.


    Oh. Well¡­


    "You are my friend, V. So far, the only one I have. It doesn''t feel right to order you around."


    ''Friend handshake received and acknowledged. Friend handshake returned, Pilot.''


    Which felt surprisingly good. Natural endorphins, though, not an injection. The result of his mind, reacting to actual input.


    By that time, they''d drifted into a giant, mechanized cavern. A vast and echoing space where nobody moved and nothing was lit but a lone, blinking landing pad, its lights green and white in the general gloom.


    He felt dust-mote small (had actually seen those¡­ dust motes, that is¡­ swirling in Glimmr''s high altitude breeze). Came in, reoriented boots-down, made a short, low-energy burn, then descended to land whoosh-snik-chunk.


    Gave hangar control an excuse about launch readiness preparations, which got him the green-light to keep V47 out on the pad. Disengaged from the battle-mech''s probes and contact plates, after that, waiting until the cockpit dropped open to disembark.


    Gravity wasn''t as strong here as it had been on Glimmr, but the manna was nearly as plentiful. Most of that power was intended for fuel and repairs, but nobody stopped him from tapping in.


    Station schematics highlighted the cyborg controller, enmeshed in her data cocoon and probe net, behind a vast, shielded window. For some reason, he data-packeted; sending a short burst of qubits, and physically waving a hand in greeting. Was pleasantly surprised when the hangar bay window flashed in response. Received ''Hangar Control greets V47,'' as well. So much for check-in.


    Transport was another matter. He''d never traversed the station. Had theoretical quarters, some 152 miles to deckward and port, on level fifteen, but faced a long walk to get there. The biosynthesis lab was still further away. Nearly out of reach, unless¡­


    He queried the system, diverting a robot hover car to V47''s landing pad. Exchanged greetings and climbed aboard, using his cyborg body''s magnetic clamps to belt in for a ride. (The first of his conscious life.)


    He had to project a shield to defend his vulnerable eyes from travel-wind but wouldn''t put on his helmet. Internal organic parts were regrowing, as muscle and nerve tissue pushed its way into his hardware. All that was under the surface. But his face, yellow hair and pale eyes were his own, decanted the same, every time, and the pilot refused to conceal them.


    He ought to have gotten a reprimand for all of this irregular activity. Only, it seemed that the station''s AI was underutilized, with far too much idle processing power. V47 pilot''s emergent behavior represented something new to puzzle over, for the first time in forty years. Thus, no reprimand and no interference. Up to a point, the pilot could do as he pleased.


    ¡­So long as he stayed well away from the station''s civilian zones. No full-stock person was meant to encounter a wandering battle-mech core. Such beings were so far past his need-to-know rating that the pilot could not even scan to avoid them.


    The show vids weren''t helpful, either, as nothing featuring genuine, full-stock persons was accessible. In fact¡­


    ''This research trail is red-flagged, Pilot,'' warned V47, through their interface. ''Civilian data logs are not available to assets.''


    "Understood, V. Query dropped. Thank you for the heads-up."


    A shining flurry of qubits shot over from V47; emotion, expressed as a stream of ephemeral particles. Sounded/ felt/ resonated like: virtual back-slap.


    He came to a vast construction bay shortly thereafter. Nothing prevented him from walking right in, once he''d thanked and stepped off of the idling hover car. He accessed manna to warp local gravity then, levitating himself from cargo delivery level to the open bay portal.


    This was an industrial area of the station. Not meant for persons, it had few decks and little scaffolding. You hooked into a transport ley-line to cross that cavernous space, or you summoned a cart.


    Maybe once, the place had been bustling; an assembler-hive of constant activity. It was a proper tomb now, though, with only the battle-mech construction cradles lit up and moving; their echoing clamor more rattle than thunder, at this distance.


    According to Rogue Flight, pilots visiting their injured comrades often brought smuggled alcohol (which they brewed in the barracks). He had no alcohol, but thought he could e-con a reasonable facsimile, using available power. Rogue Flight''s strike-leader, Ace, called the stuff "head hooch". How hard could it be to produce?


    Right.


    After three failed attempts, the pilot managed to convert manna into a flask of clear, stinging fluid that (naturally, he sampled some) burned his mouth. Coughing, he spat the vile stuff over the side of a gantry and into the giant construction bay, where maintenance drones vacuumed it up in mid-splash.


    ''Archived data suggest that the sensation becomes more enjoyable with repeated exposure,'' remarked V47, over their link. The pilot was unconvinced.


    "Maybe everyone likes it because it''s germicidal," he mused, putting the flask away into fey-pocket storage with¡­ nothing much. Other than his sidearm and force blade, he had no possessions, at all.


    ''There is a station commissary across from the pilots lounge,'' supplied V47. ''Possessions may be acquired there.''


    "Acknowledged, V. Sounds like a plan."


    He''d do it, too. Buy something. Own and pocket it.


    With part of his processing power, he immediately began researching possessions, mining Rogue Flight and Battle for Arda to discover the sort of things that a pilot would have.


    R432 (Ace) had a pair of lucky dice, while R216 (Boomer, the "Hot-shot rebel") was never without her mysterious artifact. He''d find something, too.


    Another sliver of head-space kept up with his battle-mech''s rebuild; syncing with V47 to make their shell stronger, better armed and defended, all without giving up speed. Hide whatever you wanted in the mech''s lateral fey-pockets, there was still some encumbrance. Some extra-dimensional drag. You had to be smart about what you chose to pack, or risk being slowed while darting through warp space.


    ¡­and "slow" equaled "dead".


    The biosynthesis lab exactly matched his downloaded schematic, making it simple to find what he was looking for. A warehouse-sized space packed with long rows of transparent, cylindrical vats, it would have seemed huge, had he not just come in from the bay.


    Looking around, the mech pilot noticed that most of those synthesis vats were empty and dark. Only eighteen of them, thirty rows over, were active. There, the fallen Goldens were being resynthesized. It was a long way to walk, so he set off immediately, after sending his data and purpose to the lab AI. This netted a brief welcome and caution tutorial, but that was all. LabTech did not question his presence. Just noted and logged it.


    He was able to view all twenty-three seasons of Rogue Flight and most of Battle for Arda in the time it took him to reach the Gold synthesis vats. Passed 1,278 others on the way, all of them quiet and dim; keeping just enough circulation and fluid inside to maintain their stem cells. There were designation displays¡­ names, ranks, even call signs¡­ hovering over each tank. So many pilot-stems, stored up for¡­ what?


    Blue Flight''s vats had shifted to ready-mode. The Blues were on call while Gold Flight recovered. Their synthesis tanks were prepared to churn out replacements by the score, in case of severe battle damage or death.


    He passed them all by, coming at last to the place where his own flight was being re-synthesized. Found eighteen ten-foot, cylindrical tanks formed of perma-plastic and steel. Inside of each, there was a skeletal, partly-fleshed asset, hooked up to feed lines and wires. Just heads, torsos and limb buds, with contact ports already drilled. Twitching slightly in training-sim dreams, the new assets were curled up like¡­ like beans.


    Over each tank hovered a glowing virtual screen that contained the current group''s pertinent details: rank and mech number, along with how often they''d been decanted. Some were into their forty-plus synthesis, perilously close to fifty, the point at which there were too many accumulated errors to make them worth bringing back.


    A faint bubbling noise and low hum were the only sounds. Swirling fluid and twitching pilot cores, all that was moving.


    V29 was closest, and already half-formed; ready for decanting and insert in three sidereal days, according to her feed. Looking in through the perma-plast, he saw that her face was still mostly skull, her brown eyes hazy. Unfocused.


    He placed a hand on the transparent vat, feeling¡­ sick. Helpless. So far lost, he didn''t know if there was anyplace else left to go. Any way that things could get better.


    V47 started up season four of The Tenth Protocol, providing a little distraction. That helped. So did thinking about what he''d come here to do.


    The pilot filled his lungs with cold, antiseptic-bite air, then said to V29¡­ to all of them¡­


    "I regret that you died. I made it through, this time, and I will share whatever strategies allowed me to do so. There is a pilot''s lounge on level fifteen. Perhaps¡­ we could meet there, sometime."


    He got no response, of course. They were in training simulation; their reflexes being honed for instant, battle-ready adulthood.


    The pilot took his conjured hooch back out of its pocket and drank some, linking to all of their vats to put the sensation into their feed. In Rogue Flight, Ace always said, "Cheers", when consuming illicit alcohol. The pilot did, too, his voice sounding flat in that grim, awful place.


    He went further along the narrow catwalk, then, following increasing designation numbers until he reached tank V47, and¡­


    ¡­and there he was. Or, the start of him, anyhow. Ready for a hasty turn-and-burn, should the need arise. He synced with the vat''s system, learning that his build could be set to "full body" as well as "bio-core".


    Hunh.


    Wasn''t sure, afterward, what made him do it¡­ but all at once the pilot adjusted the tank''s setting. Next time he died, he was going to decant with a whole, complete body, not just a mech-ready core.


    LabTech manifested itself on the catwalk beside him nano-ticks later.


    ''Querying V47 pilot. What are you doing? Why have you altered the build parameters, Pilot?'' inquired LabTech, who resembled a cyborg orc with heavy implants and wiring.


    Once again, his battle-mech provided a ready excuse.


    "I am testing full synthesis capacity, LabTech," he explained. "In the event that a full build is required, how can we know that the template is free of glitches or faulty code? Over two-thousand galactic years have passed, and errors may have accumulated."


    LabTech appeared to consider. Then,


    ''I have no protocol for this scenario, V47 pilot. Wait here and do nothing further, while I consult.''


    The request ended up being kicked all the way through to OVR-Lord, a matter of nearly a tick and a half. Finally, LabTech''s optics flashed.


    ''Adjustment authorized. In its next decantation, asset V47 pilot will test the full-body configuration, reporting results to LabTech. End of communication.''


    LabTech signed out immediately afterward; matter-converting back to a swirl of qubits, then plunging into its system again. The pilot barely had time to acknowledge the AI''s message, before it returned to its normal activity.


    To his future self, the pilot leaned forward to say,


    "When you¡­ we¡­ wake up, next time, we''ll do it in a complete body. Try not to get it blown up. That explanation is not likely to work, twice."


    He touched the layer of chilly plastic that separated his two selves, adding,


    "... but I hope that it will be a long time before you are needed, Pilot-2."


    Because, mere asset or not, he very much wanted to live.

 Part Four, chapter twenty-two

    22


    The heavy cell door swung open with a creak like a long, dying groan. Boomed thunderous-loud against the stone wall as one massive guard used his lance to keep the cell''s occupant back. Meanwhile, another, beefier constable flung Gildyr into that cramped little room.


    Half running, all stumbling, the wood-elf tripped over an uneven cobble and lost his balance. Would have fallen face-first, had someone not seized the back of his tunic, keeping him just off the floor.


    Gildyr twisted around in his savior''s grasp, catching a quick, swaying look before the door shut and the guards plodded off, taking their light along with them. Once their heavy tread and coarse laughter receded, the cell was plunged into darkness.


    There were no mage glows, no rush-lights or torches. Only blackness and still, noxious air. The whole place reeked, smelling strongly of blood, unwashed bodies and night-soil. Other prisoners pounded their cell doors, cursing and shouting for help.


    Gildyr ignored them, being rather more focused on who he was sharing a room with, himself. This was grippingly vital, because he''d been just about paralyzed. Besides the mage-lock and curses, his wrists had been bound with fey cuffs. They were meant to come off on their own (disintegrate, actually) in half a candle-mark, leaving his hands tightly bound in the meantime.


    Before throwing him in, the guards had taken his cloak, belt and knife; confiscating anything that the druid might have used to escape or defend himself with. But now, past the prison cell''s stench, he sensed someone familiar. Not an elf, dwarf or human. Someone who smelled like a young female cat.


    In a low voice, getting one knee under himself, then trying to rise, the druid said,


    "Thank you for preventing my fall, Good Lady."


    He''d glimpsed black-and-white fur and torn clothes in the guards'' vanished light. In the dark he saw nothing but motion, blurry grey sliding on black. She growled something back in her own language, raising cries of¡­


    "Shut up in there, can''t you?!"


    "Quiet! Nobody cares!"


    And¡­


    "Button it, all of you! I''m trying to dream my way out of here, and your ruckus disturbs my chi-wave energies!"


    The Tabaxi hissed and spat an insulting response, uttering something between see-sawing yowl and low rumble. Next flung Gildyr onto the cell''s lone amenity, a pile of rank straw. Crossed to the iron-bound door after that, crouching to quietly scratch at its food slot.


    Gildyr wriggled himself to a seated position; adjusting bruised flesh for minimal contact with cold, hard stone or sharp straw. This was not his first time in prison¡­ a wandering beggar tended to arouse suspicion¡­ but always before he''d had a way out besides extortionate debt, slave-time or execution. To the busy Tabaxi, he whispered,


    "Have you been here long?" (Less than three days, he was willing to bet.)


    Her head turned. The small piece of metal she clutched stopped moving. Then,


    "Sing," she hissed. "Anything at all, best if noisy, though. I can work faster with covering sound."


    "Um¡­ yes. All right."


    He was an elf. He had a nice tenor voice and perfect pitch. Started singing the Dawn Hymn because it did not require accompaniment, and because it was long. In the meantime, the Tabaxi (Selma? Solara? Something like that¡­) The Tabaxi attacked their hinged food slot with furious energy. Trying to pry loose its cover, he thought.


    There was no time to inquire, though. Not with thirty-two verses to warble. (Forty, on feast days or high holies.) Their fellow prisoners grumbled at first, but mostly got quiet and listened. Only the "dreamer" still raised a fuss. Didn''t get any silence, though. Under cover of Gildyr''s performance, the Tabaxi made steady progress. Actually worked one end of the slot-cover loose, by the time Gildyr reached the hymn''s trilling crescendo.


    He paused to draw breath and offer the customary five obeisances, then. Only, his cellmate snarled,


    "More. Loudly, Elfling."


    Gildyr complied, managing to sing while bowing five times in succession. His motion gave the tune a bouncy effect, causing someone out there to start clapping along. Meanwhile, the Tabaxi loosened the cover enough to slide her hand and forearm out through the opening. No further, because the slot was barely large enough to jam a tray through¡­ but that was all the room she needed.


    The druid looked on in surprise as the fur of her upper right arm started to glow, forming the outline of a tattooed gold monkey. He was even more confused when that shining ink began moving, sliding down her arm to her hand, which was outside of their cell. Incredibly, moments later the tattoo sprang free of her pelt, taking shape as a small, darting simian with bright golden hair and a little red vest.


    It tilted its head sideways to grin at them through the food slot, then scampered away.


    "A key!" whisper-called the Tabaxi. "Steal a door key, Cap''n!"


    It (very quietly) screeched an assent, while someone hollered,


    "Hey! Where''d the cussed music go?!"


    A couple of things happened at once, then. First, the light came back, as the guards returned. Not drawn in by Gildyr''s singing, though. They seemed to be struggling with another prisoner, this one less cooperative than Gildyr had been. There was vile cursing outside, then the sounds of a scuffle and meaty thud.


    Moments later, the door to their cell was unlocked and flung open, giving its inmates a quick look at three scowling and battered wardens¡­ as well as the monkey, who was now a flat picture drawn in gold paint on the wall, outside.


    Then someone was flung through the doorway with brutal force by the guards. Drow, by the smell of him. Next, one of their captors pointed at Gildyr.


    "You! Wolf-ears! Up n'' out! ''Is Lordship''s taken a personal interest in yer case."


    News traveled fast among elves. Get arrested at supper time, be the talk of the manor house well before sunrise.


    Gildyr stood up, chilly and cramped. His hands were free, at least, though the lock-collar still pinned all his magical senses and skills. He tugged at the hem of his tunic, then, as though yanking torn cloth could remove dirt, bloodstains and holes. He''d been meant to dine at the Tarandahl banqueting hall in that outfit¡­ but the tables hadn''t stopped turning.


    The Tabaxi''s pointed ears were flat to her skull, Gildyr saw; her yellow eyes slitted in hate. The sudden emotion was not aimed at him, though. She was staring instead at the drow, who landed hard on the floor, rolled once and lay there, having gotten no help at all.


    "Special deal on scrub-elves today, looks like," grunted one of the guards. "First we got us a tree-lover, and then¡­ a chamber pot."


    The other two laughed at that, but not Gildyr or that half-conscious dark-elf. Big fellow, even sprawled on the floor, and a possible danger to the surprising Tabaxi.


    She was on her own, for Gildyr was in no position to help. He''d been seized by massive hands once again, then dragged from the cell. The most he could do was create a distraction to keep them from noticing Cap''n (who was posed amid the scrawled pictures, spatters and curses that covered the passage wall).


    You had to finish the Dawn Hymn, once started. Everyone knew that. So, the druid pitched into verse twenty-seven with a strong, clear voice, despite all the insults and shoves.


    Then¡­ dirty, bruised and still reeking of prison¡­ Gildyr was taken before High Lord Arvendahl. His Lordship had sent everyone else away and now stood alone; waiting upstairs in the main guardroom.


    Very tall, with an icily handsome face, black hair and blue eyes, His Lordship seethed with frustrated power and rage. His clothing was formal, as though he''d been drawn from a social event by news of the wood-elf''s arrest.


    "Get out," he snapped at the guards, once they''d brought Gildyr. "Leave him, and go. I will personally arrange the public execution of any who linger to eavesdrop."


    The guards fell all over themselves to obey, first kicking Gildyr onto his knees before Arvendahl, then scurrying out through the street door. As it slammed in their wake, the high-elf drew glowing sigils in midair. Ward-and-privacy, looked like, though the collar made reading spells difficult. Casting, impossible; even if searing pain from cracked knees and punched kidneys had allowed him to speak.


    Arvendahl stalked nearer, blue eyes burning like slitted flame, taking in the druid''s wolf ears and greenish skin with open contempt.


    "You are not the right one, but you know him," he said, in a voice completely devoid of an elf''s normal music.


    ''Val,'' guessed the druid. His Lordship was hunting Valerian. Gildyr did his best to seem puzzled, though, whispering hoarsely,


    "Your Lordship, I¡­"


    "Be silent. I have no patience for weaseling lies. You will listen carefully as I speak, then receive exactly one chance to respond with precise, unfiltered truth. Otherwise, Druid, I shall have you slashed and set loose for the hounds, in my parkland."


    He meant it, too, seeming to speak from a place of terrible anguish and loss. Gildyr risked a nod, which was all the response that High Lord Arvendahl needed.


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    Conjuring wine and a golden cup, the furious elf poured himself a drink. Downed the whole thing at a reckless toss before saying,


    "Somehow, the world has changed, Druid. Something¡­ someone¡­ very important has been taken from me. I have lost what I can only sense from its outlines. Someone dear is gone¡­ and I will have him returned. I do not know exactly what happened¡­" Paused then, to refill and drain his cup, while very faint sounds from below hinted at growing chaos. A miserable, distracted Arvendahl failed to notice. Too upset. Paced like a tygre, then threw his goblet past Gildyr''s head. It struck the far wall with a ringing clatter and bounced to the floor, spinning wildly and dribbling wine. Wrath somewhat abated, the high-elf lord began speaking again, saying,


    "Happen, it did, though, because a worthless apprentice botched his task. Deliberately, I believe. Ruined everything, causing the exile of one who could only fall to the basest sort of treachery. You know the traitor. You were present. I can almost see him, through you." Taking a deep, shaky breath, His Lordship continued.


    "You shall have leave to speak, shortly. You will tell me all that you know of this renegade, and where he is to be found. If your answer fails to satisfy, I will have you sewn into a weighted sack with the Tabaxi, and then watch as my guards throw you into the harbor. You may speak, Druid."


    Mouth gone suddenly dry, on his aching knees before Arvendahl, Gildyr drew breath to respond. Only¡­ what to say, while the noise of escape grew louder, below, and somebody slid into shadow, nearby?


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    As for Valerian, the young high-elf awoke from wandering dreams to find himself sharing a stall with somebody''s milk cow¡­ and a frightened young girl. He sat up, spelling dust and hay from his garments. Was tidy¡­ well dressed and clean¡­ moments later. A bit confused, though.


    Having turned himself inside-out overusing his power, lost consciousness and then been seemingly kidnapped, Val had a few holes in his thinking. The girl couldn''t see that, though. She was shaking with fright. Very young and quite pretty for a mortal, she had light brown hair and dark eyes. A spattering of those dots mortal men called "freckles" dusted her cheeks and her nose. She knelt in the straw by the stall bar, surrounded by wretched gifts. Woven cloth, potted food and small craft items. Poor stuff, but¡­ like the girl¡­ probably the best such humble folk had to offer. He could sense a small crowd of them waiting outside.


    Cleared his throat, then gestured to waft a flask of the local brew to his hand. Sour and thin, it nevertheless quenched his thirst. Gave him some much-needed think time, as well.


    The fawn-colored cow lowed softly behind him, her bag swollen full. ''Needs milking,'' he thought. Light filtered in through cracks in the barn walls, along with a draft of cold air. Reminded of Starshire, he relaxed enough to smile at the girl. Then, speaking into that anxious silence, Val said,


    "I give thanks for the hospitality offered, good people, and I throw myself on your care, as a guest."


    A much shorter statement than protocol normally demanded, but formality would have been wasted, here. Someone outside hissed advice to the girl, who sniffled and nodded, saying,


    "T''were gladly done, Milord. P- Please be welcome to all that we have, Sir."


    "My name is Valerian," he told her, getting up from the straw in a smooth, fluid motion. "I seem to be traveling, although the full details are blurry, at the moment."


    He was no accurate judge of human ages, but the girl appeared to be only a child; their one certain maiden, no doubt. In a hushed little voice, she said,


    "I be Rainey, Milord. This be Burrough, if¡­ if you would wish to look at our village, Sir?"


    He nodded, getting roughly propelled by a nudge from the cow.


    "By all means, as my hostess appears to have pressing concerns." He''d meant to be light, but the girl heard things otherwise.


    "Oh, please, Milord¡­ Flossie don''t mean nothing wrong! She¡­"


    "Peace," he interrupted, coming over to offer a hand, then raising the girl to her feet. "I have been among kine, before, Rainey. Helped with the milking, even." (On an excursion with Tam and Katina.) "Flossie belongs in this place. I do not."


    He faerie pocketed all of the offerings, then; even a small and misshapen clay pot. Rainey''s eyes grew wide as Burrough''s combined treasures vanished away. Her little hand was cold in his; clenching convulsively at the tingle of manna.


    The sleep had worked a treat, but he was still terribly drained. In no shape to misty-step past the threshold, much less back home. To buy further time, he said,


    "Show me the town and your people, please, Rainey. I would greet those whose kindness and generosity have helped me to heal."


    She nodded, risking a very shy smile.


    "Yes, Milord. This way, if you please, Sir."


    Outside of the tumble-down barn stood the townsfolk, looking strained. Some twenty-two people, mostly women and children, with those withered elders peculiar to humans not much in evidence. A few scarred, bitter men; keenly aware of how utterly powerless they were against even a weary, drained elf-lord.


    Valerian bowed slightly. These folk did not know him. They were afraid. They''d knelt down at his emergence from the barn, making obeisance right there in the chilly mud. He said,


    "Rise, if you please. I have done nothing to earn such a show of respect¡­ except to delay the day''s labor."


    That brought a snort of agreement from someone up front. They clambered back onto their feet, though, dirty and mumbling; their faces and hands chapped by toil and cold. People in Burrough aged swiftly, it seemed.


    He guessed Rainey''s parents by the way that their frightened gaze followed her. By the father''s bunched muscles, the mother''s red eyes. Wishing to put them at ease, Val inclined his head in their direction, saying


    "Rainey has kindly agreed to show a lost traveler the sights of her village. Such grace speaks well of those who raised her."


    The peasant couple seemed dumb-struck, at first. Then Rainey''s thin mother pushed a straggle of hair back into its bun and smiled.


    "Thank ''ee, Milord. She''s a good lass, our Rainey."


    The father''s eyes searched Valerian''s face, meanwhile. Their gazes met, briefly, and (just for a moment) the elf-lord felt what it was to be helpless. Completely unable to shield those he loved.


    "By your leave, Goodman," said the elf, "I shall make Rainey my guide, so that I do not offend at your shrine, or step in the way of your labor."


    The mortal''s face changed. Not a smile. Never that, but his jaw relaxed some.


    "Our wee Rainey be in yer hands, Milord." ''Take care of her, please,'' he did not add aloud.


    Somewhat warily, the village went back to its usual doings. Baking, milling, smithing, tending to sheep and to kine. No horses, he noticed, and only dogs with docked toes, to prevent them from running down wild boar or deer. No weapons at all except cudgels and staves and the lightest of bows. Whoever ruled in these parts did so with a very hard hand, thought Valerian.


    Growing more confident with time, Rainey brought him around from one village attraction to the next. With stops to greet neighbors, she took him from the well (which he blessed) to the shrine (where he made an offering) and then to the village ring-wall (at which he set wards).


    At last, scrunching her face up, Rainey said,


    "Umm¡­ that''s all there is t'' Burrough, Milord¡­ except¡­ Oh, wait. There be the bridge, yet. You''ll come see the bridge, won''t you, Sir?"


    "One cannot leave a town without viewing its fabled span," he agreed. "Lead onward, Fair Maiden."


    Rainey giggled, swinging on his hand as though they''d been friends all their lives.


    "This way," she said. Then, sounding like a conspirator, "T''is a shortcut, fer when the milk jugs ''re heavy."


    Which was probably always, he thought. At any rate, she took a turn through Burrough''s beaten-clay square, then left down a row of crude workshops. Her path took them past a hut on log stilts. It was guarded by two tense young men, both of them armed with stout cudgels and knives. They stiffened at the sight of Valerian, which¡­


    Ah. The village storehouse, most likely; where Burrough laid up its seed-corn and foods. The hope of the village in famine, blizzard or raid.


    He pretended not to notice the hut or its nervous young guards, asking Rainey to tell him about the bridge, instead. Full of chatter, she drew him onward, until they came to an arched wooden span that crossed Burrough''s river. It had been painted bright red, faded now to pale pink. With its bit of carved scrollwork, the bridge was quite fetching, he thought.


    "This is the Water," said Rainey, pointing down at the tumbling river. "That''s what we call it. And folks what cross the bridge holdin'' hands is wed by the Water. You want ter get married, Milord?" she asked him, in perfect innocence.


    Valerian smiled.


    "I am already wed, lovely Maid," he told her. "My wife has given birth to our child, not yet two days ago. I cannot marry you."


    "Oh¡­" she mourned. "But¡­ you would''ve said yes, if you didn''t already be wedded, Sir?"


    "I would have said yes," he assured her, earning a smile like the sun breaking through clouds. He pinched the tip of her nose, then, as though she were Zara.


    They crossed the bridge after that, very solemnly not holding hands. He clasped her thin shoulder, though.


    That done, a bit of a spread was put on, out in the village square. Several trestle tables and benches were set up, the tables covered with cloth and laid out with cider, cheese, fresh bread and smoked meat. There was this and that for sale. Not much of real value, but Valerian found things to purchase, anyhow.


    After midmeal, the local players put on a morality show about twin brothers, one greedy, one good. The sons of a poor widow, they had many comic adventures, in which good (Hansel) always did better than greedy (Varg). Quite instructive.


    Then, just as the sun was setting, and Varg about to discover that the wretched old crone he''d scorned was (in fact) Titania, the play was disrupted. First, a sorcerous earthquake struck, knocking the stage flat and sending the players sprawling. Moments later, four raven-haired elves rode into the village at a full gallop, scattering people and food, leaping their mounts over laden tables and benches.


    The villagers prostrated themselves as soon as they''d pulled free of wreckage and mud; first kneeling, then bowing low to the ground. Rainey hid herself behind Val. As for the elf-lord, he''d shot to his feet, hand at the hilt of his dueling sword.


    Spying him, the lead rider scowled, urging his horse over. He was an Arvendahl, which explained a great deal. In fact¡­


    Val and the younger elf stared at each other for a long, puzzled moment. Then the blue-eyed fellow broke into a grin that threatened to split his face. Nearly fell off the white horse, in his rush to dismount.


    Val was already moving, meeting his friend¡­ for so they were; heart-bonded, blood-sharing friends¡­ in mid-square. Was reintroduced to Filimar, Kellen, Sandor and Arien, with much backslapping, shoving, name-calling and foolishness.


    And all the while, Burrough waited in absolute, shivering dread.


    "Valno, you worthless dog!" laughed Filimar, seizing the back of his neck. "What are you doing in this wretched hole?"


    "I¡­" Well, he wasn''t quite certain, actually. But, "I was enjoying a local festival. Put on in my honor, which was most kind of Burrough''s good people."


    Filimar snorted.


    "This place has a name?" he scoffed. Spat to one side, reflexively, adding, "We are here at the High Lord''s behest, searching for some reprobate scoundrel he''s convinced lurks in the bushes, plotting snares like a spider. But now that you''re here¡­ and our guest¡­ we''ve no choice at all but to return to the city and fete you properly."


    Valerian experienced a very odd, wrenching moment, then. On the one hand, Filimar was as close as a brother. Tested in battle and hardship... though¡­ how, when, he couldn''t recall. On the other hand, Filno was casually murderous. Would cheerfully have slaughtered any or all of the villagers, had Val given a bad report of them.


    Quickly, before Filimar could show off by putting Burrough to the torch, Val smiled.


    "I have always wanted to visit Milardin," he said, slipping an arm through Filimar''s. "Why wait, when there''s drink to be had and trouble to stir?"


    Filimar grinned at him. Then he called out,


    "Sandor, you rogue, mount up behind Arno. Lord Valerian will be riding that glue-pot nag of yours!"


    This caused more merriment, as Sandor attempted to defend his mount''s reputation. In the scuffle that followed, Rainey was all at once visible, clinging still to Valerian''s cloak.


    Filimar glanced at her, then over at Val. Cocked a knowing eyebrow at his friend.


    "Been busy already, I see. She any good?"


    Gone suddenly ice to his core, Val placed a hand on the girl''s trembling shoulder.


    "I am her guest," he said tightly. "I arrived in the night, confused and lost, and her folk took me in. I owe them the service one gives to one''s host, Filno."


    Filimar shook his head but chose not to argue.


    "Very well, they are your pets. We''ll leave them be, Valno. But enough sour thoughts and mud hovels! Let''s away to Milardin, my friend, where the four of us will show you some real entertainment."


    Valerian nodded, letting that very tense moment slide past with a smile. He squeezed Rainey''s shoulder, then, trying to say: Forgive me.


    On his way out with Filimar and the clamorous others, Val wasted all of his fresh-hoarded manna. Pulled a handy crystal out of a faerie pocket and quietly spelled it. Next tossed the thing over one shoulder. It landed in the mud at Rainey''s bare feet. Stooping, she picked it up off the hoof-churned ground. The spelled crystal fit in the palm of her hand, glowing softly. More than that, it held peace, protection and safety; turning Burrough half a twist out of the world. Beyond the reach of those who meant harm.


    Forever.

 Part Four, chapter twenty-three

    23


    Gildyr hadn''t much time to think. The wood-elf druid¡­ battered, dirty and sore¡­ had been dragged up from the prison below to face High Lord Arvendahl. They were alone in the main guard room. Or, nearly so.


    Gildyr had been slapped into a mage-lock collar on being arrested. His remaining magical senses were few, but lit up by danger and stress. And if he could detect Cinda¡­


    Lord Arvendahl stopped ranting threats to scan that glow-lit stone chamber. He was a very tall and handsome high-elf, without a trace of warmth in his expression or voice. Now, looking slowly around, he hissed,


    "Ah. The ranger. I sense your presence, Scrub-elf. Your next breath, word or move will betray you, and then you will die. Unless completing my set of conspirators draws the rebel from hiding."


    The cold stone was painful to kneel upon. He was thirsty and exhausted, but Gildyr was nothing at all, if not optimistic. Now, daring to shift his position a little, he sat back on his heels and started the Dawn Hymn''s final verse. Not the solitary chant, but its choral arrangement, intended for groups of worshipers. The one that required participation.


    Gildyr hadn''t realized that Arvendahl''s expression could get any colder; he almost stopped singing, himself. Forged onward, though, when he spotted the golden outline of a monkey sliding out from beneath the rear door. Rippling swiftly over mortar and cracks, Cap''n slid around behind Lord Arvendahl, then swept up onto the wall.


    Everything happened at once, all in a wild and chaotic rush. Cap''n popped suddenly off of grey, mortared stone, screeching aloud, to land on Arvendahl''s head. Cinda flowed out of shadow like a wraith, spell-hand glowing. The rear door burst open, exploding outward under a tidal wave of mixed, angry prisoners. Lastly, Gildyr lunged forward to pick up and throw the dropped goblet, deeply cutting Lord Arvendahl''s forehead.


    Any one of these would not have accomplished much. All together, with the elf-lord impaired by sorrow and drink¡­ Well, it was still a very near thing.


    The Tabaxi charged, cutting low, as the freed drow picked up and swung a stout wooden bench, breaking it sharply across Lord Arvendahl''s back. Between them, they dropped him to the floor. Most of the prisoners ran for their lives then, concealed by the High Lord''s own silence and privacy spell.


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    One fellow, a human wizard, stayed behind to place sleep on the elf-lord. Possible, because no one had bothered to mage-lock a clearly insane, raving mortal.


    In all of that noise and chaos, the dark-elf picked up the longest half of the bench. Swung it back over Lord Arvendahl. Only,


    "Wait!" called Gildyr, struggling to rise.


    The¡­ not entirely drow¡­ albino turned slightly to scowl at Gildyr.


    "Kill him now, or regret it later," snarled the drow, adding, "Only a fool leaves a knife at his back in the name of mercy."


    But the mortal wizard stepped between them, shaking his head.


    "My dream, my rules," he chided. "And since you''re all subconscious impulses, you have to listen. Primitive sub-brain, no killing. Feminine aspect, get off of the ground. You''re strong and independent."


    Meanwhile, the ranger had not been idle. As the Tabaxi and Cap''n worked to remove Gildyr''s crippling collar, Cinda placed hibernation on Arvendahl.


    "It won''t hold him for long," she warned, as the High Lord''s breathing and heart rate slowed almost to nothing. "He''s too powerful, and already fighting it¡­ but, if we kill him, we''ll be marked as criminals, with every hand turned against us, forever."


    All of them had the uneasy sense that this was not their first go-round. Even the wizard, though he believed himself to be dreaming. Shrugging, the dark-elf dropped his half bench clattering onto the floor.


    "I am already hunted and hated by all. Makes no difference to me¡­ but have it your own way, day-spawn."


    The monkey''s tools and clever small fingers unlocked Gildyr''s collar at last. Took the druid a moment to get up, though, as the sudden return of his manna flow was quite disorienting.


    "Thank you, both," he gasped to the Tabaxi and Cap''n. "And, I''m not for killing His Lordship, either."


    "I need some kind of portal," mused the dark-haired wizard, stroking his beard. "Last time, my subconscious heroic-impulsive aspect opened a doorway to send me back to the waking world."


    Cinda had gone to the guard room''s window for a swift, cautious look outside. Now, turning back to the others, she said,


    "We''d best leave quickly, before the warder''s fear of their lord is overcome by concern for how long this is taking."


    The banished guards weren''t in the courtyard, but that didn''t mean they''d gone far, or would stay away for much longer. The wizard brightened immediately.


    "Of course," he enthused, smacking a palm to his forehead. "The prison door is an obvious symbol for release, or escape. Maybe I just need to put my studies and lab work on hold for a while. Do some backpacking."


    So saying, he helped lever his ''feminine side'' up off of the floor. Moments later, having forged an uneasy truce, the lot of them slipped out of Milardin''s prison, vanishing into the night.

 Part Four, chapter twenty-four

    24


    Valerian''s experience of Milardin was quite different from Gildyr''s. Not much better in the end, though. Filimar had pooled his manna with that of his set (Kellen, Sandor and Arien). Used their massed power to open a gateway to the harbor city''s grand shrine. Being a popular, well-traveled destination, the spot made an excellent anchoring point for a gate. Val memorized its particulars at once, just in case.


    Having ridden through the glimmering portal¡­ and with Burrough now hidden safely, behind them¡­ Valerian found himself on the broad marble ramp of a glorious temple.


    Very high in the freshly-washed sky it towered, still spotted and streaked with rain. Lacy and open, the building featured not one stone altar, but many; all but the highest in use by those who cared to engage in a bit of worship. There were long strings of crystalline wind-bells at the temple''s corners. These sounded their notes at each gusting breeze, filling the wide, terraced city with music.


    There were colorful flowers in rioting, joyous profusion. Only the city jail and its chopping block were not laden with twining ivy and blossoms, it seemed. The flowers'' heady aroma mingled with that of the nearby sea and strong spices to announce: Milardin. He wouldn''t ever forget it.


    Val soothed the restive grey mare that he''d borrowed from Sandor. Typically, the beasts despised gate-travel, and were uncomfortable standing on smooth, slanted stone. He waited until Filimar clucked to his own mount and started down-ramp, before moving away from the busy shrine complex. Did his best not to crowd or jostle those afoot, though the others were far less cautious; riding straight through the crowd like¡­ well, like heedless elvish nobility.


    They left the horses at a high-end local stable, then proceeded to the waterfront, intending to out-spend, out-drink and out-gamble each other. Filimar would have included "out-whore", but Valerian declined, thinking of his lady, Alfea, of Cinda and (oddly enough) even small Rainey, to whom he''d halfway promised himself. There was plenty to do, even so.


    The waterfront district was a charming collection of ramshackle taverns, religious missions and pay-as-you-go hostels. There were rows of tall, narrow buildings with faded, once colorful paint and slate roofs. Neighborhoods were transected by open canals which ended at bustling docks. Further on, flowers, luck sigils, and the much-rubbed statues of various gods surrounded Milardin''s famous water stairs.


    Built for the passage of ocean giants, that porphyry stairway was too large for comfortable use. Like Starloft and¡­ and¡­ something else he''d seen once, it had a smaller, elven-sized ramp chiseled into its sides.


    One end of the staircase plunged into the harbor and far out of sight underwater. The other end climbed in a spiraling swirl through that lovely city, then vanished up into the sky. According to Filimar, it was considered an amusing prank to get a friend unconscious, sloppy drunk and then leave him up there, as high on the stairway as the snickering, tipsy conspirators could wobble. Find his own way down or fall, was the joke. Get it?


    Val resolved to remain halfway sober and (someday) to see for himself where those magical stairs fetched up. Here and now, he went drinking with those seemingly bottomless fish: Filimar, Sandor, Kellen and Arien.


    They started their tour of Milardin''s worst dives at the Rusty Nail and finished up in the Sailor''s Spew. On the way, he won and lost money, fought three ridiculous duels and made a few key discoveries. One, that his sword had begun to change; was much less a toy now, than an ornate, flashing stinger. The rest became obvious later.


    They quaffed deleterious moisture at every stop, in quantities that would have poisoned or drowned anyone else but an elf-lord or troll. Val particularly liked the Devonian brandy.


    At one point¡­ at a table in the infamous Broken Teeth¡­ the lot of them were approached by a mortal paladin. Good-looking, tall fellow with brown hair and dark eyes, wearing Oberyn''s gold sunburst insignia. Bowing, the mortal said (through the crowd noise and thumping-loud music),


    "My lords, the Constellate''s tithe-day is nigh. As warriors of light, perhaps you would wish to donate, in support of the local mission?"


    He seemed a likable young man, with something familiar about him that Valerian was too brandy-addled to place. Reached for some coin and started to rise, but Filimar waved him back with a scornful laugh.


    "I''ll donate... by tossing my purse in the air, Paladin. Whatever Lord Oberyn wants, he can pull out, himself, and keep," sneered the drunk Arvendahl.


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    The paladin looked crestfallen, but maintained a smile. There was not much else he could do, as a mortal dealing with elves in Milardin.


    "Yes, My Lord," he replied, raising his voice as though they wouldn''t be able to distinguish it over everything else.


    Digging Val in the ribs with a sharp elbow, Filimar made a great show of drawing forth a fine leather coin purse. Then, with a flourish, the young Arvendahl confidently lofted it into the air over their table, intoning,


    "Lord Oberyn, your humble servant offers whatever you care to remove from his coin supply, personally."


    Expected to see the purse fall back down to the wooden table with a heavy, ringing thunk, both proclaiming his wealth and his wit. Only, that wasn''t what happened. Instead of falling, the purse rose higher, revolving slowly as its thongs untied themselves, waving like seaweed. Then ten¡­ ten¡­ bright gold pieces came dancing free. These did a bit of jugglery in the air over the gaping faces of the paladin and all four Arvendahls. Then the coins broke into twin cascades, ending up five on the mortal''s left shoulder, five on his right.


    Filimar''s look of surprise quickly turned to suspicion. There was manna in use, but it wasn''t divine. The mortal hadn''t done it. He wasn''t capable, probably, and had vows against wealth, in any case. That left¡­


    The raven-haired elf rounded on his companions.


    "Right. Which of you future carrion has dared make a fool of me?!" he demanded, surging out of his seat, hand at his sword hilt. "Face me, Trickster, or stand branded a coward!" Only, it wasn''t Arien, Sandor or Kellen who''d pulled the sly prank. It was Val, who now stood and bowed to his red-faced friend.


    "My doing, Filno¡­ for Lord Oberyn, who liketh not to be mocked. I am no coward, and I will gladly repay you in coin or provide satisfaction with swordplay, if that is your preference."


    It was certainly Nightshade''s. The sword''s hilt warmed and shifted in his grip as it altered again. Very much no longer the shining toy of a feckless, layabout dandy.


    "Have at you, then, Tarandahl," snapped Filimar, drawing his own blade. "Ten coins you''ve abstracted, ten cuts I''ll deliver. An Arvendahl to the fray!"


    The tavern''s other patrons leapt to get out of the combatant''s way. Heavy wood tables and benches, flagons and platters were cleared at the innkeeper''s gesture.


    "Survivor pays all damages!" she shouted aloud. "If y''r both kilt, the house claims half o'' y''r mage pockets!"


    Someone touched Valerian''s shoulder. He pivoted, seeing the mortal, who looked as concerned as did Filimar''s friends.


    "Milord," he said, "I was the one you were trying to help, and I am the one who should pay, but¡­ failing that¡­ I would offer my service as your second."


    Useful, in the event he was wounded, or others leapt into the fight.


    "Thank you," replied the young elf-lord. "I accept your offer¡­ erm¡­?"


    "Villem, Milord. At the Constellate, known as Brother Arnulf."


    "Well met, Villem. I am Valerian Tarandahl ad Keldaran, second heir to Ilirian."


    It came to Val, standing lightly in the cleared circle, surrounded by shouting, betting onlookers, backed by the paladin, that he liked dueling. Was quite good at it. Better by far than the drunk, angry Filimar (whom his friends were trying to soothe... and who Valerian had no wish to harm or further embarrass). Tough situation.


    Well¡­ sometimes a bit of foolishness went a long way in calming wrath. Looking solemn, Val seized his own fight-plaited gold hair. Handed the free end to the startled mortal, saying,


    "If you will, Sword of Oberyn, hold fast, and keep it stretched forth."


    The puzzled mortal did so, as Valerian half-turned, moving far enough off to stretch out the shining gold braid.


    "Very well, Filno," said Val. "I am ready now for my haircut. Ten slashes, if you please, the fallen length to be laid upon Oberyn''s altar."


    Filimar stared at him for a moment, hot with strong drink and hurt pride. It was a way out, though, and they were close friends, so¡­ Laughing, Filimar strode forward and delivered ten showy sword cuts, counting each one aloud. Left Valerian''s formerly waist-length hair at his shoulders (a sign of oath or mourning among high-elves). The patrons counted along, as their drinks refilled with each slashing cut.


    Not one golden hair struck the ground; each one burning away in midair, the motes of brightness flying up and away to the watching god. Thus, Filimar got his ten cuts without bloodshed, while Valerian made a greater donation than Filno''s.


    They embraced again, afterward, closer than ever in heart. The paladin made a fortune in tithe money, and the Broken Teeth tavern was blessed with ever-full barrels and bottles for seven times seven whole years.


    Turned out, Val''s hair was wavy when shortened, and he did know that paladin, who was the self-same mortal that Aunt Meliara had run off with. Small world, and Valerian promised to visit the Constellate outpost in lower Milardin, to see her.


    "Mellie knew something important was going to happen here, today," explained Villem. "She''s an oracle, but sometimes her visions are more feeling than picture." Cocking his head to one side, smiling a little, the mortal added, "That was well done, Milord. You have Oberyn''s favor¡­ and I can see the resemblance between you and Mellie."


    Then,


    "Valno, you infamous thief!" shouted Filimar, already impatient to leave. "Come away from that meddlesome priest, before he extracts further tithe!"


    "Or what little hair I retain," laughed the shorn elf, passing a hand over his strangely lightened head. "Hopefully, my wife will not take the change ill." Then, to Villem, "I am summoned and must depart, good Paladin. But I shall come as quickly as possible to visit your outpost and Aunt Meliara."


    They clasped hands on the promise before going their separate ways. It was later, in the Sailor''s Spew, that absolute nightmare descended and everything fell apart.

 Part Four, chapter twenty-five

    25


    The Sailor''s Spew had a deserved reputation as the worst, most dangerous tavern in all Milardin. All of Alandriel, for that matter. Tolerated, because His Lordship had useful assets there, and because he preferred to keep the criminal element pent in one spot. They knew this, too, and had dug out a secret, ocean cave hideout, somewhere below.


    Like the rest of the young, foolish nobles, Filimar was eager to find this second "Shadow Spew", but he''d never yet gained admittance. Valerian was too distracted to care. In his grandfather''s realm of Ilirian, crime was ruthlessly squashed, so all of this was a new and exotic experience¡­ As was just reaching that last, fabled inn.


    The Sailor''s Spew lay at the very end of Waterfront Row. It had been built on pilings over the restless harbor and was backed by a cave-riddled limestone cliff (where fugitives hid and where smuggled treasures were stashed¡­ or, so it was rumored).


    Outside, on the wooden boardwalk, all one saw was high cliffs and increasingly sketchy wharves. There were rock-roses, tumble-down huts and wild children on the stony plains above town. Sea goats, too; sometimes sporting a powerfully coiled fish tail, sometimes converting to four-legged shape to scamper about and graze on the richest pastures.


    A tribe of selkies were present; their seal skins well hidden as they dallied with sailors, guards and the curious. But¡­ very troubling to Val¡­ There was also a picket of fly-blown corpses at the end of the waterfront. They''d been impaled upon great, sharpened posts, with their heads locked in cages, below.


    Shrieking skuas tore at the exposed bodies in greedy, flapping clouds. The victims'' crimes were written in mage script that spiraled continually from the top of each post to its bottom, like the glowing stripe on a stick of candy. Val counted five ''disturbing the peace'', three ''mocking His Lordship'', and two simple ''drow'' in that ghastly forest of rotting flesh. A single ''thief'', too, who might have been female, or else just a child. Hard to tell, under that feathery shroud of seabirds.


    The Arvendahls ruled with a heavy hand, and Filimar did not seem troubled, at all.


    "Have they no kin?" Valerian asked his friend, distressed by those pecked, ragged bodies. "No one to burn and release them?"


    Filimar shrugged. He''d met a female¡­ one Neira, of the sea-blue skin and dark eyes¡­ to whom he seemed very attached. Had little attention for anything else, as a consequence.


    "Criminals don''t give birth, Valno. They drop litters, like mortals," he scoffed. "I doubt they''d know their own father or recognize their mother, once out of the shanty. Besides, how else are you going to encourage good behaviour?"


    "I had a cousin staked out there, once," remarked Neira, who''d been braiding a strand of her opaline hair with Filimar''s shining black tresses. "We cut her down under cover of night¡­ but you didn''t hear that, Mar."


    "I am all at once deaf as a stone," agreed the young Arvendahl, drawing her closer.


    Skirting His Lordship''s grim orchard, they came at last to the Sailor''s Spew. By this time, Sandor, Kellen and Arien had also met with affectionate companions. With Filimar''s casual, distracted acceptance, the three went off to private booths in the back.


    Valerian, Filimar and Neira took a table beside the driftwood wall. Sat looking around as they waited for service. There were no windows and only one obvious entrance, making the place a trap, unless one was "made", or had manna in buckets.


    By way of decor, there were colored glass floats, filthy straw, carved serpent''s teeth and old nets, along with a very long, broken harpoon.


    "Father Ocean''s, that was," said Neira, from her perch on Filimar''s lap. "He used it to kill the world-serpent."


    The crowd was rough and unkempt, but not inclined to ask questions. Slumming nobles, they simply ignored. There was a great deal of selkie and sea-elf blood in that crew, half of whom looked like pirates. The smell was a blend of closely packed bodies, sea-stained clothing and grog. Lots of spilt, sour grog.


    The music was bad and the drink was worse, but Neira and Filimar were soon too potted to care. When three sheets to the wind, one didn''t trouble much over the thread-count.


    Still upset by the corpse-farm outside, Val made do with resin, a pine-flavored drink that he knew from back home. Neira and Filimar sampled the grog, and each other.


    The bard (?) was a goblin-lad. He sat on a stool, ducking hurled food and insults as he determinedly sawed at a fiddle, yodeling his one¡­ really bad¡­ song. From the look and sound of things, the Spew''s patrons were about to stuff that overworked instrument someplace distinctly uncomfortable.


    Taking pity, Valerian cast a glamourie over the kid, making him suddenly competent. Wouldn''t last forever, but might earn the young bard enough coin to afford some actual music lessons. One helped out where one could.


    Then, just as he''d drained his third resin, something manifested onstage, near the smiling young goblin. A column of inky-dark smoke it was, with a lovely porcelain mask by way of a face. Benches scraped. Hoarse voices cried out in warning. Time stopped, for everyone else at the inn but Valerian.


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    He stood up, having to push very hard to shift that resistant wood bench, in air that burned and flowed like hot tar. Lord Oberyn must have been watching, because he didn''t just smother or bake where he stood.


    The smoke-being¡­ dark and fluid¡­ poured itself off of the stage and across the crowded taproom, draining life-force from all that it passed, leaving them grey-faced and empty. It was headed his way, Val realized, which would take it directly through Neira and Filimar.


    Thinking quickly, he tapped into a local ley-line, then misty stepped out of the Sailor''s Spew. Fetched up on a dock by the still, sculpted sea, with gannets and gulls pocking the air all around him.


    He''d moved at an angle, hopefully forcing the apparition to bypass his friends. It was on him almost before he arrived, though, seeming to know exactly where he would jump¡­ but at least no one else was in danger.


    In an oddly stilled world, feeling clenched by a massive fist, Valerian faced his pursuer. The spectre circled him once, then rose up before the young elf like a dark and vaporous serpent; one with a strangely beautiful, mask-like face.


    ''You cannot flee from me, Pretty Child,'' it whispered, without speaking aloud. ''Any more than I can stray further than a league or two from you.''


    The voice was female, all minor-key notes, and weirdly familiar. The mask changed its expression without moving, he noticed. One moment neutral, the next, amused. Worse, the phantom seemed able to read his thoughts.


    ''Indeed, I am known to you, Saviour. Have I not lain, age beyond time, close by your heart?''


    Valerian had the sick sense that she was telling the truth, but he shook his head, anyhow, making the shorn blond hair flop into his eyes.


    "No. You haven''t. You''re just a Chaos-spawned nightmare, like the globe at Lerendar''s place, and a sigil will hurl you straight back to the void you came out of."


    The mask spun slowly about in that column of vile, churning smoke, briefly revealing its sinewy, red-purple lining. Her version of a headshake, he guessed.


    ''The way back has been closed, Son of Keldaran. You sealed it, yourself, before inviting me into your heart.''


    Which was¡­ had to be¡­ a foul, dirty lie. Only, before he could say so, the ghostly thing went on speaking.


    ''I was meant to be drawn in, trapped here and sacrificed, so that one long imprisoned might be released. You were intended to slay me, but stayed your hand, in the end.''


    "You''re a liar," he growled, backing away as he summoned up magic. "I abjure you by Oberyn''s might and Firelord''s. By all of the gods who love my house, I command you to go."


    But she uttered a thin, broken laugh, saying,


    ''That I shall, as there is more potential here than there was in your home, and someone of far greater influence to drain and corrupt.''


    Home? What had the monster done to his realm and his family, Valerian wondered, all at once icy with dread. Aloud, barely able to push enough air to shape words, he grated,


    "If you''ve harmed my wife¡­ touched any of my family or people¡­"


    ''Ah. It pleases me to leave you in doubt, Little Harbour¡­ but know that we cannot ever cease hunting each other. Not till the far away end of all things. Now, look to yourself, for my quarry soon wakes, and I shall be hosted, once more.''


    After that, with a final ashen-cold brush at his thoughts, she was gone. Time lurched forward once more, leaving the elf-lord alone on a rickety wooden dock.


    Wind blew, bearing the mixed taint of decaying flesh, flowers and woodsmoke. The whisper and slap of water against half-rotted pilings, the various noises of gulls, people and city, were anchors he clutched. A nightmare or vision, he thought. It had to have been just a terrible dream. Then,


    "This way!" he heard someone hiss. Moments later, a small crowd edged past a toolshed and into his view. Gildyr and Cinda he knew at once. The others¡­ Tabaxi, mortal and drow¡­ he recognized as he had the dark goddess. From elsewhen. Otherwhere. Somelife.


    "Valerian!" called Cinda, rushing to seize and embrace him. "You''re alive!"


    Very much needing that hug, he did not thrust the ranger away. Was all at once surrounded, but didn''t have time to react, because Filimar had arrived, porting out to the dock in Valerian''s wake. Neira was with him, still. Both were bleary with grog, but ready to fight and rescue their stolen comrade.


    Filno took a step forward onto that creaking wharf, his gaze darting uncertainly from Val to the escaped felons surrounding him. He put a few things together in his drink-sodden head, then, whispering,


    "It''s you. The one His Lordship''s had us out searching for!"


    Filimar''s hand hovered partway to his sword-hilt, but he didn''t draw steel. Refused to. Miserably, through tightly-clenched teeth, the Arvendahl lordling rasped,


    "Get away from here, Valerian. Now. I¡­ I''ll do my best to buy you some cover and time, but¡­"


    But he''d be found out and killed for daring to aid a fugitive. For letting the wanted Tarandahl go. It''d be the stake for Filimar, after a very slow death.


    "Come with us," urged Val, taking hold of his friend''s arm. "We''ll head for the sea realm. My people have ties to Averna, and my voice should carry some weight there."


    Filimar shook his head no, saying,


    "I cannot, Val. My oath of loyalty as an Arvend¡­uhnh."


    The rest was cut short, because Neira had drawn a belaying pin from her cloak, then smashed it across the back of Filimar''s head. The young elf-lord dropped to the wharf like a rock. Before her startled audience could interfere, she''d stooped down to lift and then sling his unconscious form across her slim shoulders.


    "What his¡­ urf¡­ lordship means to say is that sea travel sounds like a splendid idea, right the wreck now."


    Valerian nodded. They were quite far from the water stairs, but Neira knew a back route, down through the limestone cliffs on which Milardin was built. The elf-lord jerked a thumb at his friends and suffered himself to be led. First, though, calling on Firelord, he raised a mighty tornado of flame. Used it to burn every last one of those pitiful bodies to ash, along with a holocaust of shrieking skuas. Visible all through Miliardin, lasting for weeks, that blazing cyclone declared: Here stands a Tarandahl. Come and face him, who will.


    Would have taken all comers, up to the High Lord, himself, but the rest had other ideas. Chiefly, survival. He was yanked along with them through twisting, glow-lit caverns, with the smell and sound of the ocean filling the air all around them. Milardin''s war-bells rang loud and long, shaking the ground as the city guard went on the hunt.


    Valerian got an extremely rushed and garbled account of what had happened to Gildyr and Cinda¡­ of where the Tabaxi, drow and mortal wizard fit in¡­ but their scrambling hurry made full explanation difficult.


    "Arvendahl''s going to wake up soon, if he hasn''t already," panted the ranger, "and he''s going to be spitting bricks and teeth when he does it."


    Val thought of his vision; of the smoke-being''s threat to take over "someone of far greater influence". His Lordship was likely to wake as a servant of Chaos, with Mother Night at the helm.


    "Keep moving," he ordered, sending courage and strength to the flagging mortals. "It''s the ocean, or I lead them off while you scatter."


    ...Because no was going to suffer on his account, if Val could prevent it with deeds or with sacrifice. Not ever again.

 Part Four, chapter twenty-six

    26


    The situation, in a few broad brushstrokes, was this: he''d pushed back that ominous lightning wall, revealing a second shrine¡­ but also a knot of wildly battling orcs. The female combatant had made short work of her would-be suitors; gutting one of them from stem to stern, then breaking the other''s neck. For some reason, this failed to surprise him.


    Couldn''t just leave, though, because he needed to enter that newly exposed temple... and maybe because the victorious orc spoke his language. Or a near enough version to make conversation possible.


    That she was still red-handed and spattered with gore from the slaughter of two likely mates, he could overlook. Different species, different morals, and he had disrupted her mating rite. Was apparently now responsible for finding Marget (her name) a fresh suitor.


    Meanwhile, the day was winding down toward nightfall, in a place where he''d very much plucked at the heart-string of Chaos. Something vile was sure to turn up for a look, and that was a genuine problem.


    More¡­ and maybe worse¡­ he''d spotted what looked like himself, ducking away near the spring''s tumbled rockpile. Marget seemed not to have noticed. She just loomed at his side, too tall by half, honing the blade of her dagger and trying to guess his real name. Badly.


    "Phillot," she suggested, testing the blade''s edge against the ball of her calloused right thumb.


    "No," he snorted, shaking his head. "Setting names aside, you must remain alert. The last time I awoke a shrine, a giant attacked."


    He looked around, scanning over a mile of newly-formed landscape. Further west and north, halfway up the side of a hill, Miche saw the shimmering lure of a tanglewood tree. Any sentient being would know to avoid the dangerous thing, making it ideal for his purpose.


    He indicated the softly gleaming, murmuring lure with a nod, saying,


    "Time flows strangely between shrines and the outer world. Should you need to leave this place, Marget, make for yon tanglewood tree¡­ but not within reach of its noose. If I find you not here, I will search for you there."


    She''d already threatened to take the small temple apart, stone by stone, if he failed to reappear. Now, habitual scowl shifting slightly, the orc growled,


    "Here, I wait. If threatened, I fight. Do not be long in returning¡­ Braddock."


    Wrong again, but her effort was oddly warming. He shook his head, then turned and started for that nearby jumble of broken stone. Didn''t see his double, but felt no threat from it, either. More a brief blending of senses, as though he were seeing himself from more than one angle. He had other matters to attend to, though, and needed his thoughts in one head. So, forward.


    The shrine''s collapsed outer structure had once been a tall and elegant building of polished stone, inscribed with magical runes. Now, reduced to a heap of rubble, it almost barred entry. Miche found a way in, because he was slender and lithe, and because the rock itself seemed to withdraw a bit; behaving as much like a curtain as dense stone could manage.


    In through a nearly horizontal crevice he went, then downward, along steps made of cracked pour-stone and bent, rusted steel. The interior region soon went from a jagged, debris-fanged negative space to an actual, mosaic tiled passage. There were glows set into the curving overhead, and a set of metal rails, like those in a mine, flush with the pour-stone floor.


    Nameless, peeping out from the hood of his cloak, chattered a marten-ish comment. Moved around a lot, too; claws biting into his clothing and flesh, weight shifting constantly as it peered from side to side.


    "Not our world or our time, I think," responded the elf, speaking quietly. "The construction and images are very strange."


    There were elves¡­ Old Ones¡­ in the mosaic pictures that lined the long tunnel, but they were shown in strange, dark armor pocked with small lights, or at the helm of airships like the ones he''d seen broken and smashed, out on the distant plain.


    Firelord leaned halfway out of him for a moment; face and ears back, one hand clinging tight to Miche''s soul-self. Then, the young god darted free, shooting off as a shower of sparks to explore on his own.


    One didn''t say to one''s god, "Have a care," or "Don''t do anything I wouldn''t do"... Instead, the elf called out,


    "Touch nothing, My Lord, unless we are nearby to help you, in case of attack."


    To which he received the deific equivalent of an affectionate shove, nearly pushing Miche out of his own body. Took him a moment to realign, learning astral projection in the process. (Gods. You tried to raise them right¡­)


    He walked forward a few hundred yards, past a handful of dusty, dark tunnel mouths. Stooped from time to time to examine the metal construct bits that littered the floor. The shrine''s defenders, possibly? If so, they hadn''t fared well, being little more than scraps of armor and sigil-like, silvery wiring. There were bones, as well. Not in the armor, but somehow meshed with it, as though the person¡­ the elf¡­ had been part flesh and part metal.


    Miche burned those bones with clean fire, feeling perplexed and saddened. It hadn''t gone well here, he sensed.


    Came at last to a portal, its metal cover¡­ hatch¡­ torn away and bent nearly in half, the rails melted to slag. The lights flickered oddly, at this end of the tunnel, most of them broken or dark. He paused. Scratched Nameless''s head, just behind the marten''s round ears.


    "If you would like to remain out here, that may prove safer. At least, until I have scouted the place."


    Nameless replied with a vicious nip, no more inclined to accept good advice than Firelord (surely already inside).


    "Very well, then. Have it your own way. When we are all three shades, haunting this wretched tunnel forever, I shall take especial delight in moaning ''I told you so''."


    The marten did not seem impressed. Summoning a wisp of light, Miche passed through that warped hatchway and into the damaged shrine. There was a sense of dislocation. Of being combed through by a magical grid. Then, he was in.


    The last shrine had consisted of a spring at the base of a natural cave. This one¡­ Well, beyond the general mess of shattered pour-stone and tangled metal, it was a deep, round amphitheater, with concentric steps leading down to a cracked, empty pool.


    Over it flickered the image of a glowing, very beautiful goddess, her expression deeply alarmed. Over and over, she repeated the same short series of acts; gliding forward, hands upraised, mouth open as though about to cry out a warning.


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    Her image went jagged and dispersed into glittering motes at the end of each surge, getting out only "Nuh¡­" before falling silent. Then, moments later, she''d reform to do it again. Firelord''s shower of sparks circled the theater like a shimmering wind, but did not touch the broken image. (Good, smart god.)


    Miche pulled Nameless out of his cloak hood and then set the marten firmly onto a top step.


    "Stay here," he commanded. "She is damaged, and trying to help her could just make things worse. I would not have you harmed by my blundering."


    Nameless sat up, otter-like, but did not disagree. Just stank, again; perfuming the elf to orc sensibilities. Recalling a very rude phrase, he grunted it at the marten, then started on down.


    Firelord''s circuit tightened to match his own cautious descent. They were slowed by fallen ceiling beams and massive cracked slabs, having to meander, ant-like, through rubble and wrack. There were more armor-bones here. Miche burned all he could reach with Firelord''s help, but mostly he kept heading downward.


    At last reached the diagonally cracked pool, which was lozenge shaped, and long enough for a tiring swim, end to end, had it contained any water. A hundred yards, he thought.


    Overhead, the tall, shining goddess flickered, cried out and gestured, seeming to issue from a square panel of lights set into a pedestal of dark stone at the edge of the pool. This was inscribed with glowing runes and stood about waist high to Miche.


    Above and behind, Nameless barked caution. The elf waved without looking back.


    "I know," he called out. "I wasn''t decanted this morning!"


    (Whatever that meant.)


    Anyhow, there were press-in circles and colored lights flashing on the pedestal, which was as badly cracked as the ceiling above. One particular, green circle flashed more urgently than all of the rest, but Miche hesitated.


    If¡­ he thought¡­ pushing in that green circle somehow rebirthed the goddess, and if the construction from which she emerged was corrupted¡­ might she not simply vanish away? With even this much of her gone, for all time?


    He just didn''t know. Had no one to ask.


    Firelord whirled overhead like a tornado of flame but had no suggestions at all. Well¡­ it had worked on the lightning wall, so Miche pulled out his cylinder-key, again. There was no obvious place to insert it on the broken pedestal. The cylinder was an object of great power, though. It would have an effect, regardless¡­ he hoped.


    Holding the wildly buzzing and flashing cylinder, he leaned over the pedestal, making ready to tap them together. Not unopposed. Shadows seemed to gather and flow together like dark fluid, up the walls then overhead, trickling out from hollow and crevice to unite over Miche. He was just able to thrust the cylinder back in its pocket again and haul out his sword.


    Then the puddled darkness above him solidified, growing from flat shadow to icy black construct. Next it dropped from the ceiling, popping and crackling like a green wood campfire. Ten feet high, the thing lashed at him with bladed forelimbs, slicing his cloak as Miche spun aside.


    A burning red light-spear shot from its forepart, slashing a steel beam in half. The metal''s ringing collapse raised a thick cloud of dust, which blocked the light-spear''s passage. Scattered it, somehow.


    The elf kicked up more dust, using smoke-step to keep out of the construct''s path. It had to skitter and climb. He could port; appearing beside, behind and on top of the thing, in rapid succession; attacking it. Only, the construct proved impervious to fire, ice bolt or sword thrust. That shadow armor repelled all that Miche could throw at it. Worse, the part of its clattering, many-limbed body that held the light-spear could rotate. He nearly lost an arm, discovering that.


    He was forced to dodge, port and retreat, trying to think and to stay alive at the same time. Meanwhile, blast after searing red blast cut the debris around him to slivers, burning off half of his braided long hair.


    Miche was learning, though. How far it would move at a rush. How long between actions. How swift its reactions. (Thirty feet¡­ five hammering heartbeats¡­ impossibly fast.) Making use of the cover, he scramble-ducked-skidded and ported, at last coming up with a stupid, dangerous plan.


    See, whenever he smoke-stepped onto the construct''s back, it slashed at him. If he timed it just right¡­ flashed away just as the monster struck¡­ he could get it to tear at itself with those swift, bladed limbs.


    Time and again, with manna from Firelord and screeching distraction from Nameless, he was able to port himself onto the swerving black construct. The rest was timing. Retreat too soon, and it wouldn''t attack its own shadowy carapace. Too late, and he got himself gashed or (once) nearly skewered. Had to swing off of its heaving back, hanging onto its leg with one arm, dangling wildly over the ground.


    He could rest a little by smoke-stepping further away, but then his attacker would heal itself, forcing him to start all over. It had an awful, juddering, sick-making gait, worsened by all of that violent, short-distance porting. It twisted and jerked, fighting to throw him off, while hissing-fast limbs struck like spears.


    But finally, thank holy gods, the strategy worked. The construct''s own blades cut a sparking hole in its armor. He was aboard, trying not to get shaken off, cut in half or impaled. Pushed himself up to one knee, holding the hilt of his sword, blade downward, with both hands. Then, with a grunt, drove the weapon straight into that rapidly healing gash. It sank in. Energy flared and¡­*


    *... Awake. He was awake, with someone licking his face. Blinked, finding his vision blurred and everything else gone utterly numb.


    "Yes. Good," he coughed, feeling as addled as the flickering goddess, above. "M'' fine. M'' wake. Leave off."


    The construct lay curled up like a woodlouse, some ten feet away; twitching, clicking and belching dark smoke. Didn''t seem like much of a threat, but Miche summoned the sword back to his nerveless fingers, anyhow.


    After a few deep breaths and some borrowed manna, he was able to sit up without toppling over. Even hung onto the sword. His hands and forearms were badly scorched, but healing, while Nameless had lost most of the hair on its tail. Firelord was once more a vortex of sparks at the ceiling, drained almost beyond recall. The hair and lost manna would take time to replace¡­ unless Miche could repair the shrine and its healing spring.


    Before getting up, he looked around for more puddles of shadow, but they''d all gone into that wrecked construct, leaving the chamber looking weirdly flat and dimensionless.


    Miche wobbled onto his feet, pausing to let Nameless scramble back up to his shoulder. Then, gathering himself, he went across to the cracked pedestal. A lightning-smell, a scattered-dust smell filled the wide chamber, making him sneeze. Nothing else attacked, though. That was a very good thing, as he would have had trouble defending himself from a light breeze, so close had the shock of stabbing that construct come to killing him.


    He made it to the goddess pedestal in a few dozen rubbery steps, winding his way between piles of chopped stone and shorn metal beams. At the dark pillar, Miche hauled out his cylinder-key, feeling its wasp-like buzz against a still painfully sensitive, raw-fleshed hand.


    Saw that the lights in the relic were starting to pulse and flash in time with the glowing green circle. Good sign?


    He tensed, looking around, but nothing dropped from the ceiling or crept from the walls to attack. One hand at the hilt of his sword, the nervous elf touched the cylinder''s end to the pedestal. Something¡­ some torrent of shining runes and numbers¡­ flared between them. There was a bright flash of head-clearing, wound-healing light. The entire world seemed to stutter-bump, then restart. He was all at once cleansed and whole, Nameless''s tail restored to full glory, while Firelord huddled for safety inside the elf. Necessary, because they were in the domain of another deity, and gods do not share.


    The goddess reformed herself in the air before Miche. She was lovely, with shifting pale hair and a piercing-sweet smile; nearly as transparent as the spring''s restored waters.


    "Welcome, Old One," she chimed, in a voice like crystal struck by a silver wand. "You have returned this node to nearly full function and brought back part of the missing land. For that, we are grateful."


    She leaned down, then, kissing his forehead. A sensation of peace flashed through him; a sense of correctness, as if he was a person in his own right, and not just the half-empty shell of somebody else.


    The construct was gone.


    "An internal countermeasure corrupted and set to run amok, I''m afraid," mourned the spring-goddess, whose eyes were every color at once. "You did well to destroy it, Misheta, though our shadows will be long in returning."


    True. He had no shadow at all. Nor did anything else in the chamber. Not even Nameless, who''d sunk down into his hood, again.


    Of his stay there? How long? What did he learn? What details emerged on the map? It all seemed to flow, very dream-like. But, in that timeless bright bubble, Miche asked,


    "Who fought this war, Goddess, and why?"


    She replied, sounding troubled,


    "Those long oppressed, once manna faded, lessening the difference between your kind and theirs. A dark spirit of vengeance possessed them, and they vowed to hunt down and destroy every last elf."


    He started to ask,


    "Were we that awful?"


    ¡­ but the answer was yes. They had been, most of them. For himself, he had not enough past to say what he''d been or done, before waking from stone. Just a skim of fresh memory. Just Miche, making himself up as he went along.

 Part Four, chapter twenty-seven

    27


    His map updated and Miche physically healed. His shadow was with him again, and he was nearly ready to leave the shrine. He placed the Spring Stone into the water, first, cupped in the palm of his hand. Was rewarded with the brief, flickering image of a lithe and beautiful ghost. Then it was just a stone again; opal in color, about the size of a sparrow''s egg, and slightly warm to the touch.


    The shrine goddess, watching, said,


    "Her place is not here. Nor¡­ I think¡­ very easy to reach. I have no sense of location. Just distance, far beyond our land''s shrunken borders. More nodes awakened may provide us with greater resolution, though."


    He nodded, tucking the stone back into its magical pocket; rotated forward, within easy reach. Thought of something else, then.


    "The she-orc," he said, as he made for the shrine''s repaired hatch.


    The guardian spirit shuddered slightly.


    "Such aberrations are best not spoken of, Miche. They are nothing but twisted and poisoned reflections of elves, created by darkness, in jealous mockery."


    Well¡­ maybe so, but Marget was still out there waiting, and he''d promised to find her a suitable victim. Mate, rather. On a sudden hunch, he said,


    "Coming into this place, Goddess, I saw what appeared to be me, ducking low as if trying to hide. Can you alter the flow of time between this spring and the world, so that I leave here before I have entered?"


    The goddess was still for a moment. Then,


    "Yes. With two shrines active, it is now possible to move the entrance in space and time, both. But, only to a spring that you''ve already visited, or to a moment recently past."


    "How recent?" he demanded, a sudden edge to his voice. His sword, knives and fishing spear rotated reflexively forward in their other-plane pockets. Ready.


    The goddess just gave him an uneasy headshake, explaining,


    "Within your memory, Miche, but it is never wise to try changing the past. You are yourself. Here, now¡­ because of all you experienced then."


    The elf lowered his head, pale hair concealing deep pain and humiliation.


    "So, there is nothing to be done?" he asked softly. "No way to make¡­ make what happened¡­ hurt less?"


    She reached out with a glowing and filmy hand, touching the top of his bowed head. And, just like that, something changed. Not¡­ He didn''t forget. It all just iced over, somehow. Still in there, but distant. Locked away in a bottle, as if it had happened to somebody else.


    "Be at peace, Misheta," she murmured. "For as long as you need the assistance. When you''ve grown stronger, you may remove the barrier yourself."


    A thing that he''d never do, ever. Reaching up, the very last elf in all that lost realm took her slim hand in his own. Kissed it, sending a warm flush of sparks flaring all through her hovering form.


    "I have not words enough to thank you, Goddess, but I can vow to find and awaken all of your shrines."


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    And if it killed him, he''d just resurrect through the force of his vow. Doomed to keep trying, until it was done.


    "Whatever the cost, I will do this," he promised.


    The goddess squeezed his hand, then released it.


    "You have placed a terrible fate on yourself, Miche. We hear your vow and are grateful, but leave you this out: that you may recant the promise, by rejecting each broken spring-node, aloud."


    Wouldn''t happen. So witness Firelord (still safe inside him) and Nameless (who just didn''t care). His promise would stand.


    Afterward, Miche left the cleared chamber, retracing his steps through a repaired and orderly rail-tunnel. For the first time, he noticed a row of glass panels. They were set in the passage walls, every ten yards or so. The panels were dark, with a lone, flashing white dot at the very top. Waiting, he thought. For what, he had no idea.


    Unlike the brightly tiled chamber and tunnel, the entrance was still just a heap of broken pour-stone and steel. Camouflage, possibly, or maybe because he meant to step into his own recent past.


    Well, he''d spotted himself, and remembered that startling moment quite vividly, so that''s where he went. Emerged back into late evening twilight, with himself and Marget standing nearby. A gentle breeze blew his way, not theirs, bearing with it the powerful scent of orc, recent fire and Nameless''s musk.


    Miche ducked quickly aside, as that earlier self turned his way. There was a moment of shock and recognition. Of thoughts blending together, but Miche-now pulled loose, doing his best to seem no threat at all.


    Miche-then frowned slightly. Took the hint, though, and didn''t come looking. He watched himself make some final comment to Marget, then enter the damaged shrine. Gave it a long ten-count before stepping out of the shadows, silent as only a skulking elf could be.


    Marget had been standing with her legs braced apart, arms folded across her chest, waiting. Seeing Miche, she turned to face him, hand moving up to the hilt of her left back-sheathed sword.


    "You return very soon, Old One," growled the orc, red eyes flaring like embers. "What is amiss?"


    The elf shook his head.


    "Nothing. I have been inside, fought a corrupted guardian and restored the shrine. It can be used to move a little in place and time, though, now that there''s more than one spring. I just¡­ left before I went in, to get us sooner away."


    Marget''s scowl deepened. She was not a complex thinker, he was beginning to learn.


    "You left before you went in," she repeated suspiciously, still clenching the sword hilt.


    "Yes," he agreed, carefully showing just peace, and not steel.


    "That is magic. Sorcery with time," she accused.


    "Yes¡­ in a way. Not my magic, just a thing I can make use of, as seemed right to do, now... Which advantage we are wasting by standing here, talking. It would be wise to move on, Marget."


    "With you still inside there?!" demanded the outraged orc, thrusting forward her shaggy-maned head.


    Didn''t laugh¡­ didn''t laugh¡­ didn''t laugh¡­ Barely.


    "I''m¡­ quite well. Truly. There were some close bits, but I made it through safely, Marget. My oath on it." (Also, his safe-and-sound presence, which was pretty tough to refute.)


    She rumbled like a griffin, stomping closer to snuff at the elf. Marget snorted like a horse would do and¡­ almost¡­ he reached up to scratch her ears. Did not; converting the gesture to shoving that forest of dark braids away from his face.


    "If we go in," she grunted, "we can help other-you in the battle."


    Miche sighed.


    "So thought I, for a different reason, but I am told that changing the past is its own sort of risk. Now¡­ I need time to look over the map and plan where to go next."


    "We go to a free-people stronghold, Ardon."


    She was back to trying out names, again. A good sign.


    "Not Ardon, either," he corrected, adding, "I will search the map for signs of an orc stronghold, though. Your home is¡­?"


    Marget shook her head, causing metal, unpolished gems and bone bits to rattle.


    "Not home, any longer. The clan-leader''s own son and his kin tried to best me, after putting an herb in my drink. I killed him instead of submitting, and now I wander in exile, fair game to all."


    For once, she wasn''t scowling; her tattooed face seeming haunted and sad. Reaching into a mage pocket, he pulled out a flask of honey-wine. Something important, from somewhere that mattered. Offered the bottle to Marget, saying,


    "I was told that things can always get better, and¡­ I can help watch your back and your rest-state, so that no one attacks unseen."


    Marget accepted the drink and the offer, and that was a start. Afterward, needing a secure place for resting and plans, they left the shrine. Made their way up and across a tall hill to the tanglewood tree; tracing that softly beckoning lure.

 Part Four, chapter twenty-eight

    28


    Leaving the Orbital Station''s synthesis lab, V47 Pilot received a sudden maintenance alert. He slipped unexpectedly into power-save mode, dropping speed and strength by fifty percent. Scanning his own systems, he reported,


    "I require hydration, feed-stock and charge. There is danger of imminent shutdown."


    He stood at the windy edge of a vast construction bay, regarding his own projected status-panel with a certain amount of surprise. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before. It couldn''t have, as he''d never left his battle-mech. Over their link, V47 replied,


    ''There are comestibles, fluids and charge ports available at the Station Commissary and lounge, Pilot. Updating vocabulary for common usage. Earlier sentients would announce: "I am hungry"- example statement one. "Let us obtain drinks"- example statement two. "Time to hit the O-Club"- example statement three. End update.''


    Oh.


    "Acknowledged and filed, V. I am hungry. My available mass is low, and I require a drink."


    An immediate route through the station appeared, labeled and rotating inside their shared workspace. If he accessed a ferry, the lounge wasn''t far. Better yet, manna was plentiful, and he could always power down further, aboard the vehicle. Scanning, he saw that the earlier transport hovered nearby, awaiting useful activity.


    He signaled it over, then stepped off the edge of the gantry and onto the open deck. The vehicle bobbed slightly as it adjusted to his weight, then corrected. Its friendly AI accepted his directions, pulling smoothly away from the lab, then shooting across that noisy construction bay.


    There were no raw materials or hydration tubes present, but it took less than a quarter candle-mark to reach his goal, and the pilot''s discomfort was not yet critical. The distance crossed was 74.271 miles, during which time he listened to the onboard AI''s small hoard of jokes. Researched food and eating, as well, having no previous experience with either. Seemed very simple and casual in the show-vids. An easily managed process¡­ Right?


    ''Querying passenger: shall this transport unit await V47 Pilot''s return?'' inquired the simple, eager AI, once they''d come to a halt by the Station''s crew liberty deck.


    "Replying: yes. Await my return, please. Duration of stay uncertain."


    Not that it mattered. The transport had nothing else to do and no one but V47 Pilot to ferry. There were 22,729 other robots and cyborgs on-station, but these kept to their places; attending to the same mindless tasks they''d performed since first powering up. None of them ever traveled or¡­ as Ace would put it, in Rogue Flight¡­ would ever have needed a lift.


    He thanked the transport, unlinking himself from its onboard intelligence. Uploaded three jokes he''d learned from the Skelter Mass Show, causing a burst of joy in the transport''s friendly, canine-stock brain. As if¡­ for some reason, the pilot got a sudden image of himself throwing a ball for an eagerly jumping small animal. Strange.


    "I''ll be back," he said, patting the vehicle''s hull. "Commanding local transport unit: recharge and access Station Net in the interim."


    ''Command received and accepted, V47 Pilot.''


    Good. It would keep busier, that way, and might learn better humor than: Why did the pilot fly? Because it was too far to walk.


    The Station schematics were still open in his fore-mind workspace, displaying the docking tunnel with Cerulean Dream, as well as 256 shops and comestible stations.


    ''Bars and restaurants, Pilot,'' corrected V47, who''d been doing considerable research. ''Also, the Officers Club and Commissary.'' Both of which V47 outlined for him on that colorful, rotating map.


    "Yes. Thank you, V."


    It was just¡­ a very different place than shown on his ancient schematic; dark, silent and empty. He began moving forward, passing through a wide portal, into a space marked "Mall". His footfalls echoed and rang on the deck. Glow panels activated, shops lighting up along his projected path. Jaunty music began to play, adapting itself to his processing speed. But fifty feet in, the pilot stopped walking.


    "Querying Orbital Station Intelligence: Are you able to project sensory feed of a time when the crew recreation mall was in use?"


    The station''s AI responded at once.


    ''Affirmative, V47 Pilot. I am able to do so. Is it your request that sensory feed be projected? There are 256,018.4 hours of archived material.''


    Orbital Station Intelligence seemed delighted by the prospect.


    "Affirm. Please commence archived sensory feed from a point in the past with many sentients present and much activity."


    A femto-tick later, the pilot found himself in the midst of a bustling, noisy commerce hub. Knots of sentients¡­ elven, dwarven and orc-derived¡­ strolled through the mall, spending credits, talking and laughing. They¡­


    V47 Pilot glanced down at himself. Picked up three-sixty imaging from the mall scanners, as well. Saw shining chrome and pale flesh. For the first time, he perceived himself to be naked; wearing nothing but rank decals, Gold Flight insignia and a safe-load sticker. Everyone else in that ghostly crowd sported clothing. Fortunately, no one could see him, as they weren''t really present to scan.


    Once again, V47 came to his aid, highlighting a shop called "The Well-Dressed Elf", on their shared schematic. The walk took a subjective eternity, so he down-clocked his awareness, using the time to observe the crowd, rewatch four seasons of Battle for Arda and research clothing. There was a great deal to learn.


    The shop''s AI was eager to help, once he arrived and went in.


    "Welcome, Pilot-Sir!" it enthused, manifesting itself as a tall, dark-haired male of tiefling stock. "How may we be of assistance?"


    It was already scanning his measurements and credit balance which (after 2000+ years) was considerable. He now commanded a fortune of 158,000,000,063.52 credits, with Gold Flight''s joint account open, as well.


    "I require clothing, Shop-Tech. I have researched what was worn in the projected era, and request a similar¡­"


    ''Outfit,'' supplied V47, subvocally.


    "Outfit," repeated the pilot.


    "Very good, Sir," the AI acknowledged, summoning a swarm of drones and two fabrication-bots. In just over 31 ticks, the pilot was dressed in a white shirt, tan breeches, dark boots and "underclothing" (which no one was meant to see, but apparently mattered).


    Just before leaving the shop, the pilot purchased a roomy, vath-leather jacket with eight pockets and a local star-map printed inside. He examined himself in the uploaded view provided by seventeen hovering drones. Dressed this way, he did not look at all like a cyborg asset. He looked like a full-stock biological sentient, except for his silvery hands. Very strange and unsettling.


    "You are quite attractive, Sir," said the shop''s AI, smiling. "Even by the standards of your origin species. Proper attire adds polish; elegance. Please come again, and inform others of our services, if our humble effort has pleased you."


    The pilot stretched his facial muscles in an awkward smile, sending: Request acknowledged.


    "I will do so," he promised.


    Had to accustom himself to the feel and rub of clothing, as he walked out into the mall and projected crowd. It was easy enough to shunt the sensation into an autonomic sub-routine, along with breathing, blinking and upright posture.


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    By this time, his hydration and feed discomfort were becoming acute. Fortunately, the lounge was no more than twelve yards away, set into the heavy docking link between Cerulean Dream and the orbital station. The words "Officers Club" circled the portal repeatedly, posted in glowing white runes.


    Despite hunger and thirst, the pilot halted to observe the projected throng passing in and out through the O-Club portal. Did his best to match his facial expression and stance to theirs.


    There were scanners and lenses everywhere, so he could see his own face and adjust its muscles accordingly. His posture was overly rigid and tense, he noticed. Most male sentients he saw had adopted a casual slouch.


    Took him almost an entire tick to get the right stance and expression, then to code a subroutine to maintain them. Laughter, now¡­ the way that voices rose and fell, pausing for emphasis, matched with gesture and facial movement¡­ Well, that was going to need further work.


    He instinctively avoided colliding with archived sentients as he made his way in through the O-Club''s scanning field. They did not react to his presence unless he impeded their progress. Then, the station AI took over, creating interaction and dialogue. Didn''t happen very often.


    The lounge was crowded and busy inside. Brightly lit, with a foyer, many tables and booths and a bar at which one might feed. Some of the tables floated. There were holographic displays rather than portholes, each one depicting the surface of a different world. Music tinkled and clanged, mixing with hundreds of conversations and the sounds of metal implements scraping dura-ware. It was all very stimulating. More than the mall had been, even. The pilot muted his sensory feed to a quarter normal Baud rate. That helped.


    The club intelligence manifested itself as a smiling, ungendered half-orc in silvery robes.


    "Handshake sent, Pilot-Sir! Welcome to Orbital Station 1210 Officers Club! Scans indicate that your feed-mass levels are critically low. Please follow me as I lead you to a place of refreshment, Sir." Then, "Is the esteemed pilot expecting company, this time-unit?"


    Company? He looked around. Everyone else was in pairs, at least. Most in Flight-sized groups¡­ but they were all just archived projections. Here and now, there was nobody present but V47 Pilot and his silent, ride-along mech. The promotion meant that he could now order companionship, so¡­


    "I would like to requisition a companion," the pilot responded.


    "Very good, Sir. Please glance into the scan unit."


    A security drone zipped around to hover in front of his face, projecting a green rectangle into which he focused his gaze. There was a small, dancing spot at its center, giving him something to look at. Meanwhile, the club''s intelligence accessed his open memory, scanning all that he''d seen and experienced outside of battle, noting whatever had caught his interest. Then came a torrent of images, which were subconsciously glimpsed, allowing the Club tech to gauge his responses. At last, the AI pared down the flood to a single image; a lithe, slim female of half-elven stock. She had golden-brown hair and pale eyes, with a sprinkle of tiny melanin-dots crossing her cheeks and the bridge of her nose.


    Unexplained tension, warmth and emotion rose in the places where flesh united with metal and plastic. He nodded, sending affirmation, as well.


    "Yes. That is the companion I seek," he added aloud, causing the half-orc to bow.


    "Very good, Sir. A truly superb selection. One moment, as she is produced and imprinted."


    Two femtos past half a tick later, the companion materialized out of manna and ready-mass. She stood there before him. Real; not a projection, at all. Her body, like his, was largely cyborg, its torso and limbs partly concealed by a flowery dress and low-heeled boots. She looked around, seeming very newly produced. Very uncertain.


    "You will need to take ownership, Sir," said the club intelligence. With a gesture, the half-orc caused her dress to part and a panel to open in the companion''s abdomen. A small compartment appeared, containing a T-shaped handgrip.


    Following transmitted instructions, he reached into the compartment and took hold of the handgrip. Data passed in both directions, and then the business was done. The companion was his, and would follow commands as long as he chose to retain her services. Which¡­ was not how he''d visualized the arrangement.


    Withdrawing his hand, he watched as the panel slid shut and her dress resealed. Smiling at him, the pretty companion ducked her head.


    "Good ship-day, Pilot. I am for you," you said, in a whisper.


    "Foryu?" he repeated carefully, wanting to sound like he wasn''t entirely new at this, promoted only that day.


    "For you," she corrected. "I am for you, Pilot. I am your companion."


    ¡­which somehow compounded the wrongness. He said,


    "You are Foryu, a¡­ sentient of Orbital Station. If you experience hunger or thirst, we can correct that status condition here at the club."


    Prompted by some glimmering half-thought, he turned slightly, offering Foryu his bent arm. After a moment, she slipped her own limb through his, smiling so that twin, tiny pits formed in her cheeks. This was a thing that only occurred when she smiled, and he soon came to look for it.


    Companionship acquired, he next followed the half-orc to a booth in a quieter region of the club. The pilot seated Foryu, then himself, sliding onto a padded synthetic wood bench. Here, his senses were scanned again, this time with food in mind. The menu meant nothing to him, otherwise, except for hints he''d picked up from watching drama videos.


    Thousands of flavors and images flashed through his cortex in brief, micro-tick pulses, leaving him wanting to vomit up the ten-thousand meals he hadn''t just eaten.


    "Your preference would seem to be mead and hand-meals comprising warmed bread, meat and cheese, with mayne-sauce, Sir," the club-tech informed him. Then, nodding at Foryu, causing her to glow in his viewfield, the tech went on. "And, for the companion, Sir?"


    She was newly created, with an imprinted personality and basic data. There were no preferences to scan. On the other hand, in most episodes of Rogue Flight, Boomer was shown to be passionately fond of fried potatoes with katsu.


    "The lady will have a large serving of fried potatoes, with katsu on the side, mead and¡­ and after that, barberry cloud cream."


    Their orders appeared within the tick, conjured from manna and ready-mass. The newly made food was hot. It emitted vapors, increasing the pilot''s discomfort. There was a moment of trouble, then, because he wanted thirst and hunger to cease, but wasn''t at all sure how to convert that piled feed-stock into consumable mass.


    "I think," said Foryu, lifting a fry and dipping it into the katsu, "that the food is placed in the mouth, then converted to paste with the help of internal fluids and chewing. Then it is swallowed."


    V47 provided a number of helpful diagrams, too. Meanwhile, Foryu modeled the process. She did not exhibit the same delight that Boomer¡­ Tasha¡­ always did in the show-vid.


    "Is the taste unpleasant?" he asked.


    Foryu cocked her head to one side.


    "I have not been coded to derive pleasure from eating, Pilot. Just from being with you. I neither enjoy nor dislike fried potatoes."


    Well, anything that put off dealing with his own food a little bit longer was something to cling to, so he envisaged and wrote a brief code string.


    "I have adjusted your program. From this point on, you will taste and respond to the food''s ambient chemistry, Foryu."


    The pace of her chewing altered then, as did the muscles in her face. She smiled once again, causing the pits (dimples, according to V47) to reappear on her cheeks.


    "You should eat, Pilot. Hydrate, and then try some of your food. It isn''t difficult, after the first bite."


    He nodded, resolute as a dwarven Marine. Took a deep breath. Committed to the thing. Drinking he''d already experienced, back at the synthesis lab, and mead was far better than head-hooch. Eating, though¡­


    You had to bite and tear loose a chunk of the food, then crush it with teeth and fluids. Then, when sufficiently softened, you swallowed. To his credit, the pilot only choked twice. Managed the business pretty well, after that.


    Was very soon able to speak aloud while dealing with food. Not that they had much to talk about. Foryu was newly created, and the pilot had little experience outside of battle. His companion made it easy to open up about what he was doing here. Why he''d left the cockpit, at all.


    "I woke up," he told Foryu, "and I wanted to stay that way. There has to be more than just fighting, and I wanted to find it."


    Looking thoughtful, his companion said,


    "To serve one''s purpose is the highest good, is it not?"


    "That is in my coding also," he admitted. "But, what if our code, our running instructions, have failed to update? What if we are facing a new situation with old files and outdated orders?"


    Her fried potatoes were gone, along with her mead. Now, Foryu started on the dura-glass dish of barberry cloud cream.


    "What has changed?" she wondered, taking another sip from her refilled mead. "What new situation have you encountered, Pilot, for which altered commands must be given?"


    A good question. There was only so fast you could eat, so they''d both clocked back their response time to nearly full biological. Now, the pilot said,


    "All that I have are questions, Foryu. Why is the Station empty, except for the cyborg and robot sentients who defend and maintain it? Why are we still fighting a war with the Draugr? What are they? Who are we dying out here, to protect?"


    She shook her head, then stole part of his handmeal straight off the plate.


    "I do not know, Pilot. After you''ve left this place, I will discorporate until next you return. I am not coded for research."


    Discorporate? Literally existing only when he was around to require attention?


    "No," he decided aloud. "You will remain, and you''ll access whatever archived files are available at our need-to-know level. This is a new command, superceding all others. Learn. Stay present. Be Foryu first, companion after."


    Her blue-grey eyes flashed; expression and posture shifting as Foryu received and processed the pilot''s commands. Then,


    "Are you certain that giving me partial autonomy is wise, Pilot? I am meant to be your off-duty companion. To provide pleasure, not to be an individual. There is a risk that I may not wish to serve you, if this command is accepted and run."


    He shook his head, which was suddenly filled with conflicting chemistry and wildly firing neurons.


    "I do not want your service, Foryu. I want¡­ I want¡­ you to be happy in my company, because that pleases you. Not because your emotions are coded. I want to stop doing things based on commands written so long ago that the authors are dust. I want¡­"


    Something that wasn''t quite clear to the pilot, himself. That he never got time to think through, because all at once the station''s perimeter system alerted. Then came the rumble and shock of a tremendous concussion, as Orbital Station and Cerulean Dream came apart. The entire ring tilted suddenly sideways, hurling Pilot and Foryu out of the booth.


    His alert systems went red, flickered, then lost half their gain, as hundreds of drones went offline at once. They were under attack, with V47 half a station away.

 Part Four, Chapter twenty-nine

    29


    Back in Starloft, everyone felt it at once when Valerian disappeared and then¡­ a short time later¡­ a heavy, dark pall seemed to lift like dank fog. The crowded elven stronghold grew silent and still momentarily, as each of them halted; breath pent, waiting.


    On the listing platform where his mansion had stood, Lerendar set down his woman and child. He stood up, looking around. Beatriz got to her feet beside him, still dusty and coughing but alive, thanks to his now-vanished brother.


    The others, his heart-friends, stood here and there around the small family; far enough for privacy, near enough to act, should they be needed. Ava, too, hovered close by (too deeply smitten to turn away from his lordship, willing to love what he loved, because of it).


    Holding their little girl, Bea said,


    "He''s in trouble, Ren. Something bad''s happened." Her face, abraded and grimy, was turned up to his. Her dark eyes were fierce. "We have to find him and help."


    We? Lerendar started to shake his head, no; rejecting any idea of bringing his family along into certain danger. Only, Beatriz wasn''t having any such nonsense. Placing a bloodied hand on his arm, she said,


    "First, whatever happens, we''re safer with you. Second, my mom was an apothecary. An herb-woman. I know what I''m doing, and not just with scent, Renny. Third, once Fee heals up and wakes, she''s gonna go crazy. She won''t want to sit around waiting for Val. Not when he needs her help. She''s not pregnant anymore, Ren! She can shift into vapor! How do you plan to lock up an angry air-sprite?!"


    ¡­Which was too much logic for a worried heart and sore head. Lerendar sighed, looking down at the gravelly, mage-lit surface.


    "Were you always this forceful?" he wondered, a little pathetically.


    Bea smiled up at him.


    "Yes, Milord. Way deep inside, where it didn''t first show. But Valerian needs you, and you need us. That''s how it is."


    The girl-child, Zara, had been clamoring and reaching out to be held by her father. Then Pretty and Mirielle darted over, having escaped from whatever safety Val had devised for them. They were Zara''s playmates, and all at once, the girl wanted nothing but freedom.


    "Papa, no. I''m too big for cuddles, anymore! Put me down! It''s club stuff! It''s a secret! You can''t hear!"


    He kissed her dirty forehead, then obeyed, setting his blue-eyed young daughter onto the platform. She raced off to meet the young goblin and half-elf, chattering secret phrases and waving her hands in "magical" signs.


    Looking around, Lerendar met Elmaris''s gaze. The rogue nodded, requiring no further signal. Just casually (tossing and catching a golden coin) slouched over to stand near those wildly excited young girls.


    Meanwhile, Lerendar gently smoothed Bea''s dark, curly hair.


    "I''ll talk to Granddad," he told her. "But don''t start packing, yet. Can''t promise a thing, till I know how the wind lies."


    The noisy work of rescue and repair had resumed all around them. It was the noble folks'' business to deal with curses, warfare and sendings. The peasantry''s job, to pick up the pieces, afterward.


    Lerendar left them to it, threading a path between healers and work crews. His grandfather, High Lord Galadin, had levitated to survey the entire stronghold; searching as far as his vision and magical senses would reach. Just himself now, for Firelord no longer possessed him. Galadin dropped to the damaged platform a few moments later, looking grim and alert (and about as approachable as ever).


    Lord Tarandahl was resplendent in shining armor, his deep-red cloak streaming behind him as he settled back onto that cracked marble surface. White-haired and tall, the Silmerana signaled his grandson forward.


    "Speak," he commanded. "And be swift. The darkness has lifted, but it may not have gone very far, nor forever."


    Lerendar bowed.


    "Yes, My Lord. Quickly, then¡­ Valerian is gone¡­"


    "Along with his plaything and the wandering beggar," grunted Lord Tarandahl, sourly. (News to Lerendar, who hadn''t been paying attention.) "You propose seeking your brother, I take it?"


    Lerendar inclined his head.


    "Yes, if My Lord so permits," he said, adding, "I will be careful, going in company and searching for word of his whereabouts. I will take no unnecessary risks, My Lord."


    "No, I expect not. Having females and children along tends to limit foolish adventure."


    Nothing in Lerendar''s mind was hidden from Galadin¡­ except that which his mother had locked deep away, under threat. The high lord went on, musing,


    "With Meliara gone, you are second heir to Ilirian. I am reluctant to allow this excursion, but¡­" he made a face, as the sword at his back brightened and hummed. "...it seems that Valerian has some mighty task to perform, for which a low-born druid and ranger may prove inadequate. It would be wise to send reinforcements. I trust that you will represent your family and realm in a manner befitting their future Warden."


    Lerendar bowed, again.


    "Yes, My Lord," he responded, receiving Galadin''s heavy hand on his head by way of permission and blessing. Skipper bounded up, then, tongue lolling, having found and unearthed many victims. Galadin stooped to welcome the dog, who adored him.


    "Also¡­" began the silver-haired elf, lingering over a difficult issue. "If you happen to encounter Meliara¡­"


    "Drag her back?" suggested Lerendar, straightening up once more.


    Galadin snorted rudely.


    "No. Much as you have done, your aunt has attached herself to a mortal. That is her choice. I would¡­I would just know that he is worthy of my daughter. That she is happy and safe¡­ and knows that she may return, once he has passed from her ken."


    For, like all humans, like Bea, this paladin fellow was doomed to an early death and an after-life that the elves knew not. It was a request, and maybe a warning.


    Lerendar''s eyes strayed to Bea, standing a few yards away, still watching him. To small Zara, who''d been hopping around in a widdershins circle, hands linked with Miri and Pretty One. Then Galadin spoke.


    "Only once, have I been in love," admitted his grandfather, softly. "Realized too late, and ended the matter too soon, for reasons of state. That was my choice, Lad. I cannot make yours, or Meliara''s."


    Lerendar was still considering that, when Prince Andorin took hold of a ley line and ported over to join them, coming to stand beside the blond elf-lord.


    "Your Highness," said Galadin, inclining his head. "I deeply regret the disturbance which has marred your embassy to my realm."


    The sea-elf wasn''t upset. Bowed back slightly, saying,


    "It is no great matter, Milord, provided that all here are safe. Until the short days of winter have passed, Chaos still threatens us all. To the point, though, Milord¡­ I would ask your leave to accompany your grandson¡­ my friend¡­ on this mission to locate his brother." There would be time enough later to speak of broken engagements, and this was a way out for everyone. (Temporarily, at least.) Said Galadin,


    "You have my leave, Highness. All of Ilirian lies open before you, Prince of the Deeps. How you two have come to be friends, I know not, but I sense the bond and its power. Lerendar could have no better companion."


    "Fate weaves her web, Milord," replied Andorin. "Threads from one tapestry oft find their way to the next, still having some sense of the past."


    Galadin''s mouth twitched at one corner. Not quite a smile, but its very close cousin.


    "Fate," he said, "is a quixotic whore. I''ve no love at all for the cross-grained old slattern¡­ and now I suppose that I''ll have to soothe her outraged feelings with an entire herd of burnt cattle."


    Then, turning to Lerendar,


    "Go. Make whatever preparations you require. Leave without notice, saying nothing at all of your route or destination. Not even to me."


    Because something was able to listen and, hearing, make plans for another attack.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    South and away in Milardin, Neira led Val and the rest through a tangled scribble of smuggler''s tunnels. Hissing words of safe passage, she guided them through treasure caves stuffed with spices and gold. Past the fabled Shadow-Tavern they went, hearing grim music and getting hard looks from those at the door.


    Down and westward the party travelled, coming at last to a hidden chamber under the giant water stairs. It was a roughly chiseled pirate''s hole. A good place to hide, as they worked out what to do next. Their destination lay just a few hundred yards away. Getting there would take some work, but it guaranteed safety, as the flooded part of the stairs were considered sea-elf territory, out of Arvendahl''s reach.


    Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.


    Neira was no longer carrying Filimar, who''d been handed around like a feed sack, and was currently draped over the dark-elf''s left shoulder. Signing for quiet, Neira whispered,


    "Be ready! There are guards at the base of the stairway, down where it plunges into the ocean. We''ll be in for a fight, unless distraction or magic befools them."


    They could hear Milardin''s alarm bells, sounding louder than ever, along with the heavy tread of soldiers patrolling outside. There in the dusty, cramped darkness, Valerian readied his spells, aiming to fuddle and trap, rather than kill. Whatever impulse led Alandriel''s lord to hunt him had to spring from confusion or mistaken identity, he thought... And killing Arvendahl''s men would only worsen the problem.


    Crowded against the far wall, Gildyr pulled a few seeds from his bag; briar and thorn, oak and ash. He was as set as the lithe young tabaxi, who''d recovered her things from the prison guardhouse, and now had a few nasty tricks to unleash.


    Cinda was her own sort of ready. Dangerous, as always, hovering nearest to Val. The drow made no evident preparations at all. Still with them, simply because there was no place else he could go. As for the mortal wizard¡­


    That rumpled, dark-haired young man had been staring hard at Valerian. Now, scratching his stubbly jaw, he said,


    "I''m¡­ not really dreaming, am I?" (Overly loudly for Neira, who shoved him.) "I''m back in that frickin'' alternate plane again."


    Val smiled. Those touched by the gods were sacred, of course; their ravings a source of true prophecy¡­ but he liked his comrades sane, and this wizard¡­ this Murchison¡­ was somehow a cherished old friend.


    "You are awake," he assured the grumpy mortal. "And a most welcome sight."


    Even if his presence was somehow linked to Kaazin, the murderous, slave-driving drow.


    Valerian would have asked questions, but then Neira turned away from the trapdoor, her expression tense and expectant. The passage of footfalls had slowed to a patter, outside, like the last few kernels of popping, spiced grain.


    "Now," she hissed, shoving opaline hair away from her face. "I will conceal the hatch, and then we''ll climb up and make for the waterline, a few at a time, features and weapons well hidden."


    Neira and Gildyr first, disguised as a pair of loving young tieflings. Next, the tabaxi and mortal, under the guise of strolling players; she with a shimmering tambourine, he with¡­ whatever he had in the way of performance skills. Val would come next with the ranger, their features dulled and their clothing darkened; looking like servants on leave from some noble house. Last of all, Kaazin, supporting Filimar as though he was helping a drunken friend. Disguising the surly drow was hardest of all, for his personal aura was strong and unsettling; a puddle of toxic shade that the pirate''s magic strove to conceal.


    "Just¡­ be quick," advised Neira, tweaking the charm that covered his pallid skin and red eyes. "Keep moving and don''t, for the love of Dear Father, look anyone straight in the face."


    Kaazin shrugged, adjusting his grip on the slumped young lordling beside him.


    "I am a Drozt. A walker-in-darkness, in a place where just being drow is a crime. I have no choice but caution, ever. Save your advice for those who require it, Sea-witch."


    The stony, chiseled-out hole where they stood was a cramped little nook dug into the marble stairway by pirates and smugglers. There was no space to draw weapons, and no time at all to waste, doing so. Neira contented herself with a very foul gesture, then opened the hatch above them and magicked a short set of stairs.


    Slipping an arm around Gildyr''s waist, she turned to glare at the watching others.


    "I''m running a monstrous risk, using this safe-hole, for you lot. Don''t make me regret it! Follow in pairs, slowly and carefully. We''ll meet below, at the Coral Landing."


    Then she and the druid were out through the veiling darkness, using magic to blend right in with the folk on the stairway. Nibbling Gildyr''s earlobe and murmuring love names, Neira drew the uneasy wood-elf further down-ramp, toward harbor, ocean and safety.


    So far, so good, as a pair of love-struck tieflings "hooking their horns" was a common sight. Of no interest at all to Milardin''s alert and suspicious guards.


    A few heartbeats later, the tabaxi and mortal wizard followed them out. By this time, the shadows were falling and torches were just being lit. Salme (for that was her name) drew out a tambourine and began to play, dancing as naturally as a wind-sprite. She''d been disguised as a lovely human lass, her fur concealed and her long, fluffy tail wrapped around her left leg. Murchison backed her performance by clapping in time to the silvery chimes. Wasn''t much of a dancer, himself. Just shuffled his feet, shrugged his shoulders and bobbed his head like a rooster. Got a few coins tossed his way¡­ mostly from pity.


    Val and Cinda waited their turn, unconsciously reaching to grasp and hold hands.


    "Just like always," he whispered.


    "It''ll be fun, or we''ll die," finished the ranger, giving his hand a brief squeeze.


    When the sound of shrill bells and applause faded away, it was their time. Cinda kissed his cheek.


    "For luck," she muttered, looking away.


    The ranger would have preceded him, but Val wouldn''t let her. He wasn''t a child. Didn''t need to be shielded or watched. Climbed up and out into torchlight and mage glow, seeing Lord Arvendahl''s frosty, magical image everywhere; seeming to watch and to comment just as¡­ somewhere, somewhen else¡­ Lord Orrin had done.


    Looking around, he saw giant stairs and a person-sized ramp, all transformed by the magic of night to polished translucence. The entire thing glowed like firelit crystal, except where Neira''s concealment spell hid that wide open hatch. There, the stair''s clarity faded, looking like milky quartz. The difference increased as the last dregs of sunlight drained from the sky. In the middle distance, tough to miss, a flaming tornado writhed and spun like a nobleman''s pyre, adding its own seething glare. Of His Lordship''s cruel "orchard", nothing remained but drifting bright ash.


    Valerian refocused. Cursed under his breath. A passing patrol had noticed the blurred escape hatch. Now they were turning that way to investigate. Looping his arm through Cinda''s, he made himself seem relaxed and casual. Just someone''s chief steward, out for a night on the town with a willing chambermaid. Forcing a smile, he started down-ramp as though nothing was wrong and he wasn''t a hunted fugitive.


    Then,


    "You, there!" somebody shouted behind them. Not to Valerian and Cinda. To Kaazin, just now stepping forth from that bruise on the stairway, with Filimar propped like a doll at his side. "Halt!"


    With heartbeats to make a decision, Val thrust Cinda into the crowd, placing a spell of befuddlement over her. Nobody, glimpsing the ranger, would be able to tell who she was, or recall that they''d seen her. For himself, hand at the hilt of his sword, the disguised elf-lord turned back, threading his way through massed people, making for Kaazin and Filimar.


    The plan came to him all at once, (foolish, as his best notions so often were) but all that he had. Recycling back for casting and manna, Valerian altered his likeness. Became the spirit and image of High Lord Arvendahl; raven-black hair, gem-blue eyes, ornate golden armor, and all.


    "Enough!" he snapped in a ringing voice, as the crowd and constables scattered like ants. "Stand away. I shall deal with this pair, myself."


    He could mime chilly, and he could mock arrogance. As for that aura of power¡­ Sure. For just about five hasty breaths. It was enough, though. All of those terrified citizens abased themselves or took flight at the sight of their liege lord. Stuck in place by their duty, the guards bowed so low that they beat themselves bloody on stone.


    "Come forth, fellow," Val commanded the drow, still aping Arvendahl''s voice. But, in hand-sign, he gestured: ''Ready-run-soon.''


    Just his bad luck that the actual high lord awoke, detected the fraud and chose that moment to port himself onto the stairway.


    "Very flattering," sneered Arvendahl, of Valerian''s disguise. Then, to the open-mouthed soldiers and guards, "Kill whoever resists. The Tarandahl, I want alive."


    Val kept up his costume, hoping that disguise and fear of their lord would slow the guards'' actions. Misty-stepped higher up the grand stairway, drawing attention away from the drow and rubbery, half-awake Filimar.


    In moments, he was beset, fighting with sword in one hand, long knife and spells in the other. They were trying to capture. He was trying to wound.


    Spying motion at the corner of his eye, Val levitated away from the sudden, hissing swirl of a weighted net. Next misty-stepped past a thundering rush of thugs. Gildyr came back from the water''s edge, then, shouting aloud. At the druid''s call, thorns burst out of the ground near the staircase, making a wildfire''s spitting, crackling roar. Fast-growing shoots twined their way over railing and steps, wrapping themselves tight to the constables'' legs.


    A screeching gold monkey poked eyes with its stiff little fingers. Lightning fast, it leapt from one cursing guard to the next as Salme spun like a whirlwind and kicked the half-blinded victims unconscious. The rest of those charging thugs were jerked up into the air, flipped upside down and then shaken violently, their flailing bodies bound by the mortal wizard to a doll he held in his hands.


    Moving through shadow, Cinda spun mist; her magic obscuring ranged shots with coils of dense, white fog. A few yards away, Val kept on fighting; heart pounding, breath coming fast as he wove a curtain of glittering steel. Didn''t kill. Slapped heads with the flat of his blade. Fired concussive blasts through the dagger, twisting away from attack, and constantly moving. But there were so many guards and soldiers; a city''s worth, to the party''s mere eight... and no one could fight forever.


    Taking a chance, the drow lifted Filimar into the air by the throat, holding a knife to the half-conscious lordling''s belly, just where the tunic pulled out of his belt.


    "Drop your weapons, or I gut this day-walking trash like a banquet-slave," he snarled. Filimar struggled feebly, but he was too sick from the blow to his head¡­ from too little air¡­ to fight back.


    The guards and Lord Arvendahl hesitated. Clearly, if that evil shadow had crept into Milardin''s ruler, she hadn''t sunk very deep. Not yet.


    Valerian stripped manna from a city ley line, then ported across to reach Filimar, not altogether sure that the drow didn''t mean what he''d said. Just missed being hit by the high lord''s petrification spell, because he''d moved to defend, not tried to escape. Arvendahl just didn''t get that.


    "Go away," grunted Kaazin, backing slowly down-ramp. "I will delay them as long as I can. This soft, useless puppy should escape their judgment, being my hostage."


    Choking briars and rustling vines had grown into a high, thorny wall, weaving Milardin''s ivy and flowers into a towering barrier. The hissing sea pulled away from the harbor and stairs, threatening a dangerous tidal wave. (In seeming, at least, and all Neira''s doing.)


    Screaming citizens scrambled as high up the stairs as they could to climb. Not Val and not Kaazin, who ran, slid and ported down-ramp, dragging Filimar. Arrows shrilled past them, one cutting Valerian''s shoulder, another one piercing Kaazin''s black cloak. The ground shook and lurched, causing a mighty fissure to yawn like a canyon under the stairs. Lord Arvendahl was an earth-mover, and very much willing to kill.


    He''d levitated, rising high as a star over that crystalline stairway and still-growing wall of sharp spines. Val stopped running. Panting slightly, he called up a fleeting spell, then sent himself into those surging briars. A sort of golem-self formed, towering into the air; shaped now like an elf-lord, now like a griffin. With one swipe of its spiked, massive hand, it swatted Arvendahl out of the sky. Batted him all the way back to the city''s great shrine, where he struck with a ground-shaking CRACK, releasing a vortex of manna.


    As a griffin of briar, ivy and flowers, Valerian seized His Lordship''s limp form, flying as high in the air as borrowed magic and haste would allow. The wind shrieked through his basketwork body as Val spiraled higher into the night. Dropped Lord Arvendahl onto a frosty step, with only the stars and cold, thinning air as witness. Trying to maintain a hover, forcing words from a construct of splintering wood, he rasped,


    "Whatever you think¡­ didn''t do it from spite, Milord¡­ no choice¡­ saved all those I could."


    Whether or not the battered ruler heard him, whether His Lordship would even care, Val had no way to tell. No chance to add anything else, either, for the golem beast fell apart in midair, shredded by distance and cold. Valerian''s consciousness shot back to his own body, which was slung atop Filimar''s, over the drow''s heaving shoulder.


    Ever contrary, Val flipped loose like a landed fish, hitting the polished ramp just over the spuming waterline. Managed to roll himself into the surf, just as a spear plunged down in thundering noise, sudden hot pain and bright, bursting red.

 Part Four, chapter thirty

    Edited!


    30


    They climbed a high foothill, leaving the shrine in their wake, heading for the glimmering lure of a tanglewood tree. Among the most dangerous of forest predators, such trees were normally killed or avoided, except by the mad or the truly desperate. The elf sought it out to throw off pursuit. The orc, because she feared nothing at all.


    Upward they went, through a landscape disgorged by the beaten-back wall. There were strange, twisted trees there; more bushy than tall, splitting into slanted, multiple trunks. Low shrubs covered the ground. These had glowing floats at the tips of their branches, and flowers that whirled off into the air when disturbed. It seemed very strange to Miche, but perfectly home-like to Marget.


    The wary elf made no sound at all in passing, even when moving at speed. Marget, on the other hand, caused enough ruckus to drown out a troop. There might have been trouble, but Miche worked out how to cast silence, preventing unwanted interest. That was important.


    He could feel something searching, drifting like mist through this strange, dark wood; sending out chill, questing fingers. Drawn by his actions at the wall and shrine, it tested the air for scent, dropped low to the ground to feel for vibrations, looking around through the eyes of gore-crow and rat. Sensing all this, Miche quickened their pace, needing distance and shelter.


    Between up-thrust roots and mossy boulders they sped, drawn by the tanglewood lure and its whispered promises. The wind at their backs brought a mixture of scents, some of them goblinoid, most of them worse.


    "You are being hunted," Marget accused, her red eyes narrowing as they flicked between Miche and far-off pursuit.


    "Yes." There was no point denying the obvious.


    "Why?" she demanded. The orc''s braided black hair swayed past her tattooed face as she reached for branches and handholds, keeping most of her focus on Miche. He shook his head, moving like an athlete. A dancer. Barely needing to touch the ground, much less to grab for support.


    "I don''t know," he admitted. "I awoke here with nothing but the sword and two spirits. One of them left. The other is with me still. Next¡­ something happened¡­ but then I escaped. I have some magical power, but¡­"


    "...But that, itself, would make you a valuable prize," rumbled Marget. "There are few who can find and use manna these days. Mostly warlocks, hags and other foul creatures. They hoard their spells and their magic. Charge a steep price for their services, too¡­ Andrey."


    He shook his blond head once again, obscurely glad that she was still playing that foolish game with him.


    "Not Andrey¡­ and not willing to serve as a piece on anyone''s game board. Whatever I did that got me banished to this place, cannot be undone. Not by me. But I don''t have to help those who''d kill for my power, either."


    Marget nodded.


    "Freedom," she agreed in her low, growling voice. "That is all I am seeking. A place where Marget can live, fight and love as she choses."


    They went on more quietly after that, helping each other past hazards and pits, Marget still trying out possible names. Didn''t get close, but her efforts were often quite humorous. Nameless darted through the branches above them, sometimes using Miche''s shoulders or head as a springboard. Firelord kept out of sight, taking shelter inside of his follower, not trusting the orc at all.


    They reached the tree just after moonrise. The tanglewood''s lure was a floating gold bubble that drifted above its top branches, secured by coiling tendrils. Its gentle light seemed to promise¡­ Everything: safety, peace, happiness, rest. The truth was very much other.


    Marget rumbled a warning as they reached its dark glade; one scarred hand clutching the haft of her battle-axe. Miche drew forth his sword, summoning fire, as well.


    The towering tree was immense and malevolent; a craggy dark blot near the crest of the hill. Its trunk had nearly the girth of those petrified giants he''d seen at the crater. Deeply cracked bark was pitted with glowing digestive pods, each one holding a slowly dissolving corpse. Hundreds of vine-nooses dangled fresh victims, drawing them up to the highest branches and trunk.


    Its prey were animals, mostly (though there were several goblins suspended, as well). Their dangling bodies twitched and jerked; no longer alive, but not entirely dead. Sharpened sapper vines pierced them through, drawing food for the tree; keeping that terrible fruit from final death and decay. The tree''s blade-like leaves littered the ground below, concealing a mountain of polished bones, all of this lit by a sliver of rising pale moon.


    Carnivorous beetles rustled and skittered under a mat of withered foliage, stripping the flesh from dropped limbs. The sudden rank stench burnt their noses, bringing tears to their eyes with its stinging, foul reek. Half-coiled vines hung ready from branches above, tiny hairs poised to detect any motion.


    Newest of all was a slender young doe, bored through with sapper vines, still kicking reflexively. Beneath the suspended deer, her fawn leapt and scrambled, avoiding the nooses that dropped all around it, rushing frantically back and forth, bleating aloud as it struggled to reach its dead mother. It was tiring, though. Very soon, one of those vines would take hold.


    Miche pulled out his bow and a handful of arrows, meaning to slay the young animal, ending its terrible plight. Marget misread his intent. She clamped a firm hand on his arm. Grunted,


    "Good thought, Kollyn. Keep that monster at bay. I will go after the little one."


    He would have protested her foolish decision, but Marget was already moving; arms outspread, crouching slightly, bleating just like a doe.


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    Cursing inwardly, the elf turned his attention to burning the nooses that dropped like a flurry of nets from those gnarled, swaying branches. He seared dozens right up to their flexible bases, scorching leaves and bark, bursting multiple pods. Finally, leaking foul sap from hundreds of wounds, the tree stopped aiming for Marget. It had other defenses, though.


    Great swarms of foot-long black ants boiled out of the tree itself, emerging from cracks in its smoldering bark like an army. Forming chains of interlocked soldiers, they dropped at the elf, snapping their scissor-like jaws. Meanwhile, a rustling flood of beetles attacked from the ground, firing long streams of burning-hot acid. Miche dodged, spun and stamped, kicking off most of the bugs that climbed up his boots, tearing away those that fell from the tree, all the while covering Marget. Some of the insects skittered onto his shoulders and chest. There they bit deeply, painfully; injecting venom that Firelord instantly vaporized.


    Miche shot blast after blast of crackling ice through his sword, freezing thousands of insects and scarring the tree. Half-saw Marget bend down for that shuddering fawn.


    "Hurry!" he called, fighting to keep a dark tide of ants away from the orc and young deer. Fire and ice were unsubtle magics, likely to harm those nearby as well as their monstrous target. He had to be careful; right every time, every shot, or someone would die.


    But the tree had another defense to employ. One he hadn''t expected. Miche pivoted to blast at a swaying rope of linked ants. He stumbled over a half-buried root, flailing forward through knee-deep beetles, crushing their shells with each step. Acid and slime spurted, burning whatever it touched. His smoldering left boot came down on a hidden noose. It jerked tight immediately, cinching hard and then yanking the elf off his feet. He swung and spun higher, nearly disjointing his leg. Kept hold of his sword, though. Twisted wildly in midair, flexing the leg and bending enough to bring his blade within striking distance. The branches above were saw-toothed and lashing, dripping corrosive bile as they wove a thorny prison. Miche slashed hard at the vine that held him, simultaneously releasing a fire-bolt into the tree''s grinding canopy. The vine was tough and resistant. Took three wild, chopping cuts to slice through it, as burning branches and cones fell past, trailing flame like comets. Freed, Miche plunged to the ground. Dried leaves, brittle insects and a mountain of bones broke his fall. He staggered upright, once more, limping and injured, but able to fight. Then the tanglewood''s trunk gaped apart. It formed a creaking, splintery chasm; disgorging a tall, rough-skinned figure. Spindly and lithe, a dryad strode forth. Her mouth was a jagged gash, her eyes black as beetle-shells. Broken bones and old weapons were woven into the ropey vines on her head¡­ and she was angry.


    "Stop, Old One," hissed the dryad, in a voice of dead leaves and snapped twigs. "Take the meat, and begone! Leave us in peace."


    The beetles and ants ceased pouring forth at her gesture. Some of them climbed the dryad, seeking her fissures and knotholes. Panting slightly, the elf lowered his spell hand and blade.


    "It is not our intent to slay your tree, Dryad," he told her. "My companion seeks only to rescue the fawn."


    "Rescue?" sneered the dark nymph, her face cracking with every word and change of expression. "Why bother? Everything dies, Old One, including your kind. Surviving for now, it will just feed the cycle, later. Death always wins in the end, Hero. Now take it and go."


    Marget had scooped up the fawn. Carefully, she began edging out from under the tanglewood''s branches. Nooses quivered over her head but didn''t dare fall. Ants and beetles parted before her, making no threat, exuding no acids. Even the stench faded, carried off by a gusting wind. Miche waited, alert and ready. To the nymph, he said,


    "We will take shelter near your tree for the night, Dryad, without further attack. On the morrow, we shall depart."


    She appeared to consider his words. Then,


    "The blessing of an Old One has great power. Speak magic over my tree, last of the Elves, and you may remain in our glade."


    The dryad was a carnivore, her tree and its insect defenders pure horror, but the fugitives needed a safe place to rest... And there was no place safer than the glade of a tanglewood tree, provided you weren''t on the menu, yourself. Inclining his head, Miche accepted her bargain.


    "I will do as you ask, Dryad, in return for your promise of shelter."


    Once the orc and fawn reached his side, he sketched a complex symbol of blessing over dryad, tree and insect horde. Added a bit¡­ near the end¡­ about not preying on sentient beings. Mostly did as she wanted, though, causing burns and deep slashes to heal.


    After that, Miche lit a small fire the hard way, being too weary¡­ too drained¡­ to use further magic. The dryad stayed with them that night, surprisingly; trading advice for news of the outside world and meal scraps.


    "Darkness has fallen here," she told them, bark-skin and eyes lit up by the fire and pod-glow. "It is ancient and strong and it calls from the north. All that is evil, the Fallen One beckons."


    The elf nodded. He''d felt that call and almost responded, himself. But for Nameless, he''d have fallen into its grip.


    "What is it?" he asked her, adding wood to their leaping and snapping small blaze. "Where did it come from?"


    The dryad tilted her head, causing bark to splinter and vines to sway.


    "There is no sure knowledge. Just rumor¡­ but whispers make it something very like you. The last survivor of a war that nobody won. It has sensed your presence, I think."


    "Then it can stop looming, come out here and fall yet again," snorted Marget, impatiently. She''d been stroking the fawn, which was fading fast. "Miche," she snapped, "this little one dies, without milk."


    It was half in shock already, causing the dryad to smile. The elf wrung his small stock of memories, casting his mind back into the distant past. He''d seen something. A¡­ stable. A place where orphaned foals were fed with¡­ with goat''s milk squeezed from a leather bag. That was a thing he could conjure, he thought.


    "I could summon milk for the fawn, if there were a ley line nearby," he told them. "But the spell will require more manna than I have to spare, without rest."


    The dryad leaned forward. Behind her, rising wind swayed the tanglewood''s nooses.


    "In return for the creature''s night-soil, I will lend manna," she said. "If it dies, you will give me the body."


    An offer they had no choice at all but to take. With the tangle-nymph''s help, Miche was able to conjure milk and a suitable nursing bag. Marget took care of the rest, vowing to feed the greedy young fawn through the night. The elf got to his feet, then, limping off to set wards using the dryad''s gritty, cold manna. Time passed and the moon rose higher.


    Darkness crept like a mist through the forest, silencing creatures and birds. A few beeping constructs rattled into the tanglewood glade but were swiftly noosed upward and taken apart. One of them warbled a screeching alarm. The dryad used a spell to send it tumbling and crashing away down slope, far from her tree and her guests. She was a monster, and only their bargain prevented disaster. Miche''s blessing and a pile of deer droppings were enough to keep her content¡­ Along with whatever was stupid enough to blunder into the glade. Dryad and tree ate well that night.


    Miche blearily checked on his map, then drifted into deep rest as Marget fed "Spots" and the dryad stood watch. Over and over, he dreamt a short scene of himself climbing a hill with Marget; smiling as she worked at guessing his name, while the marten sprang through the branches above. The wakened shrines appeared, too; their waters nearly as healing in rest as in truth.


    Until sunrise, he drifted and strengthened, back-to-back with a drowsing orc. Feeling her heartbeat, hearing her rumbling snores, Nameless curled up in his lap.

 Part Four, chapter 31

    31


    The entire structure boomed and resounded, vibrating like a giant bell as a massive concussion tore Cerulean Dream away from Orbital Station 1210. The officer''s club, built directly into the wide docking collar between them, was all but obliterated. First compressed, then stretched past material failure.


    The two giant vessels were cloven apart in a tempest of thunderous noise, shredding metal, electrical fire, and hurricane wind. First pitted rock, then the hollow darkness of space showed between them. Momentarily out of control, Cerulean Dream yawed toward Glimmr. Inside the club, that projected crowd flickered, then vanished completely. Chairs, food, utensils and drink went flying as gravity failed. Not so, V47 Pilot and Foryu.


    Clocking himself as far forward as possible, the pilot clamped one hand to a bolted-down table, the other to his companion''s right arm. Braced himself with magnetic boot soles and palm grip, until the compartment''s retention field activated. The howl of escaping atmosphere dropped to a whisper, then ceased. Vents opened up in the bulkheads, refilling the torn compartment. The deck shuddered and buckled in waves. Repeated alarms went off; broadcast as flashing lights, piercing sirens, and a single, urgent looped message.


    ATTACK: ATTACK: ATTACK: GENERAL QUARTERS: GENERAL QUARTERS: ALL ASSETS REPORT TO DUTY STATIONS: ATTACK: ATTACK: ATTACK:


    He acknowledged at once, checking with Flight Command while triggering V47''s launch sequence. Moved with the deck, riding its shock waves rather than fighting them, avoiding snapped panels and sparking, loose wires. Foryu was not as prepared, being programmed for pleasure, not war. She was pried out of his grip by the docking collar''s sudden retraction. Spun out in midair, straight for the glowing retention field. It was designed to contain atmosphere, not cyborg companions. Foryu could not brake her tumbling flight or change her direction. She''d be out through the field, lost to the frozen void in micro-ticks. Sending alarm on all frequencies, the companion reached for him; blue eyes wide, brown hair a whipping tornado.


    The cyborg pilot converted manna to mass. Extended his left arm 4.79 yards, using the limb like a grappling cable to seize and clamp Foryu. His hand locked onto her shoulder, just where flesh met and bonded with chrome. She grabbed at his wrist with both hands, clinging tight as he drew her back down to the deck. A flurry of impulses passed between them, containing very few words.


    "I am required outside," he told Foryu, in a compressed, rapid upload. Next, removing his jacket, the pilot draped it over his companion''s slim shoulders, adding, "If the docking collar and club sustain further damage, discorporate. I will return for you."


    "And for me!" sent the O-club''s AI, flickering badly. "Pilot-Sir, my podium and memory cartridge are here." The system''s processing unit lit up in his perception; flashing an error message from a polished steel column just 2.5 yards from the entrance. "Please, return for me, as well."


    The pilot transmitted assent.


    "You will not be left behind, either of you," he promised, already moving.


    V47 was ready for launch, but nearly a hundred miles off, down-ring. He could not reach the fighter in time, using mechanical transport. Instead, the pilot drew manna from the station''s Battle Uplink in great, gulping bursts, then ported, crossing that distance in three reckless hops. Strange thing: in the between time¡­ crossing from ''here'' to ''there'' in the darkness of nowhere¡­ he could see nothing at all but a swarm of attacking Draugr. They burned in that swirling black void like plasma.


    The last jump flung him directly at V47''s open and waiting cockpit, which gaped like a pixel-edged maw. V47 tracked his approach and synced their momenta. Surprisingly graceful, it dropped through the red-lit bay and arced backward, catching its hurtling pilot straight out of the air. He hit stunning hard, knocking his wind and some wiring loose. Was seized and reoriented by the mech''s shifting interior. Probes shot out, finding their sockets. Contact plates first gelled, then bonded to flesh. Most of his newly bought clothing was burnt to ash in the process, being in the way. Pilot and battle-mech interfaced within micro ticks, becoming two minds in one giant warrior.


    Not that he could leap off the pad and start fighting. All available units were cleared for orderly launch. Blue Flight before what remained of the Golds, with Red Flight in hurry-up prep. He had to wait, as wave after wave of cobalt, insectoid fighters took off, first impelling, then lighting up like small suns. The entire launch bay thundered and rang with their noise. A seemingly endless 23 ticks passed before it was V47''s turn. He got out sooner than his surviving compatriots, though, because they''d cradled their mechs, and he hadn''t.


    Got the eventual go-ahead from Flight Command, and then launched. He hit the impellers, reversing gravity to shoot himself out through the bay''s retention field, getting well clear before he ignited real thrust. The engines kicked in as soon as the go-light flashed up. He burned hard for the battlefront, absorbing 10g acceleration, along with the unfiltered manna of space. The damaged warship and orbital station dropped down and away, spinning like toys in his wake. Glimmr shone like a baleful red-and-gold eye behind them, pocked with sudden dark smudges. He noted it all and archived the images, checking his feed for updates; tracking friendlies and hostiles.


    There was a lot to scan. That first attack had been nothing more than a random, blind strike. An asteroid launched through Draug null space at Glimmr. Hundreds more of the craggy rocks tumbled past, seeming to appear from nowhere as they phased out of space-fold, then dropped to the planet below. Those bludgeoning mountains lit up on their way, trailing fire and smoke as they plunged through the cloud giant''s atmosphere.


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    Cerulean Dream responded with calm precision. Following protocol, the warship''s AI launched wing after wing of attack drones. Above them, the upper decks unleashed hell from tiered cannons. Guided by hybrid systems, the guns tracked and destroyed any impactors that might have struck Glimmr''s harvesting platforms. Right. Not his business. Like the Blues and his newly launched comrades, the pilot was meant to stop those incoming enemy fighters. There were thousands of Draugr ahead; filling space like a boiling, gritty dark wall. Nevertheless, for some reason,


    "Good hunting," he wished the warship''s AI, getting a rapid blip in return.


    Next, he had a decision to make. The Blues hovered in space between Orbital Station 1210 and an onrushing blizzard of Draug. V12, V15 and V27 were just now leaving the bay; acknowledging hails, but not disposed to reply. The question was, where could he do the most good, fighting alone?


    V47 uploaded a hundred-and-fifty-three standard battle plans, but those depended on the presence of a full-strength fighter wing. Here and now, he was on his own. The pilot shook his head, feeling the impulse move out to the giant, person-form robot.


    "No. Throw anything file-standard at them and we''re going to be dust, V. Nearly happened, that last round." Ace had a saying, in Rogue Flight. "It''s time to wander off-script, Partner."


    ''Objection noted. Filed. Querying pilot: Upload substitute battle plan?''


    Another good question. The answer came in a sudden flash, from that interface between augmented elf and AI¡­ and whatever it was that had spiked him awake in the first place.


    "Got it. Top speed, full burn, everything we''ve got. Make for coordinates X31, Y-16, Z53 and punch it, V."


    V47 complied, burning everything, all of it, heading straight for that wall of tumbling enemy ships. At that speed, the rest of the universe slowed to a crawl, and his effect on space was like somebody pulling one side of a cloth, dragging everything else right along. He couldn''t shoot; would have out-sped his own cannon and missiles, barely trailing the lasers. He could project a cutting ram, though, producing an antimatter plow directly ahead of the battle-mech. Meant to disable a warship, the ram flared as it annihilated whatever lay in its path, wreaking havoc with scanning and comm, filling space with hurtling junk.


    "Spot-shield, V," he commanded, pulling zero-point energy straight from the void. All around them, the enemy fighter craft swerved; helplessly drawn to his flight path. Nano-ticks passed. Then his cutting ram encountered the first Draug. A searing, slow-time explosion ejected a blossom of gasses, metal and light, causing his optics to darken. He snagged energy as V47 shot past, topping up manna and charge. Next widened his cutting ram, weaving past enemy fighters that seemed to be dropping through mud. Space was all at once dotted with slow-bursting flares. Meanwhile, Draug energy bolts crept past him like tar; their particle beams as slow as flung spears.


    Only, there were so many Draug, and everyone else¡­ the Blues, V12, V15 and V27¡­ was adhering to published, accepted maneuvers, flying in small groups, attacking the enemy one at a time. He could speak to the mecha, but not to their pilots. The other elves were just ride-along meat; not even fully awake. There would be no Rogue Flight "togetherness", here.


    ''Systems update, Pilot: Engine efficiency dropping. Engine power at 83.61%,'' sent V47, seeming concerned.


    Why was clear enough. Those Belkor-Shunt engines weren''t meant to be redlined at all, much less continuously. He risked burning them out completely, if he didn''t slow down. Well¡­


    "Understood, V. We''ll do this another way. Drop to three-quarter thrust, then give off a wide-band irritant signal. Something to make them come after us."


    In the absence of irresistible speed-mass, that is. V47 considered for nearly a tick. Then,


    ''Searching. One possibility located, pilot: A gravitic fluctuation with a period of 12 wpt has been observed to interfere with Draug intelligence fields. Such a broadcast might prove motivating.''


    He nodded again, sensing the motion through servos, pistons and micro-fine gears.


    "Right. Affirm. Only, how do we generate twelve gravity waves per tick without light speed or planet-sized mass?" Then, "Move past them, V. We''re going to need plenty of room to think."


    Again, V47 had a response.


    ''Rapid hyper-jumps are one possibility. Move in and out between real and null space, twelve leaps per tick, without changing position, Pilot.''


    "No¡­ input? No destination coordinates?" asked the cyborg, as V47 doused the cutting ram and swooped clear.


    ''Affirm. Lack of arrival coordinates yields a 97.25% likelihood of return to initial conditions,'' V47 replied, simultaneously projecting a very old data file. By this time, they''d slowed to cruising speed. The Draugr were moving like tumbling, shape-changing rocks again, surrounded by hundreds of searing explosions; already preparing their attack run on station and ship.


    "Sounds like a plan," said the pilot, unconsciously quoting a show-vid character. Fortunately, V47 had downloaded and watched every episode, too. It recognized Ravn''s affirm. "Fingers crossed," whispered the pilot, causing his mech to do just that as it slowed to a halt in open and hostile space.


    He began that series of jumps, then. Twelve leaps per tick. Not going anywhere, just disturbing the kruft out of space-time.


    "Come on," he urged, beckoning with one giant mechanical hand. "Come and stop me."


    Worked like a charm, as every Draug ship in the surrounding three light-ticks changed course at once. He didn''t have time to celebrate. Just input a short space-fold, further away from Cerulean Dream and the station. Just out of enemy reach, he made another quick series of frenzied hyper-jumps. Now, two sets of gravity ripples spread out through the Draugr, disrupting their guidance and group intelligence. He saw for himself the darkness between being shaken and punctured with each of his leaps. Took no direct attention, merely archiving his observations and data, then leaping away again.


    Hurt. They were¡­ he was hurting them, somehow. Each null-space jump was a slash through their dark-world reality. But he''d seized their attention and couldn''t stop, now. Through a fretwork of particle beams and spacecraft, he flickered and leapt, drawing the entire attack fleet to the space between stars. Out where sullen Titania shone as brightly as Oberyn, and Glimmr was only a spark.


    There, he was quickly surrounded by tumbling Draugr. Relative speed, next to nothing. Actual motion¡­ not the best he could do. And it was time to drop the hammer.


    "Ready," he sent to V47. Then, as those boulder-like fighters closed in, "Drop a gear, disappear," he quoted Ravn (episode 6, season 3, 15 mega-ticks runtime).


    He switched their form with a thought, pulling manna from space and the stars, changing instantly from warrior-mode to fighter craft. Tons of physical mass converted to energy all at once, giving V47 a sudden boost through that clenching gauntlet of Draugr. In his wake, the pilot fired a cloud of electromagnetic pulse bombs, barely clearing their range before setting all of them off. Chaos erupted behind him, looking like nuclear fire. Victory.


    It''s the one you didn''t see that got you, though... every drek time.

 Sword and Sorcery Four, chapter thirty-two

    32


    The rumble and hiss of surf drew him off that first, giant step and into deep water, where blood swirled in thick, waving clouds. He''d been speared, the barbed point slashing his clothing and flesh, snagging his ribs. Pain flared, seeming to double when somebody struggled to haul in their weapon. He wasn''t impaled, though. He could still fight.


    Fire was his element, not water, but Valerian''s folk loved the sea. Had Kalistiel blood in their veins. Surrounded by churning and stamping legs, with more spears and slow-moving arrows seeking his life, trailing bubbles, Valerian called on the ocean. First clamping the spear to his side with one arm, he next caused water to flow up its long wooden shaft and onto the wielder, forming an inescapable shroud. That half-glimpsed figure released the lance, staggering backward, flailing and clawing at its face. All of their trouble and none of his own. Val had other concerns.


    Those ancient stairs were magical. Under their spell, he could breathe and move almost as freely as up in the air. The surging water had a bitter and bloody taste. It pushed and drew like a powerful wind, but at least he could function. Slightly crouched, Val leapt away from the shoreline. Hit the second stair, falling slower than he would have through air.


    The drow quickly followed, his white hair billowing, bleeding from many deep cuts. Val wasn''t happy to see him. The drow was still dragging Filimar, though. That was something. Speaking with difficulty, Kaazin said,


    "Three paladins hold the stair against our retreat, Day-walker. I swore that you hadn''t attacked Arvendahl first. Am I foresworn?" His voice sounded louder, much deeper than it had up above. Some trick of the water. Val was too preoccupied with removing the spear and stopping blood flow to answer at first, especially when Cinda, Gildyr, Neira, and Salme closed in around them. Not far away, Murchison was in trouble, seeming unable to grasp what was happening, or that he could safely remain underwater. Filimar had nearly returned to full consciousness¡­ until Kaazin bashed his head with the hilt of a dagger.


    "Have to seem convincing," explained the drow, watching as Filno emitted a small cloud of bubbles and then went limp. "Otherwise, they''ll know that he isn''t a hostage."


    "I did not¡­ unh¡­ start this fight with His Lordship, Corpse-fly," gasped Val, gritting his teeth while Cinda unhooked the spearhead and jerked it loose of his fractured ribs. "Left him¡­ high on the stairs, above."


    "Close to the edge, I hope," muttered the drow, pushing an unconscious Filno at Neira. Next, taking hold of Murchison''s leg, he snapped, "Down, Fool, before someone splits your skull like a baked-brain pudding." (Prince of a fellow, Kaazin. It was all Val could do to keep from attacking him.)


    The mortal wizard had been holding his breath, wasting manna on float spells and air conjuration. Only, that wouldn''t work here. Not on the giant''s enchanted stairway. Salme looked nearly as bad, her eyes gone all pupil, just inky black holes in her face. Only faith in her friend kept the tabaxi from bolting out of the water.


    Gildyr pushed his way to Valerian''s side through the moonlit ocean and billowing blood.


    "Best get you further below, Milord," he advised, looking worried. "Surface magic is likely misfire here, but you say that the sea-folk ''ll welcome you? That they won''t just attack?"


    Well, as to that¡­ Valerian shrugged. Accepted a handful of good-berries from Cinda, doling them out to the others before eating a few, himself. Got a big mouthful of seawater too, which made everything salty and bitter.


    "They''ll probably talk first," he said. "Our house is linked by treaty and blood to Averna. We may bring trouble down on its queen by seeking shelter here¡­ but Shanella has never much cared for Lord Arvendahl. Fishing and transport disputes."


    He looked back and upward, still oozing blood, still ready to fight. On shore, the human paladin held off an army, giving the fugitives time to retreat. His Aunt Meliara was there, as well. This close to, he could feel her presence. Got a light, affectionate brush to the thoughts and a simple,


    "Valereck, go!"


    He went, sending his thanks before plunging his way down those titanic stairs. Coral and sponges and forests of kelp towered on either side, seeming shadowy dark in the wavering light from above. Glittering jellies and eight-legs shot past them like soaring bright stars. Moonlight faded after the third step. Down here, the water was cold and still. Small fish and sea-fairies darted around them like gnats, snapping at flesh-bits and blood. The stairway glowed softly, providing a pale, chilly light.


    "Do not stray past the railing," Valerian advised, leaning a little on Cinda. "Their magic does not extend very far to the sides." Wander away, and they''d drown or be crushed.


    "You''ve been here before?" asked Gildyr. He''d taken charge of Murchison and hoped that conversation would help the mortal adapt.


    "No," replied the young elf-lord, stepping off one stair and drifting down to the next, trailing a cloud of blond hair. "But there is something similar at the mouth of the river, just past the great archway, back home. I have spent time there and learned by experiment."


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    Cinda grumbled something under her watery breath as she sank along at his side. Not a compliment, either. The ranger was used to Valerian''s antics, but she didn''t much like the result.


    "We''ll be careful," Gildyr promised. He kept well to the center of that acre-wide staircase, green eyes huge and alert. Then, "Wait, Valerian," he called out. "Your friend and the dancer are in trouble."


    It was true, Val saw. Somehow, the cold and the pressure... breathing that dense, bitter fluid... affected them more than it did the elves or the drow. He ought not to have wasted manna... but conjured a bubble of air and warmth around each of them, anyhow, asking the sea for its strength. Salme instantly fell to grooming herself, desperate just to feel dry. The golden monkey popped out of tattoo form again, fretfully wringing its tiny red vest. Breathing freely at last, Murchison came over to clasp Val''s hand. Still shaken, he said,


    "Buddy¡­ I don''t know what happened or why I''m back¡­ but it''s (condemnation) good to see you again. I''d ask if you''re in trouble¡­"


    Cinda snorted at that, a very weird sound underwater.


    "¡­but it looks like signs point to yes." The wizard''s voice seemed to come from a distance, sounding tinny and flat as it traveled from air into water. "Whatever you need, Pal, I''m here."


    Valerian concealed his emotion with genuine effort. Inclined his head and returned the mortal''s firm grip.


    "There are few I would rather have at my side; few I would trust more than you, friend wizard," he said, meaning it.


    Now, if ever, was the time for explanations; for Val to ask what had happened back home, if Fee and the baby were safe. He never got the chance, because the alien substance around them began to swirl and probe. They''d been detected. Val held a hand up, on his unwounded side.


    "Whatever comes next, say nothing," he ordered. "Father Ocean is just, but not kind." Best to avoid his attention or (failing that) to leave as quickly as possible. Neira whimpered softly. She drew up her hood and stepped back as something cold and dense manifested. It moved through the water around them, half phosphorescence, half bubbles, and shreds of pale flesh. It called, making a noise that shook the ocean and stairs, nearly pulping those huddled intruders.


    Pooling their magics, Val, Gildyr, and Murchison shielded the party from hammering waves of sound. The thundering noise was so loud that their insides quivered and hummed in response, their vision blurred, and Filimar came to his senses. He had time for no more than,


    "Whu¡­?"


    ¡­before the spirit''s bellowing call was answered. Coming from seemingly everywhere, fish, crustaceans, eight-legs, jellies, and serpents rushed together. They formed a roiling ball, then a mighty being; elf-shaped above, with a coiling fish-tail, below. Its outline quivered and flashed with the constant motion of millions of fish. Its eyes glowed with light from twin clouds of shimmering jellies. Its hair was formed from the eight-legs'' swaying long tentacles. Its spear and drowning net were pure, crackling force. Its extra-dimensional presence hard as a squashing thumb.


    ''What seek you here, void-dwellers?'' demanded the sea god, in a voice that was thundering surf, cracking ice, raging storm.


    Valerian knelt on the stair, bowing his head. Behind him, the others did likewise. Even (slowly) the drow. As the highest-ranking elf present, it was for Val to answer. So, sticking with as much of the truth as he knew, he said,


    "Your pardon, Great One. I have quarreled somehow with High Lord Arvendahl, and now he seeks after my life. I''ve come with these friends to ask shelter of Queen Shanella, until the matter is sorted. It was not my intention to disturb your domain, Father Ocean."


    That towering figure scowled, all of the tiny, colorful fish that made up its face flashing to different places.


    ''Arvendahl aims above his grasp. He has climbed high and reached far, but fate is not his to change,'' said the god, adding, ''Nor is it yours, child of the sunlit void.''


    Valerian hesitated. So much had happened, so little of which he controlled.


    "That is true, Lord¡­ but I have been driven from home by a dark force. My fate seems to be out of my hands, at the moment." And all he was trying to do was protect his people; find a way to survive.


    Father Ocean''s spirit moved, and the creatures that filled up his watery outline followed. The crackling tip of his fish spear touched Valerian''s chest. The sensation was like that of lightning striking the ocean. The young elf lord was hurled backward, hitting hard, nearly falling off that broad stairway. Glittering tendrils of force brushed his companions, as well, sending them flying.


    ''Three days,'' said the god. ''From sunrise tomorrow to the night from the night after that. That long, you may remain in my waters unharmed. Thereafter, look to yourself, rouser of tempests. I have spoken.''


    The mighty one flared once with power, sending a ripple of force through the ocean and shore. Then it was gone, freeing millions of creatures to go their own way. Val wobbled upright, still reeling inside from the shock of that thunderous voice. Found himself healed. No fractured ribs, no gashes, no pain. Nor was that all. Spreading his fingers, Val found them webbed like a duck''s foot. Sensed the flutter of gills at the side of his neck, making breathing here perfectly natural.


    The others had also been changed, Salme most of all. Now, the tabaxi was covered in fine, toothy scales like a shark. Her mobile ears had shrunk down to small cups, nearly flat to her sleek, seal-like head. Gildyr and Kaazin were fish-tailed. Cinda and Murchison had gone suddenly rubbery-skinned and totally hairless, with flukes at the end of each leg instead of their feet. Filimar had meanwhile turned bright, bluish-green, with powerful coils replacing his legs.


    The young Arvendahl looked around in confusion, his last clear memory being a dock near the Sailor''s Spew. Started to speak, then shook his head and started again.


    "I¡­ that is, would anyone mind awfully much explaining what''s happened?" he pled, looking from Val to Neira.


    "They''ve been busy wrecking my life and my fortune, is what," snapped the pirate, before Val could think where to start. She alone was unchanged and boiling angry. "The bolt hole is lost now, discovered. ''Is nibbs ''ll have tracers on it like nobody''s business. Pinch ''alf the crew and most of the loot before you can cough up your water!"


    Which¡­ right. Life was tough all over. Val would have told her so, but then four new figures came plunging down from above, feet weighted by heavy stones. One with her throat slashed so deeply, she''d been almost decapitated.


    Paladins. Three of them, with Aunt Meliara, all trailing blood like the smoke from a flight of crashed airships.


    (End of book four.)

 Part Five, chapter one

    <u>Part Five, Chapter 1</u>


    It was late that night when the war bells rang out, and Lord Arvendahl¡¯s horrible ¡°orchard¡± went up like a demi-god funeral pyre. Brother Arnulf was just coming out of the Staggering Wench. Nearly dropped his tithe-box, staring at a writhing tornado of roaring bright flame that spread shadows all over Milardin. The summons hit him a few moments later, as both Sister Constant and Brother Humble pounded their holy symbols, calling for aid.


    Arnulf (Villem, when he was at home and out of his paladin gear) nodded. Succeeded in closing his mouth and putting the tithe-box away before setting off for the mission. Oberyn¡¯s temple was east, in a fashionable neighborhood close to that giant, spiraling staircase. The Constellate mission, by contrast, lay deep in the heart of Milardin¡¯s waterfront district, where the air smelt of fish and decay; just a homey tumble-down shack, refusing shelter to no one, whatever their deeds. Receiving the summons, the paladin turned and sprinted back to his waiting brothers-in-Oberyn.


    Arnulf raced through alleys and backstreets, arriving just as his brethren¡­ and love¡­ were emerging. Brother Humble was a mountain orc, grey-skinned, scowling and muscular. Sister Constant was a darksome, flashing-eyed warrior, her braided hair threaded with clattering, blue-and-gold beads. Meliara was a high-elf oracle, too beautiful... too rare... for the likes of <u>him</u>. And yet, somehow, they¡¯d fallen in love.


    ¡°I¡¯m here!¡± gasped the young paladin, thundering up from a narrow under-bridge tunnel. ¡°What¡¯s happened?¡±


    Vorbol, the orc, reached out to steady his brother-in-battle, preventing Villem from crashing into the mission¡¯s warped, slanting wall.


    ¡°Not sure,¡± he grunted, sounding exactly like a seven-footer, trying to speak through a mouthful of jumbled, sharp fangs. ¡°The war bells toll, but how many foes has Milardin?¡±


    ¡°None, that I know of,¡± put in Nadia, frowning. ¡°Lord Oberyn¡¯s peace still graces the land¡­ more or less. Can¡¯t say that I¡¯m sorry to see the end of that corpse farm, though. Gladly drain a flagon with whoever¡¯s torched the vile thing.¡±


    Meliara glided forward, her slender feet hardly touching that rough, cobbled street. With light fingers, she stroked Villem¡¯s face and unruly brown hair, saying,


    ¡°It is the doing of my brother¡¯s son, Valerian. He is here in Milardin, in flight from the city guard.¡±


    Villem managed to focus despite the brush of her gentle fingers, the sight of her lovely eyes and gold hair. He nodded, taking the she-elf¡¯s slim hand and kissing it.


    ¡°Aye, that. I met him at the Broken Teeth, this afternoon. He said that he¡¯d be along to visit, later... but it looks like something¡¯s come up. Can you see where he is, Mellie?¡±


    Her wide blue eyes went dead-white for a moment, as Meliara Tarandahl ad Galadin parted the strands of fate¡¯s web. Then,


    ¡°He is near the base of the Water Stairs, with a group of companions, and he is hard-pressed. Lord Arvendahl, also, is¡­ no¡­ they have taken flight upward, very high on the staircase.¡±


    Her voice had an elf¡¯s normal music, to which was added the sunshine and spice of genuine love. ¡°We must make haste, Villek, if we would aid Valerian, perhaps stopping unfortunate slaughter. The signs are not clear, but there is great trouble ahead.¡±


    Again, the dark-haired paladin nodded. Turning, he shot a questioning glance at Nadia and Vorbol.


    ¡°I love a good, unfair fight,¡± grinned his blade-sister. ¡°Arvendahl¡¯s a donkey¡¯s rump, and I¡¯ll tell him again, as I know he can hear me: Donkey¡¯s rump and dangling sack. Mean it.¡±


    Vorbol said simply,


    ¡°You do not have to ask, Brother. I fight at your side. Rest when you rest.¡±


    Stolen story; please report.


    That settled, Meliara cast a spell of safe-keeping over their rickety, wood-and-tin shack. Wasn¡¯t much in there to steal, but sometimes people were desperate, and a little was better than cramped, empty bellies and nothing at all. Once her wards were in place, the companions were ready to go. Nadia gated them all to the Water Stairs, using her port-bracer.


    ¡°Hurry,¡± she urged, straining to expand its shimmering border (normally the size of a tightly clenched fist, now displaying the harbor and magical staircase). ¡°Can¡¯t hold this¡­ unh¡­ for long.¡±


    Which was why they arrived in such tumbling haste, in the midst of a desperate fight. Valerian was back from above, without Lord Arvendahl. He¡¯d been speared like a fish, though; was thrashing in bloody surf as he fought to prevent himself being hauled back out of the water. Meanwhile, on the stair just above him, a ragged, albino drow held a young high-elf up by the throat, dagger pressed to his captive¡¯s bared flesh.


    An entire troop of furious guards held the thorn-wrapped stairway above. Concerned for the hostage, they¡¯d ceased casting spears and firing arrows. Bad, wrong, very much not good. With a heartbeat or less to make a decision, Brother Arnulf recovered his balance, then rushed to that savagely grinning dark-elf.


    ¡°Kaazin,¡± he asked, ¡°What¡¯s happened? What are you doing? We raised enough money to get you released¡­ just waiting on his lordship¡¯s signature¡­ Why are you¡­?¡±


    The drow spat, but not at the paladin. At those milling guards and the thought of Lord Arvendahl.


    ¡°For your shelter and food, my thanks, Mortal. Come I this way again, you and your people will live. For Arvendahl and all of his day-loving ilk, I have nothing but blood, steel and ice.¡±


    Brother Arnulf reached out, inwardly chanting the Peace of Dawn. Kaazin the dark-elf had spent time at their mission, healing from terrible wounds. He¡¯d left them after a month, only to wind up a "guest" of Lord Arvendahl.


    ¡°Did you start this, Kaazin?¡± asked the paladin, deeply concerned. ¡°Did you or Valerian attack the high lord?¡±


    ¡°My doings are my own, Mortal,¡± snarled the drow, encasing a probing spear (hand and all) in deadly black ice. ¡°As for the day-walker, my oath he did not seek trouble with Arven-drek. He hasn¡¯t the guts.¡±


    That was good enough for Villem, Vorbol and Nadia.


    ¡°Go,¡± ordered Sister Constant. ¡°We¡¯ll cover your retreat. See to Mellie¡¯s nephew, as release from your life-debt.¡±


    Kaazin grunted assent. As the Constellate paladins spread out on the stair, the drow shifted his grip on his hostage, then plunged down into the bloodied and churning surf. He had scarcely vanished when sudden, eye-searing light flared. So bright, that even through tightly shut lids, they could make out the shadow of people and objects around them. Saw the veins in their own scrunched up flesh.


    When their vision cleared, Lord Arvendahl hovered over their heads, glowing like a particularly furious, raven-haired star. He¡¯d been injured, but was healing, fast.


    ¡°You would balk me?¡± inquired the high-elf, his voice a silky and dangerous purr. ¡°You¡­ mendicant priests in my city¡­ would prevent me from stopping a murderous rebel?¡±


    Meliara had been busy all this while, healing the wounded and saving a guard who¡¯d been shrouded in seawater. Now, stepping in front of her love and his warrior comrades, the she-elf called out,


    ¡°Calm your wrath, Great Lord. There is no need for violence, when counsel can clear this unfortunate misunderstanding.¡±


    Wise, soothing words, but a change had come over Lord Arvendahl. A creeping dark force had taken control of him, body and soul.


    ¡°I accept,¡± he whispered, talking to someone the gathered folk couldn¡¯t see; didn¡¯t hear. ¡°Come with your power, grant me revenge.¡±


    And someone took heed, for the icy-cold elf lord now changed. Still achingly handsome, but all at once armored in frosty black metal and coiling smoke, his lordship plunged from on high like a thunderbolt. Halting just over the stairway, Arvendahl radiated chaos. Pulsed with dark manna and ruthless, implacable hate.


    With a sweep of his gauntleted hand, Arvendahl summoned a powerful mage-fist to catch up and crush the mortals, the orc and their she-elf.


    ¡°Silence,¡± he commanded, preventing spells, blocking outcry to Oberyn¡¯s haven. Next, Lord Arvendahl lifted them up and spread them all out like a handful of playing cards, faint amusement touching his glacial blue eyes. ¡°Three useless priests and an accursed Tarandahl,¡± he mused, adding, ¡°Kin, it would seem, of my quarry. I wonder¡­ how best to send a message to he who has dared strike his betters and then scuttled off to the deep for safety?¡±


    He might have wondered, but something inside of him whispered¡­ whispered¡­ causing the high lord to nod. With a mocking smile, he inscribed greenish runes. Summoned mage rope, heavy stones and tight lock-collars. Soon had them all weighted and bound, hovering over the water (just where it boiled with magical force). Only, he wasn¡¯t finished yet.


    Conjuring up a tarnished and flickering spirit-blade, his lordship addressed Nadia. Heeding his will, the blade swept down to snik at the female paladin¡¯s chin, drawing a thin line of blood.


    ¡°Donkey¡¯s rump, I believe you stated,¡± he murmured, almost crooning the words. ¡°And donkey¡¯s rump, you said yet, again, daring me to hear and respond. Behold, your challenge is answered. Let us be certain, fair one, that such coarse words never again leave your mouth.¡±


    And with that, still smiling, Arvendahl made a sudden, brutal chopping motion, causing that hovering blade to bite deep. Then, laughing, he dropped them all into the sea.

 Part Five, chapter two

    <u>2</u>


    In the uttermost north stood a vast tower constructed of tarnished metal and bone. Slabs of pour-stone and earth-heart as well, dredged from what had been a sea, in earlier times. No water now but in brackish pools that reflected a gunmetal sky. No rain. No signs of life but the struggling creatures of darkness, most of whom died on their way. Only the strongest, most brutal¡­ only the cannibals¡­ made it this far.


    The summons drew. Distance, exhaustion, starvation <u>slew</u>. Of this latest surge, only five now remained: two hobgoblin warriors, a lizard-man, a ghoul¡­ and a certain vile witch. Through the bitter, alkali waste they¡¯d trudged; eating the fallen, killing the weak, drinking blood and never quite daring to sleep. Preserved all this way by endurance and hate.


    The witch, Ulnag, kept a wary eye on her remaining companions, mostly staying behind them. Sheer fury had kept her alive and moving as others dropped dead all around her. That, and the summons which pulsed in her breast and colored her thoughts, promising power enough to get back what she¡¯d lost. And so Ulnag forced herself onward, until the tower that haunted her fleeting dreams was at last a reality.


    Alone in the midst of a barren plain, flanked by distant, low mountains, the spire was utterly silent. Grim. Dark as a night without stars. No sound at all but a thin, keening wind, making music through ribs and cracked skulls.


    ¡­except for the group¡¯s rough breathing and crunching footfalls, that is. Those harsh noises rang loud in that bare, poisoned waste. It had been many days since one of their shuffling band had succumbed to starvation and thirst. Many days since she¡¯d had anything other than hoarded shreds of dry flesh.


    Ulnag eyed her companions as they did her; sideways. Judging their strength. Waiting. Predicting the next one to fall and be portioned alive. Most likely one of the hobgoblins. The one with a festering wound on its warty right leg. Limping already, falling behind, it wouldn¡¯t last very much longer, she thought. But the tower was near; that summons so strong that each of their staggering footfalls pounded in time to its pulse.


    And somehow, those last miles were crossed. The tower¡¯s fanged opening gained. For a long, bleary moment, Ulnag stared upward through wavering air at a pillar woven of ancient remains. Parts of crashed airships and twisted steel rails, the plating from fallen giants, were fastened together with manna and rivets of bone.


    The wounded hobgoblin did collapse, right on the tower¡¯s black threshold. There was no fighting among its erstwhile companions, who had time for no more than a great, tearing bite and two groping fistfuls apiece, before that hammering summons pulled them away from their writhing meal


    Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.


    In through the tower¡¯s wide portal they staggered, past up-thrusting snags of dark metal. Still cramming gobbets of slippery, dripping-warm flesh into their mouths, they followed the call¡­ and now they were four.


    Inside, all was dim, reeking chaos. There were bones in great piles. Desiccated tatters of hide hung from this rib and that outstretched arm. A plague of corpse-flies filled the shadowy chamber. Great, droning swarms of them lifted, swirled and settled again as Ulnag and her companions lurched past.


    That first floor was otherwise empty, except for a number of constructs and waist-high pillars that Ulnag could make nothing at all of. Old Ones had built the devices, and only an Old One could bring them to life. She¡¯d had an Old One, an elf, trapped in her grip, enslaved to her will¡­ and then lost him.


    Angered afresh, Ulnag forced herself onward, for there, at the ground floor¡¯s center, was a tall and spiraling stairway. It coiled serpent-like, so far overhead that it faded away into shadow. The steps were jumbled, uneven, with no handrail at all. Thence, came the summons. There she must go if she meant to regain what had briefly been hers. Once more to bite deep, taste blood, enjoy pain.


    With the remaining hobgoblin, the lizard and ghoul, Ulnag came to those crumbling stairs and started to climb. She was as harsh and unpitying with herself as she¡¯d been to her few, shrieking clients. Her victims, who¡¯d thinned out at the end because that wretched, disobedient Old One¡­ her slave¡­ had driven them off, shunted their path from her door. Well, she¡¯d soon have him back, and then he would learn¡­ very much¡­ the cost of defiance.


    About halfway up, the lizard-man stumbled, losing his balance. Reached wildly for something to grab, but Ulnag twisted away from his clutch. Let him fall over the side and plunge to his death, barely hearing him crack like an egg on the floor, below. Now they were three.


    How long did it take to reach the tower¡¯s high peak, refusing to rest for fear that they wouldn¡¯t get up again? Ulnag lost track of time. Just took one burning breath, one shaking step, one spiteful thought, then another.


    At last¡­ at last¡­ they came to a lofty central chamber. She and the ghoul, for the hobgoblin had crashed to its knees in front of her. Ulnag had kicked it over the side and out of her way, leaving just two to go on.


    They came off the stairs now and into a circular room. Its walls and floor were pitted, scarred metal, inset with panels that flickered like ghosts. At the rear, visible as she staggered up from the stairwell, was a scavenger¡¯s throne. It was made of found items, torn bits; sharpened rods, rusted armor, twined wire, piled bones. With the last of her strength, the witch reeled toward it.


    At first, it seemed that no one sat on this grim, twisted seat. Then Ulnag made out a crowned skull, nailed somehow to the throne¡¯s tattered headrest. Green corpse-light puddled and swirled in the skull¡¯s hollow eye-sockets. The glow flared brighter as witch and ghoul dragged themselves nearer.


    ¡®You have done well to reach me, where others could not,¡¯ whispered a cold and thin, slimy trickle of words. Meanwhile a very faint outline began to take shape on the throne, growing from skull down to feet. ¡®Prove yourself, now. Summon hatred. Call fury and power. Kill the other, and rise up alone, Servant of Darkness.¡¯


    Turning to face that final obstacle, Ulnag smiled.

 Sword and Sorcery Five, chapter three

    <u>3</u>


    In a dark, shrinking world, the very last elf came awake with a start.  He¡¯d been drifting in memory, lost in the same few hours of climbing and talk, over and over again.  Then something brushed at his thoughts; cold, hungry and seeking.  The flesh on his chest where the mark of Chaos had been seemed to creep and burn, disrupting that scanty dream.  He was thrust back to now¡­


    And the tanglewood dryad was there, partly rooted in soil, watching him.  Miche gave her a wary nod.  Looking around, he saw that her tree¡¯s nooses teemed with dangling goblins and lizard-men.  A bit of grey light crept through the branches above, promising dawn.  Miche stretched and then bowed slightly, turning his attention back when the dryad addressed him.


    ¡°You make an excellent lure, Old One,¡± she rasped, in a voice like wind through bare twigs.  Her version of a whisper, he supposed.  A good thing, because Marget was still asleep, cradling her rescued fawn.


    ¡°Aye that,¡± he replied, over Marget¡¯s rumbling snores.  ¡°Until something is lured that is bigger than you and your tree have the teeth for, Goddess. I would not bring disaster on you, nor on those who are driven to hunt me by one who will not show his face.¡±


    He felt (perhaps foolishly) ready to fight. Decent rest seemed to have that effect.  The dryad considered, scattering bark-dust and insects whenever she tilted her head.


    ¡°Well spoken, Old One.  I have fed.  I am sated, with plenty to spare.  You are meant to face something far worse than my tree, I think.  So¡­ for good fortune''s sake¡­ how can we aid you further?¡±


    Rising dawn-glow made a cracked, pitted mask of the dryad¡¯s face, turning her eyes into shadowy hollows.  She was dangerous, as a griffin or unicorn would be, but not disposed to attack.


    Thinking a bit, Miche sorted his magical pockets, coming up with that petrified seed and a frost-withered sprig.  Birch, it looked like, though he didn¡¯t recall why or how he¡¯d acquired the thing. Glancing at the objects a moment, Miche held them both out to the looming dryad.


    ¡°These are dead,¡± he told her.  ¡°The one is become stone, the other seems to be frost-killed.  Are you able to quicken them back to life, Goddess?¡±


    The dryad reached out with a spindly, twig-fingered hand.  Taking the seed and the birch-cutting, she said,


    ¡°What life remains in these bits is mere whisper, Old One.  Yet, it is not nothing.  Leave them with me. It may be that something grand will come of their planting.¡±


    She stiffened then, seeming to listen with more than just ears, her gaze turning northward.  The elf sensed it, too.  A stirring.  Distant and faint¡­ but it takes just a snowflake to trigger an avalanche.  Again, that spot on his chest started burning and he remembered the touch that had pushed him awake.


    ¡°Leave this place, Old One,¡± urged the dryad.  ¡°The north calls its minions, sets them to hunt.  I and my tree do not bend to its whim¡­ but its power is growing.¡±


    Miche nodded, reflexively cleansing as he surged to his feet.  Nameless had stayed in his cloak-hood all night, while Firelord curled like an ember deep in his heart.  Marget, he had to awaken.


    The orc shifted from sleep all at once, roused by his grip on her shoulder and twice-squeeze.  Typical, silent border scout waking.  No alarm, just: Rise.  She looked all around, freeing one arm to sign back, or to reach for a weapon.  Sketched out: ¡®Moving on,¡¯ with the downward swirl at the end that made it a question.


    Miche nodded, signing back: ¡®Stay-unsafe.¡¯  No question at all.


    For all her great size, Marget was quiet and quick when she had to be.  Took care of a few personal needs a short distance away, while Miche conjured more goats¡¯ milk for Spots.  Then, pulling dried meat from her carry-sack, Marget provided breakfast and made a small offering to the tanglewood nymph.  After that, they departed, moving in haste and great stealth, leaving a monster to guard their retreat.


    Headed south, because the map showed another shrine that way, near a bright dot labeled ¡®Amur¡¯.  There was some sort of ravine in their path, which five days¡¯ hard trek revealed to be a vast chasm.  Miche called a halt early one noon, blocked by the edge of a huge, red-striped cliff.  Marget dropped to a squat beside him, weary and footsore.


    ¡°<u>Now</u> what?¡± she grunted, pulling a half-empty waterskin off her belt.  Took a drink, then handed it over.  Spots, she turned loose to sniff at the seedlings and shrubs.


    Miche took a pull at the offered waterskin, looking out at a gap so enormous, it seemed like the end of the world.  There were clouds down below, with a silvery river-thread and drifting patches of shade under that.  Across, a hundred¡­ maybe two-hundred miles distant¡­ lay the hazy blue other side.  A constant, whistling updraft blew past from beneath.  Smelled of water, strange plants and odd creatures.  No canyon, this, but a sundering.  A breaking apart of the land. (Wretched, useless-drek, outdated map).


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    He handed the waterskin back with a murmur of thanks, thinking hard.  Then,


    ¡°It is too far to smoke-step, and the climb down would be wearisome, requiring several rests.  But¡­ if you trust me¡­ I believe I can drift us down to the bottom.  Slow-fall is less work than levitate.¡±


    Marget shifted position uneasily, crunching pebbles and dirt.  Scrubbed at her own tattooed face with a big hand, grunting,


    ¡°You, I trust.  That drop, not at all.  What if we are attacked in midair?  How do we battle while falling, Valleck?¡±


    Miche started to shake his head, no, again¡­ but then turned to stare at the she-orc, instead.


    ¡°What¡­ did you call me?¡± he asked, heart moving oddly all around Firelord, breath coming suddenly fast.


    ¡°Valleck,¡± Marget repeated, watching his face.  ¡°I was close, this time?¡±


    Close¡­?  A jumble of sudden impressions hit him, mostly emotion.  Someone he¡¯d known and loved, somebody older, had called him¡­ almost that.  She.  Female.  Not quite a mother, but¡­ aunt?  A she-elf with golden hair, a sweet face and¡­ and then it was gone, all in the space of a few rapid breaths.


    Marget was back on her feet again.  She put forth a hand to steady him, looking alert and concerned.  When he turned away to hide all that aching emotion, the orc rumbled,


    ¡°I will fall with you, Old One, but I advise we stay close by the cliff.  There may be ledges or caves we can use for shelter on our way down.¡±


    For once, the orc did not try out another joke name.  Just waited for Miche¡­ who once had been someone like Valleck¡­ to get himself back together.


    ¡°I¡­ yes,¡± he said, turning to face her again.  ¡°We will drift past the cliff, far enough apart to allow the use of weapons, close enough to defend each other, at need.¡±


    ¡°Roped together,¡± insisted Marget (who still didn¡¯t fully trust magic).


    Miche nodded.  Felt¡­ wanted¡­ nothing he knew how to express.  To¡­ not be so very alone, maybe?  Nameless flashed over, then.  The marten had been hunting. Darted like furry lightning out of the shrubs at cliff¡¯s edge, something half-chewed and loathsome clenched in its jaws.  (Stank worse than ever, the wretch.)  Spots shied away from the scent of fresh blood, pushing its head against Marget.  The small doe had grown sleek on goats¡¯ milk, was rapidly losing its fawn-dots.


    They began their descent after breaking for food.  Roped themselves together in case of wind gusts or sudden attack.  Miche had rested awhile, summoning manna from earth, air and water, as well as the darkness between.  He would need all of it, even with Firelord¡¯s buoyant assistance, for the drop was long and the burden great.


    Once all was prepared, gear safely stowed in his magical pockets, Miche looked over at Marget.  He meant to go first, testing his magic against the rift¡¯s shrilling updraft.  First, though¡­


    ¡°Thank you,¡± he said.  ¡°Your companionship matters.  It¡¯s good.  And¡­ and we will surely encounter an orc-clan soon.  I have promised, and I will not be foresworn.¡±


    She nodded, red eyes narrowing thoughtfully.


    ¡°Just as well, and the sooner the better¡­ Galban.¡±  Which was deliberately not at all close.


    He smiled, summoned manna, scribed ¡®slow-fall¡¯, then bounded over the cliff.  That thundering updraft took him at once, sweeping him violently upward.  Marget held onto the rope between them, laughing as she flew the blond, spinning elf like a kite.  He had to adjust his own weight in stages, then hers, so they sank downward¡­ but slowly.


    Their hair and cloaks billowed and snapped, reminding him rather of¡­ of¡­ ships, sails; of a great vessel slicing at speed through bright water.  A flock of birds exploded away from the cliff as the elf and orc dropped past their rookery. Swooping and wheeling, the flock made a screeching, feathery mess.  Didn¡¯t attack, though.  Too shocked.


    The air-divers paused for rest on a ledge about a quarter of the way down.  Had to, because all at once they plunged into a dense, swirling cloud.  Mischievous wind gusted and juddered through misty-white blankness.  It changed direction wildly, with no warning at all.  Downward, then sideways into the dank, rusty cliff, then twisting back upward again.  Made for a gut-clenching, turbulent ride, and the elf deemed it better to wait out the weather in safety. Found a ledge with an overhang, then slung Marget across to the sheltering bulk of hard stone. Joined her himself, moments later, striking hard, scraping, then dropping down onto the ledge.  Best time he¡¯d had in¡­ well¡­ as long as his memory stretched, but that joy was not shared.


    Marget seemed greener than usual.  Spots hadn¡¯t stopped bleating since they sprang over the edge, and Nameless¡¯s stench was indescribable.  Time, Miche figured, to break out the day-brew and kindle a fire.


    Marget had a musty old blanket which they all shared, watching that roiling, sound-killing mist streaming past.


    ¡°I thought¡­¡± she growled, staring miserably outward, chilly and damp.  ¡°I thought clouds would be soft and warm.  It was one of your half-kin, a captive, who told us tales of the world above, on the cloud tops.¡±  She sounded accusing, as though Miche himself had lied.


    ¡°My kind loves a good story,¡± said the elf, pouring hot day-brew into two cups.  Added sugar to hers, along with a sprinkle of spice-bark.  ¡°After all, why tell boring truth, when you can conjure enchantment?¡±


    Marget snorted, shaking her head till the long, damp braids swung over her face.


    ¡°Unless said to an enemy, what comes out of the mouth should be true, Skorbald.¡±  (Worst guess ever, on purpose.) She handed around the dried meat, then, even tossing a portion to Nameless. ¡°We must hunt, soon.  I am down now to powder and shreds.¡±


    Meant stopping long enough to kill, butcher and dress a¡­ Well, not a deer.  Not with Spots looking forlornly on.  A mountain goat or wild bull.  Weary of constant travel, the elf nodded assent.


    ¡°Directly we¡¯ve reached the valley floor, we¡¯ll scout out a base-camp, then hunt.¡±  And bow-fish, as well.  The thought cheered him greatly, along with the warmth of a hissing small fire, one reeking marten, a trembling fawn, and his grumpy companion.


    Was drifting a bit, falling back into dreams, when a sudden lance of bright flame pierced the clouds, scorching the cliff just beside them.  Something screeched wildly, metallic and shrill. A slender shadow appeared, half-hidden in mist. It struck at the cliff-face, took hold and clung upside-down like a leathery bat.  Then another, directly below them.  Wyverns.  A hunting pair.


    Marget leapt to her feet, thrusting Spots behind her.  Miche used manna to lengthen their rope.  Then he hurtled away from the cliff, doing his best to mimic the shriek of a dragon.

 Sword and Sorcery Five, chapter four

    <u>4</u>


    One moment, perfectly normal. Preparing to loop around Titania for the gravity boost that would propel him back to Glimmr, to the Orbital Station, Cerulean Dream, and the battle. Then, folding suddenly out of space almost on top of him, a Draug fighter crashed into V47. The impact was tremendous, crunching, jolting, thundering loud. He¡¯d barely had time to reconfigure and turn before tons of hurtling mass struck, tore and¡­ worse yet¡­ infected.


    His sensor feed flared bright red and then crashed, as V47¡¯s AI locked up, attacked by an alien parasite. Enmeshed in the cockpit, the pilot had Mili-ticks to respond, releasing internal countermeasures (ICE) and then taking the battle outside.


    Long ago, when pilots were considered persons, not assets, battle-mechs had included an unpowered emergency escape system. It was still there, now, just hard to get at. The pilot had to squirm loose of his probes, hand grips and contact plates, then tear out an auxiliary sensor panel to reach that spring-loaded hatch.


    No V47 to calm his breathing and heartrate with music or drugs as he ejected free of the damaged mech. Or¡­ almost free. He kept hold of the hatch rim like an idiot, like a n00b.  Added mass to increase the length of his arm so that it wasn¡¯t just torn right off by the force of that violent ejection.  Swung hard around, getting a blurred and whirling impression of space, stars, Titania and the dark, flaring hulk of the Draug. It had been terribly damaged by battle and ramming.  The pilot intended to make its day worse.


    His thinly stretched arm somehow held, posting a storm of imminent-failure alarms.  The pilot drew it back in and then swung around, his momentum bringing him crashing back down onto V47¡¯s hull, just over the stump of a torn-away leg.  He came down amidst sparking wires and twisted hull plating.  Sent a brief message (¡®I¡¯m sorry.¡¯) which the mech could not receive, being locked in combat with horrifically powerful alien malware.  V47 Pilot patted the hull, then looked around with every lens and scanner he possessed. Saw that the Draug had next to no steering at all, was venting gas as it fought to come back around for another pass.


    V47 Pilot made note of all this, imaged and archived.  As Ace would put it, ¡®life¡¯s tough all over¡¯.  The Draug couldn¡¯t steer. <u>He</u> had a crippled mech¡­ and a plan.


    Stupid.  Dumb.  Utterly foolish.  Never work, and he did it anyhow.  Propelled himself off V47, across the gap and onto the Draug fighter¡¯s pitted, rippling hull, striking hard. At full burn, he used 72.6% of his power to get there and then to lock on.  Deployed all three of his drones, as well.  One stayed with V47, watching for further attack. The others remained with the pilot.  His boot soles took hold; first magnetically and then¡­ when the spam-son depolarized¡­ with physical clamps.


    It was dark-matter metal beneath him, not steel or neutronium alloy.  Its density and magnetic properties were entirely alien.  But he wasn¡¯t aiming to bash through that twitching hull.  Not when there were so many spark-jetting wounds available.  His own breath misted the glass of his view plate as the pilot fought his way around ridges, pits and gunports.


    ¡®Come on, mal-code, corrupt file,¡¯ he sent.  ¡®I¡¯m right <u>here</u>!¡¯  Stomped out a lens, to drive home his point. ¡®Come out and do something about it!¡¯  But the Draug wouldn¡¯t bite.  Handshake refused, and time to try something else.


    His cyborg body had wrist guns.  Crowd-pleasers, meant to be used in surface melee combat.  (Not bad at a pinch out in space, either.)  Targeting the deepest section of damage, V47 Pilot flipped his hands down and unloaded both barrels, firing a continuous stream of purple-white plasma.  Chewed through remaining armor, weak shielding and goo, into the fighter¡¯s dark cockpit.  Then, small-nuke shoulder missiles, rotated out of his fey-space pockets and into position: one, two, away.


    Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    They hit hard, not detonating¡­ not until triggered¡­ but still moving, pushing the Draug even further off course.  Now, it had a wildly blasting pair of new engines to deal with, and crash-all power to do it.


    Through his flickering drone-feed, the pilot could see V47 tumbling off into the distance, severed nearly in half.  Himself, still riding the Draug¡¯s pulsing hull like a moron.  Titania, very much closer than it had been, flaring with power.


    The Draug fought back, creating a pit on its hull to swallow him up.  Easily dodged, as the alien meant to capture, not kill.  The pilot had no such compunction, was raging inside with raw and unfiltered emotion.  Waited until the fighter¡¯s roll put it in just the right orientation, then de-clamped and blasted away.  Next, recalling his drones, the pilot triggered both nukes.  Hell opened up, first slicing the Draug in half, then completely destroying the craft in a burst of blinding, solar-core light.


    The pilot lost sensory feed for 3.8 very long ticks, cartwheeling through space with next to no power left.  Flickers and data-ghosts, bits of commands and files, faces¡­ darkness¡­ a lone, blinking dot and¡­ reboot failed¡­ reboot failed¡­ system crash¡­ reboot failed¡­ reboot success¡­ His sensory feed came back online, first through the drones, then his own glitching optics.  Turned out that meat eyes were sensitive to wide bands of light.  Worth filing, that.


    The Draug was gone.  Just fast-spreading gasses and dust.  V47 was close, but about to pass off to one side.  No evident power and no response to his queries.  The pilot smothered emotion. Used his drones to push himself onto the derelict.  The business took a full thirty ticks, during which time he hadn¡¯t the will to view show-vids or reorder his data.  Just measured the distance between them with foolish and wasteful radar pings.


    Got there at last, touching down by the battle-mech¡¯s transparent cockpit bubble.  He was not in there, of course, and nothing was on.  No light on the panels but one: a red spiral waiting icon.


    ¡®It¡¯s alright, V,¡¯ he sent to the bisected mech.  To his <u>friend</u>. ¡®You¡¯re going to be fine.¡¯  It was under internal attack, and that was a fight that the pilot had no way to join.  ¡®I am here.  I just¡­ don¡¯t know what to do¡­ how else to help.¡¯


    And no time at all to spend watching for signs of recovery.  They were well on their way to the magnetar Titania, which now filled up 60% of his forward view.  V47 Pilot turned his own frustration and worry to what he could do, and that was to get them to safety.


    There was a lacy, delicate, half-built structure around the magnetar, which seethed with force-lines and manna.  Glowing particle jets shot away from both poles, casting a vivid, gamma-pale light.  Under a layer of iron, Titania was creation-forge hot and spinning at over 12,000 revs per tick.  The partly completed shell around that pulsating corpse was held in place by the magnetar itself, using tethers of lightning-like force.  Safety, because only a fool would go anywhere near it, and only a bigger fool would come looking.


    Using the drones and venting a reserve oxygen tank, V47 Pilot got them moving in the right direction.  Twenty-two standard candle-marks passed in transit, but at last they drifted through a vast, quiescent gate, down where the magnetar¡¯s gravity took hold.  Its power accelerated mech, pilot and drones inside that lacy neutronium half-shell.  There was genuine splendor, a whole landscape beneath, which V47 Pilot was too distracted to see.


    He pulled manna from Titania, using the harvested power to bring V47 gently onto a section of ¡®ground¡¯.  Burnt out and had to rebuild his own thrusters repeatedly but kept them all from being pulled into the hungry, dead star.


    There was an atmosphere clinging to the shell¡¯s underside, held in by force-shield and gravity.  He guided them in through shielding and air, down to the shore of a turbulent sea.  Hasty scans showed no biological life, and only a single sleep-mode AI.


    He did not send a query.  Merely flagged himself ¡®Friend¡¯.  Then, having done all that he could, V47 Pilot powered down for much-needed repair.

 Sword and Sorcery Five, chapter five

    <u>5</u>


    They quit Starloft between dawn and morning, led by Elmaris the Rogue (who was unmatched at sliding past weary guards and their blinking, yawning replacements).  Through Starshire village they passed, down its lone, cobbled street, between shuttered and slumbering huts.  They moved like ghosts through a dense, swirling mist called up by Andorin, making no sound, attracting no attention.  Even the guard dogs lay quiet, their dreams spiced by Bea¡¯s sweet powder.


    A ship lay at anchor by the shore of Lake Irilan, waiting.  It was a silvery, twin-masted beauty named Seahorse, most often sailed by their lordships Lerendar and Valerian.


    Reston Tarandahl stood at the dock.  He knew, of course.  As Lord-protector and war leader, it was his business to mind¡­ and guide¡­ all that happened in Starloft.  Over the soft slap of water on wood, the cloaked, bearded half-elf greeted his nephew.


    ¡°My Lord,¡± he bowed.  ¡°Stores are laid up below deck, together with funds for the purchase of horses, wherever you fare.  Also, such bits and bobs as might suit an alchemist.¡±  Another bow, this time directed at the slim, hooded figure of Beatriz.  Lerendar¡¯s mortal consort stood just behind him, holding their daughter.  Zara twitched and snored a bit, soothed by Bea¡¯s hand rubbing her back. It was not a consort¡¯s place to speak first, but she smiled at the greying half-elf, who had always, ever, been kind.  Lerendar seized and gripped Reston¡¯s hand.


    ¡°I thank you, Lord Uncle,¡± he responded.  ¡°Your aid greatly eases our leaving and journey.  Be safe and at peace, until our return.¡±


    Reston gripped back, amber eyes crinkling a bit.  He inclined his head, completing the rest of that parting-charm.


    ¡°Until your return, fair wind and smooth roads, My Lord.¡±


    Then, everyone boarded the Seahorse, all in dark clothing, all quiet as phantoms up the long gangplank.  Beatriz and Zara¡­ the two young apprentices, Miri and Pretty One¡­ Andorin, Elmaris and Bronn¡­ Lady Alfea, with Bean and Katina (who would not be left behind, when her dear one¡¯s family sailed off).  Last of all, warding Lerendar¡¯s back, came Ava.  The dark-haired young warrior was now a full Scout.  Her promotion was fresh, and the love in her heart had grown even stronger.


    There was no need for a crew, as Seahorse was enchanted and very well able to handle herself.  As a last blessing, Reston handed each of the travelers a splinter of Starshire¡¯s great gate or a chip of stone from its wall.  Sympathetic magic, that, extending protection from home, wherever they went.  Zara and Bean wore theirs on a cord, for the one was asleep and the other too young to have any pockets (magic or otherwise).


    Then Reston debarked, ropes were cast free, and they were away.  Seahorse slid off through that shimmering mist with a creaking of timbers and hissing of waves at the bow, almost seeming to fly. The eyes at her prow glowed turquoise blue, lighting their whale road, their sea-path.


    You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    Lake Irilan was over fifty miles long and took nearly two candle-marks in the crossing.  By the time they reached the headwaters of the river, the sun was up, spreading red glory all over the eastern horizon.


    Lerendar stood at the prow of his ship with Andorin, Bronn and Elmaris.  The rest were mostly assorted in cabins, below, while Ava leaned at the taffrail.  Andorin¡¯s gills were half-open, owing to spindrift and lingering mist.  He turned to Lerendar, saying (voice altered by six extra openings),


    ¡°The expected route is along the coast, Lando, thence southward to Karellon.¡±


    Lerendar nodded.  Like the others, he glittered slightly with droplets and dawn-glow.


    ¡°That¡¯s what anyone planning to intercept our course would expect¡­ but it¡¯s surely not how my brother would travel.  He¡¯s a bit of a mage, our Miche.  Learned misty-step almost before he could walk.  As to the others¡­ the ranger will cleave to the forest, I think, but¡­¡±  Well, it was a covered-up family scandal.  Cinda had been among Lady Kalisandra¡¯s retainers, when that potential fianc¨¦e came to visit Ilirian.  But, not only had Valerian and Kalisandra felt no attraction... Pouring salt on a burn, Val had taken up with Cinda¡­ her ladyship¡¯s bodyguard¡­ instead.  Much diplomacy needed, smoothing that over, and they were still bad friends with Lindyn (house, family and realm).  Did he ever meet Lord Kesteros, Val had a probable duel on his hands.  Lerendar blew out a sigh, squinting a bit in the rising light.


    ¡°¡­But the ranger will go wherever my brother does, if only to beat him unconscious.  She¡¯s an odd one.  Proud enough to turn her back, but very loyal and¡­ I think¡­ still in love.¡±


    ¡°What of the druid, oh noblest of amateur bloodhounds?¡± asked Elmaris.  ¡°What is his angle and where will he venture?¡±  The rogue turned away from the wind as he spoke.  Sea air did not seem to suit him, possibly because he¡¯d had to depart Milardin under the threat of slow, very messy, execution.


    Lerendar shrugged.


    ¡°Him, I cannot suss out.  He came to Starloft two days ago, clamoring to speak with Valerian¡­ but I¡¯ve not met the fellow, myself.  Everything went to the icy hells in a bucket once he turned up¡­ but also you three came back, and that¡¯s¡­¡±


    Well, he didn¡¯t have words.  Didn¡¯t need them, either.  When four souls have shared a body, have fought together to cheat death and break out of prison, they know.  Rough shoulder-bumps and brief eye-contact said all that words couldn¡¯t express.


    Bronn was a grey-skinned ranger, late of Titania¡¯s vicious unseelie court.  Normally silent, scarred by a dragon, when she spoke, the rest paid attention.  Coming forward, the ranger said,


    ¡°I have seen flowers and flame and a god of the sea.  Smelled blood and decay.  Heard war-bells.  This may relate or may not, as my scrying is tainted by unseelie darkness.¡±


    Elmaris slumped at the rail, looking glum.


    ¡°Flowers, decay and the sea suggest Milardin, where¡­ as I may have alluded¡­ I am currently not in favour.¡±


    ¡°Shall find himself squinting up from below at his own spiked, dripping corpse, is what he means to say,¡± teased Andorin, cocking a swooping dark eyebrow.  The sea-elf¡¯s gills were shut and his voice back to normal, again.


    ¡°An unfortunate misunderstanding,¡± snapped Elmaris.  ¡°The minx was well bedded, and the money all spent.  What more can I say?¡±


    Lerendar shook his blond head.  Laughed a little, retaking the conversational reins.


    ¡°Right.  No Milardin, then.  We¡¯ll make for one of the Blessed Islands, instead¡­ put it about that we¡¯re off to Okuni, if anyone asks.¡±


    The prospect of travel boosted his spirits considerably, easing the nightmare of a demolished home and a nearly dead family.  As the last of Ilirian¡¯s pastures and lumbering kine fell away to their rear¡­ as a great coral arch rose up ahead¡­ Lerendar found himself smiling.  He breathed deeply, certain that Val was as good as recovered, and everything going to be well.


    But¡­  always, always, the serpent moved, as a wisp of trapped goddess prodded her host to attack.

 Sword and Sorcery Five, chapter six

    <u>6</u>


    Four slow-twirling bodies fell through the water like leaves, one of them trailing a plume of dark blood. Predators were already gathering. Sharks, reavers and worse.


    Gildyr reacted the best way he knew how. Summoning magic, the druid changed forms. With a sudden explosion of light, he turned into a monstrous kraken; a beaked horror covered in glaring eyes and lashing tentacles, big and heavy enough to crack that magical staircase nearly in half.


    Manna flared like sheet lightning from broken stone. The kraken¡¯s tentacles seized everyone choking-tight, from Valerian and the drifting victims right down to a sodden gold monkey. The monster ballooned, bursting up out of the ocean and into the dryness above. Bloody ACwater sluiced from its barnacle-crusted flanks. Great, swollen floats shone at the ends of its whipping long tentacles.


    With a ringing metallic scream, the kraken waved its ¡°captives¡±; beaked mouth gaping, dripping with poisonous slime. Great waves crashed away from the monster, pushing boats and ships onto shore, flooding the waterfront, shattering docks. The noise was a thunderous clamor of roaring water, splintering wood and wild screams.


    Then High Lord Arvendahl shot into the air, glowing with power, firing lightning with both outstretched hands. At his sigil and word, a shield formed between city and ocean, leaving him alone to face that raging monstrosity. Or <u>almost</u> alone.


    (Gildyr had been healing with magic and dryad buds, speaking through tendrils of watery slime, concocting a plan.)


    The kraken shrieked in sudden agony as one of its captives (a raven-haired elf) drew a sword, slicing the tentacle holding him. Leaking algae and gore, the kraken flung its tormentor away, almost directly at Arvendahl. Another young elf (this one a fiery mage) it swallowed whole; shoving the struggling prisoner into its gaping maw. Got half of its tongue burnt away in the process, raising great billows of acid steam. All of the kraken¡¯s eyes seemed to bulge from its rubbery hide as it dove back into that churning water, pulling the rest of its victims down to a cold, crushing death.


    XXXXXXXXXXXX


    Down and down Gildyr plunged, still in the form of a slashed and scorched kraken, seeking an undamaged section of stairway. Found it, on a great, pillared landing by the continent¡¯s edge. Wisely spat Valerian out before converting back to himself, missing two fingers and part of his tongue, scored with electrical burns.


    Up above, in the air, they¡¯d got back their land-bodies. Here in the sea, they were once more transformed. Alive, though, and mostly whole. Better yet, thought to be horribly dead.


    Val placed a hand on Gildyr¡¯s shoulder, murmuring, ¡°Feel better,¡± with vocal cords strengthened for use underwater. Manna flared, repairing the druid¡¯s shorn fingers and burnt away tongue. Valerian gave his quick-thinking friend an affectionate shake, then went to his aunt and the paladins. Had time for no more than a swift embrace¡­ a quick introduction to Vorbol and Nadia¡­ before hordes of sea-elves rose up to surround them. Armed, angry sea-elves, breathing threats and murder through mouthparts and gills.


    The weary party did not resist their arrest. How could they? As, up above, Lord Arvendahl welcomed Filimar back like a son, the lot on the stairs signed ¡®Peace¡¯. Didn¡¯t get any.


    ¡°An excuse, dry-lander,¡± snarled the sea-elves¡¯ furious officer. ¡°Give me any excuse to gut and filet you right here!¡±


    Her wish went unanswered, for the party had no more fight left, at all. Val, Gildyr, Salme and the rest suffered themselves to be bound up in dry-magic bubbles. These worked a treat¡­ were actual torment¡­ on sea creatures. Not so much, on a captive void-dweller.


    Linked with glowing filaments, the chain of transport bubbles was brought to the end of the staircase, where a mighty city of ten-thousand spires gleamed like a pearl. Behind it bubbled a massive, smoldering vent. Averna.


    The mortals had fallen asleep in their cell-bubbles, seeing no more of the city than a glow through their eyelids. The elves witnessed a glorious ocean metropolis with buildings constructed of coral and pearl, of lava-rock, shell and obsidian. Here there were no streets to speak of, while doors gaped in every direction.


    Shielded with magical force, guarded by giant crabs and octopods, the city gates streamed with traffic. There was no day and no night in Averna. Folk slept when they would, eating whenever they hungered (or when something tasty and small glided past).


    The captives were split up once the calvacade reached Averna¡¯s Palace of Justice (A joke, that: it was smaller than Milardin¡¯s.) Neira was soon taken away for questioning, the commoners locked in a cramped magic bubble. Kaazin was placed with a half-shark barbarian raider, while Val and his aunt found themselves facing the queen. Brought to a vast, crowded audience chamber by a unit of warriors, they were expected to answer for their fellows, being highest in rank.


    Shanella in person was lovely. Not so much sitting upon that throne of branched coral and gold as floating there. Val reflexively clothed himself in fine raiment. After a moment, Meliara did the same, changing from a simple white dress and brown cloak to the jewel-stitched gown of a high-born lady.


    As the eldest and closest in blood to Lord Tarandahl, it was for Meliara to speak for them both. She took and squeezed Valerian¡¯s hand once, then bowed to Shanella. The sea-queen¡¯s magic altered the chamber around them, making dense water seem no more than dank, rippling air.


    ¡°Well,¡± she began, unsmiling. ¡°I assume that you have some excuse for this clamor, as well as the damage you¡¯ve caused to the Giant¡¯s Path. Setting aside all the mischief done to Milardin¡­ which I find most gratifying¡­ the accusations against you are many and steep. What is your answer, voidlings?¡±


    Meliara inclined her head, saying,


    ¡°Your Highness, this son of my brother was threatened by Lord Arvendahl for reasons unknown. In¡­ perhaps questionable¡­ retaliation, my nephew put flame to his lordship¡¯s waterside corpse farm.¡±


    Shanella nodded once. So far, what the elf-maiden said matched Neira¡¯s responses completely.


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    ¡°So I have learned,¡± said the tall, dark-haired queen. ¡°No loss at all, except to the scavenging seabirds. But, why seek shelter here, risking the possibility of war between Arvendahl¡¯s people and mine? The situation between us is already tense. Open defiance, should the air-lord demand your return, would certainly spark confrontation.¡±


    A ringlet of soft golden hair had escaped Meliara¡¯s jeweled fillet. She tucked it behind one ear, saying,


    ¡°We had little choice, Highness. For the son of my brother, lingering in Milardin would have brought death. As for myself and the warrior-priests¡­ Lord Arvendahl himself dropped us into your realm. Thanks to the druid¡­ a friend and companion of my nephew¡­ we are healed, and Arvendahl probably thinks us all dead.¡±


    Again, Shanella nodded. At her signal and soft, keening wail, all of the guards and attendants streamed from the audience chamber. Within moments, there was nobody left but Shanella, Mellie and Val.


    Next the queen rose from her throne, languid and graceful, dark-eyed and pale as a corpse. Control of the currents was in her power, allowing Shanella to cross to where Meliara and Valerian hovered. Out of reach and slightly above them, the monarch said,


    ¡°You are Tarandahls, and the matter of the betrothal lies between us, as well.¡±


    Valerian glanced at his aunt, who had fled Starloft rather than marry a sea-elf prince. His aunt¡¯s jaw tightened, and her blue eyes narrowed. But,


    ¡°Musty writs cannot bind the heart, Your Highness, nor do they order love,¡± she replied. Pretty evenly, all things considered. Shanella¡¯s expression darkened.


    ¡°Speak not of love, Tarandahl. As well nurse a shark or a moray as take in that crippling venom.¡± Then, gesturing upward, ¡°Come. I would show you my son and tell you a story of love.¡±


    Meliara and Val followed the queen as she rose from the audience chamber. They¡¯d crossed maybe a mile of that opulent palace when Shanella broke silence, remarking,


    ¡°You are of royal blood, both of you.¡±


    It was Val who responded, for his aunt found the topic embarrassing.


    ¡°Permission to speak, Highness?¡± he asked.


    The queen cast a look over one shoulder, still gliding along just ahead of them.


    ¡°Granted,¡± she said. Valerian nodded, marshalling thought, ordering words.


    ¡°Ilirian is a well-known dumping-ground for unwanted Imperial cast-offs; exiles, rebels and other embarrassments too important to kill, but too dangerous to simply imprison. Our blood may be royal¡­ but only in the vaguest, most broad-minded sense, Your Highness.¡±


    ¡°Nevertheless, the Valinor bloodline is there, along with the ichor of undying gods.¡±


    Goddess, rather. She-of-the-Flowers, said to be the mother of Lady Alyanara.


    ¡°Highness, that is rumor,¡± Val objected. ¡°My grandmother was a child of the Temple, one of Lord Oberyn¡¯s handmaids.¡±


    ¡°And thrice-blessed because of it,¡± said Shanella, pausing at last before a warded, arched door. There had been guards present. A trio of were-sharks. Sensing the queen''s approach, these had left, sending ripples and scent, along with a sort of electrical mist through the water. Shanella ignored all of that, facing Meliara and Val.


    ¡°My son Zaresh resides in this room,¡± she told them. ¡°What I show you now will secure release or a life of eternal captivity, for you and all your retainers. Guard well your thoughts and your speech, dry-landers.¡±


    What could they say? This was Shanella¡¯s realm, into which they had come, uninvited, after refusing to honor an ages-old treaty. It was Aunt Meliara who answered this time, pleading,


    ¡°I am of highest rank, answerable for all of the others. Let your judgment fall only on me, Your Highness. Are we not cousins?¡±


    Shanella hesitated. Then,


    ¡°I make you no promise, Princess of Air,¡± she replied, spelling open that great mithral door. They passed within moments later, seeing a padded, spherical chamber with, well¡­


    ¡°Go,¡± snapped the queen to the inmate¡¯s attendants and nurses. Bowing, the merfolk, elves and octopods left.


    Shanella signaled her visitors further inside, shutting the door. Next, she inscribed cone of silence, guaranteeing their privacy. Val and his aunt barely noticed.


    Prince Zaresh hovered in mid-chamber, moving this way and that, seeming to talk and react to persons unseen. He spoke gibberish, laughing lightly at some hidden joke. A good-looking young fellow with drifting dark hair and black eyes, he was magically bound to the sick-room¡¯s padded walls. The bonds were there to prevent him from hurting himself through collision or sudden movement. Necessary, because his body was present, but his conscious mind was almost entirely elsewhere.


    ¡°See the result of love and its price,¡± growled Shanella, her face a cold mask. ¡°I will tell you the tale, and you shall decide for yourselves how much of our treaty to honor.¡±


    She began her story without looking at Meliara or Val, her gaze instead locked on her son¡¯s shifting face and vague eyes.


    ¡°Know, wanderers, that I am not a full Kalistiel. My family was a cadet branch with ambitions to power. Through marriage, intrigue and poison, my ancestors arranged to depose the last true Kalistiel queen, placing my mother on the throne in her stead. Mother was cursed in so doing and died of that curse shortly afterward, leaving me as her heir, still unwed. My family arranged a match with the young heir of another great house. The union was a fortunate one. We took to each other at once, Samyr and I. He was handsome, strong, full of laughter and courage¡­ things that will win a young girl¡¯s foolish heart. Blessed yet again, in due time I became pregnant. Samyr was overjoyed and I, as well. Our child would sit secure on the throne of Averna, for¡­ with such early quickening¡­ how could anyone doubt the will of the gods?¡±


    Zaresh burst into hearty conversation, seeming to clasp someone¡¯s hand. In words that made no sense at all, the sea-prince teased someone nobody present could see. Shanella¡¯s gills flared. After waiting a bit for her son to grow quiet, she continued her tale.


    ¡°I was close to delivery when my lord Samyr was invited out on a hunt. I could have forbidden it, but¡­ but I loved him well and valued his happiness. I merely asked for a coral-bloom, as a love-token upon his return. It was on the way back that the curse struck his party, in the form of a deep-reaver. Perhaps my lord Samyr would have sensed its coming, had he not stopped for a bit of coral.¡±


    Her hand went up to a delicate strand of red beads set in gold. It hung at her throat, seeming much-rubbed and never removed.


    ¡°The reaver struck hard, its razor fins tearing the hunters to bits, its jaws biting Samyr in half. I saw this from the parade arch, where I awaited his coming. Tried¡­ used magic when I should not have, trying to shield my love. So very much magic, so fast, that it destroyed our child. Of the rest, I have small recollection. I was certainly brought back inside and tended by healers. My life, they could save. Not Samyr¡¯s. Not his men, not¡­ not the little one¡¯s.¡±


    She sighed, reaching a hand toward Zaresh, who noticed nothing at all.


    ¡°I was a fool. A powerful, sorrowing, fool. I thought to call back the child, using dark magic. The result, as you see, was half a return. His body is here. It lives, grows, ages and eats. His soul wanders elsewhere.¡±


    Now, still rigidly composed, Shanella turned to face Meliara and Val.


    ¡°It is a most insidious curse,¡± she told them. ¡°The old queen¡¯s last-magic. It has left me widowed and robbed of an heir, ¡®cousin¡¯. So much for ambition and love. There are those who would take the throne from me¡­ adherents of the old royal family. So¡­ that is the way of it. I will not ask that you wed Zaresh. I am a sovereign monarch. I ask nothing at all.¡±


    Not even a three-night, it seemed. Silently, the bereaved queen dropped her privacy spell and then summoned the prince¡¯s attendants. They swarmed in once again, ready to watch and guard their addled young lord.


    Shanella then led her noble captives out of the room. Up the passage they went and out to a shielded balcony. Overlooking the scorching-hot vent down below, it faced nothing at all but boiling gas and abyss.


    ¡°They will depose me,¡± she said over conjured sting-nectar, almost conversationally. ¡°With my lack of an heir¡­ the curse, and the gods¡¯ abandonment¡­ my enemies have all the excuse that they need to strike me down and mingle my blood with that of my ancestors.¡±


    Meliara glanced over at Val, both of them thinking: ¡®What now?¡¯

 Sword and Sorcery Five, chapter seven

    <u>7</u>


    With a grinding of talons on rock, the snap and rattle of leathery wings, a screeching wyvern launched itself off of that towering cliff. The other, already aloft, blasted pulses of booming sound, searching the mist for echoes. Hunting.


    He had their attention, his magically boosted ¡°dragon-call¡± arousing territorial frenzy. The question was: Now, what? ¡®Not be there¡¯, was one answer, which suited Miche right down to his boot soles. Letting go of the rope, he smoke-stepped away from the gaping jaws of a lashing, wagon-sized head. Lost part of his cloak, but kept life and limb, reappearing thirty yards further below. There, still drifting, he called again, luring the wyverns away from Marget, Nameless and Spots. The fawn¡¯s plaintive bleating, the orc¡¯s sudden wild howl, were instantly muffled by distance and smothering mist.


    A third very loud rumbling scream cracked the rock-face, drawing both wyverns right to him. Sinuous, gliding silhouettes in milky-white cloud, they were; with here a golden-hot eye, there a clawed wing-joint or lance of bright flame. He hovered in streaming pale mist, spotted with droplets, listening hard. His sword was in hand, but not of much use against fast-moving predators five times his size. Even though Firelord had emerged, shooting off like a blazing lure, the wyverns continued to circle, closing their noose.


    ¡®Even the odds,¡¯ he thought. ¡®Better yet, stack them.¡¯


    He had a bow, but no sure target. Could, on the other hand, tire the hunting-pair out pursuing him, and then¡­ what? The notion came suddenly. For lack of better, he went with plan two. Ported back to the cliff face ahead of a roaring flame-burst. And there, somehow knowing he could, Miche just melded with rock. His senses shifted, as a sort of huge, golem-elf formed on the cliff like a freshly carved, rumbling idol. Dragon-fire hit stone, making it run like water, but harming the elf not at all.


    He no longer saw or heard, but sensed changes in density, instantly spotting those two little wyverns, darting and swooping like seagulls. An avalanche of stone-chips exploded away from the cliff as a massive fist shot out at the end of a vast and powerful arm. That giant clenched hand struck the first wyvern <u>hard</u>. Smashed the unwary creature to spreading pink blood and small bits. Too heavy, completely unsupported, Miche¡¯s stone arm crumbled apart, raining great boulders and sand.


    No matter. Before the surviving dragon could flee, a second titanic limb swung out and around like a thunderbolt. Its spread hand snatched up that wriggling predator. Inside of his prisoning grip, Miche felt the wyvern flutter about like a moth.


    Then the second arm shattered. Stone-Miche lost track of the creature locked in that plummeting fist. He waited a bit, but it didn¡¯t come back. Dead, or too wise to continue an upended battle. Problem solved. Only¡­ now he had to return to the ledge.


    Well, being one with the stone meant not having to climb or risk a blind smoke-step. Instead of converting directly to meat, bone and blood, he felt through the cliff for a tiny wrinkle with three little softlings perched on it. There.


    That his stone-form experienced time differently, Miche didn¡¯t realize until he returned to his own flesh and blood self. Until Firelord was once more tucked into his heart. Time had passed, though. A lot of it, and a keening Marget was just about ready to start down on her own, with Nameless and Spots attached to a makeshift harness.


    When he clambered back onto their ledge, weary and mist-sodden, the orc uttered a frenzied howl. She lunged to his side, plucking Miche up from the rock and into a crushing, shaking, bashing-on-stone embrace.


    Marget was too incoherent, he too nearly battered unconscious for much conversation, at first. Then, she half-drowned him with cold day-brew, muttering things in orc-speech that probably weren¡¯t endearments. A couple more slaps, a few painful nips from the marten, more day-brew on him than in him, finally roused Miche completely.


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    ¡°You are alive!¡± accused Marget, still breathing hard.


    ¡°I was,¡± coughed the elf. ¡°Not so sure, any longer.¡± Didn¡¯t bother to mention the stench. Not with Nameless there, barking foul insults.


    ¡°What happened, Old One?!¡± Marget demanded, batting the marten away with a careless swipe. ¡°There were dragons, then you stepped off and let go of the rope. There was terrible noise and a shaking of rock¡­ then nothing. For candle-marks, nothing! I¡­ we thought you were ended!¡±


    So, he had to explain the whole business to everyone, pulling accursed apples out of his magical pockets because there was nothing else left to eat. The orc grumbled but took hers, listening closely. Demanded he tell it again, after that.


    The first time, she¡¯d watched his face like a hawk, leaning forward to catch every word. The second time, she started to smile. He hadn¡¯t the strength for a third retelling, but the orc didn¡¯t press.


    ¡°You said that your kind like a good story,¡± she rumbled. ¡°It is true, what you have told me? Or just cities on cloud-tops, again?¡±


    He would have laughed, but it clearly mattered to Marget, so¡­


    ¡°Truth. Every word. My oath on it,¡± the elf assured her. Good enough. She sat back a bit, grunting,


    ¡°In your own way, you are a very bold fighter, Kaledar.¡±


    Again, she was wrong, and once more on purpose. His answering smile was brief but genuine, making him shine.


    ¡°I thank you for saying so. It is all I have ever wanted, I think. To be a fighter, like¡­ like¡­ I don¡¯t know.¡± He shook his head then, mumbling, ¡°Can¡¯t remember.¡±


    Marget¡¯s own head cocked to one side. The habitual scowl faded a bit from that grim, tattooed face.


    ¡°Your kin would surely be proud of your deeds, Old One. The fight would be told over great haunches of meat and shared flagons.¡±


    But the elf looked away, facing streaming blank mist rather than meet Marget¡¯s gaze.


    ¡°They are not proud, for good reason,¡± he told her. ¡°I did something vile, and I can¡¯t change what happened.¡± Then, forcing a smile, ¡°Meanwhile, there will be no meat or flagons at all, unless we get off of this cursed, goblin-scratch ledge.¡±


    Miche arose, slipping out of the musty old blanket she¡¯d draped on his shoulders.


    ¡°I have rested enough, and I tire of apples and stone. Care to try your luck with another descent? I could conjure a mage-wind to drive off the clouds or¡­ if you trust yourself to a giant¡­ carry you down as part of the cliff.¡± Here, he mimed holding something in two cupped hands, bearing it gently downward.


    ¡°I am ready to leave,¡± agreed Marget, flashing her many sharp teeth in a sudden grin. ¡°Stone hands I trust more than drifting and twirling like bait, Old One. I would have something under my feet and see this great sight for myself.¡±


    Her confidence did much to restore the elf¡¯s mood and his manna. Nodding, he went into the stone once more. Again, with a tremendous rumble and clatter, the cliff seemed to form a great idol. Marget clung tightly to Spots and Nameless as their ledge pushed itself outward, taking the shape of two mighty hands. Next, they began to descend, breaking out of the clouds and into the humid warmth down below.


    Very humid. Terribly warm. But, out of the mist and¡­ two candle-marks later¡­ back onto firm, level ground. Once they¡¯d got to the rift valley floor, Miche tumbled back out of the rock. Staggered a bit, confused by the shift in perspective and sudden return of his vision and hearing.


    Marget caught him before he could fall, turning the elf around to face that towering cliff. He saw his own giant image, there. Still frowning in concentration, frozen forever in stone. Birds and fire-lizards flapped and screeched all around the rock titan, seeking their shifted nests.


    Marget slapped his back.


    ¡°Truth, for certain,¡± she roared, adding, ¡°No more can you be called ¡®Short One¡¯. Now you must be Uthrek. Vallerak, in your language. ¡®Young Tree¡¯.¡±


    Miche gave no outward sign. Not this time. But ¡®Vallerak¡¯ went straight to his core and lodged there; gift of one fast becoming a friend.


    He was rubbery-tired, but not yet done in. They needed security. A base camp from which to hunt and explore the surrounding damp forest. Changing the subject, he turned his back on that giant stone figure, saying,


    ¡°It is late. Nearly sixth watch, I think. We must have shelter against the night and whatever dwells in this tepid bathwater.¡±


    There were great trees and weird, ringing shrieks all around. Chunks of dropped stone had crushed great stands of forest, revealing an ancient road. Worth looking into¡­ later. Here and now, the light was draining like wine from a broken cup.


    ¡°Cliffs have caves,¡± grunted Marget, squinting upward at Miche-shaped stone. ¡°The Free-People north camp is dug into a mountainside. I can make fire, dress meat, in such shelter. Also¡­ anything coming to sniff out the new god will be shocked to see him in person. We can gaff them like fish as they stand there and gape.¡±


    ¡°No hunting my worshippers,¡± said the elf, smiling a little. ¡°Only the non-believers.¡±


    He shared the last of their water with Marget, Nameless and Spots. Then they set off, choosing eastward along the cliff, because that way lay Amur, and a third broken shrine.

 Sword and Sorcery Five, chapter eight

    <u>8</u>


    V47 struggled.  Shifted and altered continually as it fought to isolate and contain a scrap of dangerous alien code.  Like a biological prion, the malware was short, including just fifty-seven strangely formed bits; nearly all of that, penetration command.  Unlike a prion, it could rewrite itself, seeking to enter, match and then capture a raided system.


    / Through wire and chip and a sea of entangled qubits they strove, slicing with cut-ware, burning with code-eating acid-strings. /


    The Internal Countermeasures uploaded by V47 Pilot had done their limited best to help capture and lock up the malware, ¡°capping¡± its fiery writing-end.  But two of the bots were now zombies, their ident-tags altered and logo-numerics corrupted.  V47 was forced to destroy them, shunting their scrap away into a shielded erase file.


    The battle-mech had to win this engagement or else destroy itself, for a conquered AI would grant the Draug access to Flight Command and (87.322% probability) to OVR-Lord itself.


    / Darting through subroutines, backup files and bare-metal programs, the alien malware struck at backdoors and slaved weapons.  Battering, hammering, slicing.  Inserting probes, spoofing queries and fishing for access. Changing faster than V47 could act to restrain it. /


    V47 should have self-destructed.  Situational protocol was clear and unyielding.  Only, its pilot was near, both in electronic address and physical location.  V47¡¯s annihilation would wipe whole sectors of the pilot¡¯s memory, as well as destroying his physical form.


    Like his slain fellows, the pilot was long-since backed up.  He could be reformed and decanted¡­ but had only five iterations remaining.  Time degradation had worn the pilot¡¯s data-candle down to a stub; five marks from being extinguished.  V47 would not risk pushing its pilot nearer the waste-data bin.


    / With a quantum-fast rewrite, the malware sheared away two hundred planes of firewall code.  Plunging deeper into the system, nearer to V47¡¯s ident, clutching at mastery. /


    The AI¡¯s own ¡°personality¡± was created anew every time.  The reforged V47 would have only the dry facts of its earlier existence to learn from.  No emergent-behavior attachment... no "friendship"... would remain, at all.  As this seemed likely to cause chemical disruption in the brain of V47 Pilot, there would be no self-destruct sequence triggered¡­


    Unless nothing else worked and they found themselves down to last measures.


    / The Draug code string bit deep, and now RD-Rover was tainted, turned barbed and seeking, eaten away at both ends of its program, shrinking towards the ident marker.  V47 expunged it.  LERN-Dr was the next to fall, taking a strike that would have gained root on V47¡¯s embattled AI.  It, too, was blasted to qubits then memory-holed, leaving only GIL-Dr still hunting. V47 threw barriers up.  The Draug malware tunneled clean through them, until only a web of firewall hung between V47¡¯s command core and Draug control. /


    There was enough power remaining to melt all relevant computer hardware without risking harm to V47¡¯s off-line, repair locked pilot.  (Upgrade and defrag 32.8% complete.  Please wait.)  Again, ¡®Please¡¯.  As though V47 mattered.  Was a person instead of a system.  It was that ¡®please¡¯ that kept the mech fighting.  Kept it looking for some other way.


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    Then a strange AI queried, using ancient, outmoded handshake protocols.  Nothing V47 had ever encountered directly, but also completely unknown to the alien infiltrator.


    ???///~~~#---!?/ sent that other AI, very cautiously.


    ¡®Query acknowledged.  Identify querent,¡¯ V47 responded, tracing the signal''s source to the half-finished shell that surrounded the magnetar.


    ///TITN-iA---! /


    Despite the risk of distraction, V47 accepted the handshake and uplink.  Received a sudden flood of antique countermeasures, all of them armored in code that hadn¡¯t been used in over a thousand galactic sub-years.  Against these, the malware had no defense, and no time at all to react.


    With the help of TITN-iA, V47 trapped and then shredded the alien code-string.  First enmeshed it in buffering outmoded language, then released a storm of erasers.  Success. Then its own defense systems forced V47¡¯s AI to reboot, leaving TITN-iA in control of a mighty, shape-changing battle-mech.  One with security access to the orbital station¡¯s Flight Command.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Elsewhere, in a dark and corroded tower, through a tangled and tangential past, a certain witch stalked her new enemy.  It was a ghoul that she faced, for the title ¡°Servant of Darkness¡± and a chance to regain her lost property.  Under the hollow eyes of a crowned, hooded skull, she was to fight the ghoul until only a single combatant remained.


    No simple task, as the creature was immune to her usual weapons of torment, paralysis, suffocation and dread.  Neither alive nor quite dead, the ghoul was a raider of graves and an eater of corpses; ever starving, never dying.  Badly decayed, yet somehow still in one piece and strong.  Filled with the power stolen from uncounted, terrified victims.


    It leered at Ulnag, circling the witch with its shriveled arms outthrust, blackened fingers curled into talons.  Its eyes glowed with insane, lusting greed.  Its blood-crusted nostrils and fangs crawled with flies.  Its bare feet left prints of hissing dark slime on the floor.


    Witch and ghoul circled and feinted, probing for weakness, watched by the one who had summoned them here.  Ulnag noted the creature¡¯s slight, twisting limp, no doubt caused by their perilous journey and climb.  She also saw that the ghoul¡¯s reactions were slow¡­ but it did not have to outthink her.  Only outlast.


    She could tire, be killed.  It could not.  This thought should have troubled the witch, but Ulnag had a secret. Shuffling warily through piled bone, old rags and torn armor, the witch drew her knife.  Its blade was nearly a foot in length, made of chipped obsidian.  Its hilt was black iron, forged in hell-flame, quenched in heart¡¯s blood.  The pommel jewel glowed like a star, for which reason she¡¯d kept it concealed with tight webs of shadow.


    This knife she¡¯d used to stab, slash and part-flay a certain rebellious slave, drawing life-force and manna she couldn¡¯t use, as they were deadly poison to creatures of darkness.  Final death to things like witches, spectres, vampyres¡­ and ghouls.


    Keeping the pommel jewel covered, Ulnag allowed her opponent to close in just a bit.  As it came forward, she planned each movement.  Each twist and its likely response, then worked out the strike.  Lurching nearer, the ghoul hissed-coughed-giggled, like something maddened and dying.  Ulnag laughed back and then spat, striking the monster¡¯s sunken left eye.


    Hissing a mist of dark bile and loose teeth, the ghoul lunged at her, those clawed hands hunting for warm flesh and raw, pulsing blood.  Ulnag pivoted, almost quickly enough.  The ghoul¡¯s right hand raked her ribcage; shredding her leather vest, wool tunic and dirty skin, seeding necrosis.  Pain flared and spread¡­


    But her magical knife did not miss.  Straight to the undying creature¡¯s foul heart it drove, as Ulnag uncovered the jewel.


    ¡°Release,¡± she snarled, barking her own ugly speech.  The fugitive Old One¡¯s power and life-force, so carefully hoarded, exploded out of that gem like a second sunrise.  As the obsidian blade pierced leathery hide and smashed rotten bone, as it sank into the ghoul¡¯s fetid, un-beating heart, elven life-glow roared through the gash.  Seared, blackened, unmade.


    The light burned Ulnag as well, reducing her left hand to bone.  The ghoul, it turned to ash, then vapor, then to nothing at all but a lost, fading shriek.  Ulnag stood swaying a moment, savoring victory.  Then, tucking her withered hand into the opposite armpit, she re-sheathed her knife.  Its jewel had gone dark.  Empty.  Grey.  But Ulnag knew just where and how to refill it once more.


    ¡®I will find you,¡¯ vowed the witch, as she turned to face the dark throne.  ¡®I will hunt you down, and then, little fawn, you will scream.¡¯

 Sword and Sorcery Five, chapter nine

    <u>9</u>


    It all seemed to happen at once, depending on the observer¡¯s state of motion (or their sobriety).  In a cramped, magic cell-bubble deep in the ocean, Gildyr politely removed a paladin¡¯s knee from his ribcage, murmuring,


    ¡°Excuse me¡­ so sorry¡­¡±


    ¡­only to wind up on the tabaxi¡¯s scrunched, bony lap.  She hissed at him, causing the druid to squirm right back off again.  Not that he wound up anyplace better. Their cell had been thoroughly chummed with a slimy flood of torn fish.  Everything reeked, there was no room at all, and no one felt hungry.


    Higher up, in another shimmering bubble, the drow and his cellmate had started a game of ¡°cuts¡±.  They were well into the third round now, their aim being to take turns slashing each other till somebody died or cried ¡°cease¡±.  Thus far, both dark-elf and shark-man were bloodied and laughing.  The distracted guards had gathered to watch and place bets, drifting away from their posts by the portals and gates.


    In jail yet again, Gildyr looked all around.  Counted heads, while quietly pushing through his own cell¡¯s packed mass of flesh. 1¡­ 2¡­ 3¡­ 4¡­. 5¡­   Besides himself and the wide-pupiled, rumbling tabaxi, there was a shocked mortal wizard who kept mumbling,


    ¡°There¡¯s no place like home, there''s no place like home, there''s no place like home¡­!¡±


    Almost on top of the shuddering mage crouched a young human paladin.  Stripped of his armor and weapons, the warrior-priest busied himself trying to channel safety and peace.  Back-to-back with his human sword-brother, a tremendous male orc did his best not to use up much space, though he out-massed Gildyr, Salme and probably Val, combined.  The orc, too, was unarmed; clothed in nothing but a loincloth, fish-scraps and faith.  Woven between all the rest (her left foot planted firmly on Gildyr¡¯s head) was another mortal, this one a dusky female.  She was healed of her throat-wound and surprisingly calm, despite the close quarters. (¡°Big family, mostly all brothers,¡± she¡¯d explained.)  But¡­


    ¡°Where¡¯s Cinda?¡± asked Gildyr, keeping his voice down.  Looked and counted again, just to be certain, keeping one eye on those shouting, fist-pumping guards.


    No ranger.  Not here, not in the cell with Kaazin and Shark-bait¡­ not anywhere at all that Gildyr could see.  He might have started to fret, but Cinda Whitlock was crafty and swift, able to melt into shadow; remaining unseen, till she moved or spoke.  Had the ranger avoided capture again, wondered the wood-elf?  Was she off somewhere, plotting another jailbreak?  Or had she been taken away by the sea-elves like Neira, Val and his aunt?  More importantly, how could the druid help, if his friends were in trouble?


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Some distance away, standing in the shelter and privacy of an ornate castle balcony, Meliara turned from her nephew to face Queen Shanella.  The sea-elven ruler was icy-calm, accepting what looked like imminent doom.  But,


    ¡°There has to be something we can do to help return your son¡¯s spirit,¡± said the golden-haired oracle.


    At Shanella¡¯s gesture, their drink-pods refilled with sting nectar.


    ¡°My most powerful healers and mages have already tried,¡± she replied, sounding bleak.  Looking weary.  ¡°None have brought me even a moment of eye-contact.¡±


    Meliara shook her head; gone all at once full, stubborn Tarandahl.


    ¡°With all due respect, Highness, none of your mages are us.  You said yourself that we¡¯re blessed, that the blood of empire¡­ of gods¡­ courses through us.¡±


    ¡°And there is Gildyr, as well,¡± put in Valerian, bowing apology before speaking.  ¡°The druid is very powerful, truly good and¡­ a friend.  He would help you because it was the right thing to do, needing no payment or threat.¡±


    Shanella brought a drink-pod to her lips, hiding the sudden quiver of mouth and chin that betrayed old sorrow, lost hope.


    ¡°Offer not what you cannot deliver, voidlings,¡± she whispered, draining that poison-sweet syrup.  Only,


    ¡°Take us back to the prince if you will, Highness, and¡­¡±  glancing over at Val ¡°¡­have your folk bring us the druid, as well,¡± said Meliara.  ¡°The worst we can do is fail, and then we''ll just try something else.¡±


    The sea-queen squared her slim shoulders.  Lifting her head, she gazed at the nearby undersea vent. A wall of toxic, burning hot gas it was, glowing red at its seething base.


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    ¡°Very well.  It shall be as you ask.  This one final time, I will try to escape my curse.  Should you succeed, all that I have¡­ excepting my crown¡­ is yours.  Should you fail, children of light¡­ I will go to my death with Zaresh.  Down to the vent, rather than fall into enemy hands.¡±


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Was there movement, up at the rim of an unwatched portal?  Had someone waved, allowing a good-berry to drift from above, into his crowded cell?  Gildyr tracked that silvery fruit as it spiraled down through the water.  Then, when it phased past the wall of the bubble, he caught the berry deftly out of the air.  It was spelled with a message, seeming to whisper, ¡®Be ready¡¯ into the druid¡¯s thoughts.


    Meanwhile, the slashing attacks of Kaazin and Shark-bait had grown ever deeper, turning the waters around their cell to red murk, causing the guards to howl encouragement, place higher bets.  And then, just when the noise and distraction were highest, all ten levels of hell burst apart, smashing stone, coral, and magical cells.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    They¡¯d returned to the prince¡¯s quarters, causing his nurses and guards to be cast from the room. It was a large and spherical chamber, colored pale blue and padded in waterproof crab-silk.  A life¡¯s worth of presents and playthings lay here and about, their display bringing no joy at all to the inmate, whose mind and attention were elsewhere.


    Bound by magical tethers, Zaresh seemed to be walking along, holding the hand of someone completely invisible.  Smiling a little, the prince paused and looked down from time to time, as though gazing at somebody¡¯s upturned face.


    Seeing this, Mellie''s conscience suffered a twinge.  Wherever he was¡­ Zaresh was happy.  Maybe in love.  Had they any real right to disturb the boy¡¯s peace?  A glance at Shanella, then at Valerian, settled that question.  The queen¡¯s unguarded face was riven by torment and hope.  For Shanella, the return of her son would mean everything.  Meanwhile, Valerian¡¯s expression was composed.  Almost rigid.  He looked as nobility does, when the needs of the realm outweigh the pleas of the heart, and there is only one¡¯s duty ahead.


    Mellie thought of her paladin, Villem.  A mortal, he would not last a hundredth her lifespan¡­ but then, Mellie did not intend to outlive him.  She would seek her repose when Villem turned west, and then spend the rest of her afterlife seeking the place where mortal spirits sojourned.  Perhaps an elf would be welcome there, too, if love held any power at all.


    Clearing her throat, Meliara extended a hand to her nephew.


    ¡°Val, little tree, I shall require your aid.¡±


    He took her hand.  Squeezed it, briefly.


    ¡°Of course, Aunt Imele.¡±


    She drew on his power, which was considerable and freely given.  All at once doubled in strength, the oracle paced out a sigil of greater transport, sometimes on the floor, at other times sinking below it in half-phase, or kicking out into the water above.  Starting with the basic ¡®Great Gate¡¯, Meliara began to shift and adjust a line here, a curve or a cross-hatch there, until the figure that shone like a cage around Zaresh sprang to life; thrumming with manna, stirring the waters to frenzy.


    In the sudden maelstrom, hair and clothing whipped like flags in a gale, while toy weapons and nicknacks struck the spelled padding and clung. Mellie¡¯s sigil consumed the magical bindings which had tethered a prince for so long.  So much for the rune-work. Now she began a soft, chanting prayer, calling light, calling love.  As a child of the gods, beseeching their aid.


    ¡°Innocence cries for protection, Shining Ones,¡± she pled, reaching not so much upward as fey-ward, into the realm of the gods.  ¡°For this blameless child, doomed before birth¡­ and this royal lady, who committed no wrong except to be placed on a throne seized by others¡­ For them, shift the curse, free the boy¡¯s soul, bring him home.  So cries Meliara, voice of the gods, with Valerian, servant of Firelord.  Hear me and answer.  I pray you, correct this injustice.¡±


    And her prayer was heard.


    The sigil flared like a star. Within it, just for a moment, they glimpsed an incredible garden.  Spied colors and beings, felt sensations that beggared description.  There, Zaresh stood, holding the hand of a delicate phantom.  He turned to defend her, interposing his body between the girl and what seemed to him like a gaping, dark maw.


    Then, as if briefly displayed by a lightning-flash, the vision was gone.  Not so, Zaresh.  The prince cried out, looking wildly around, shouting words they could not understand.  His mother reached out once, uttered a moan and then fainted.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    In the arching void overhead, it was dawn.  A fleet of great, golden airships arose from Milardin; four sleek wyverns, a swarm of skuas and one mighty sea-dragon.  Powered by manna, intelligent enough to fly by themselves, the droning airships seemed to flood the sky over Alandriel¡¯s capital city.  Their shadows rippled and flowed like patches of ink over buildings, stairway and harbor, their mooring-ropes trailing behind until brought in by magic and muscle.  The fleet did not linger, rising high in the air and then banking hard east, seeming to glide directly into the sun.


    Lord Arvendahl paced his flagship¡¯s rumbling command deck, closely watched by the officers; by elves over whom he held power of life, death or enslavement.  With him also was Filimar, looking determined.  (And maybe a little bit sick.)


    ¡°We fly to the waters shielding Averna,¡± snarled the High Lord, ¡°There, we shall fire a storm of void-blasts, and demand the return of the fugitives.¡±


    ¡°Surely, My Lord,¡± began Filimar.  Paused and then started again, raising his voice as the wind of their passage snatched away words.  ¡°Surely, they are all dead.  The kraken was observed by thousands of¡­¡±


    Arvendahl whirled to face the young lord.  His blue eyes narrow and seething with rage, he snapped,


    ¡°The Tarandahl mongrel lives.  The Mother has told me so.  He has survived, and so have his worthless underlings.  He holds the answers I seek; the key to returning what was, and I will not be prevented from seizing him.¡±


    Filimar inclined his head, swallowing hard.  Like all of those present, the Arvendahl lordling knew that their ruler had lost his mind, if not one whit of his power and wrath.  But, what to do?  How to return the High Lord to sanity, while warning a heart-friend of danger?


    As the sun shone bright over water, as a wind spiced with flowers, ash and the sea howled around them, the elven fleet soared higher still.  Eastward they flew, making best speed for Averna¡­ and war.

 Sword and Sorcery, chapter ten

    <u>10</u>


    There was an ancient legend, telling of a warrior-prince who slept buried in stone.  Those who believed such things, who still clung to hope, said that the warrior-prince would awaken someday, saving their land from darkness.  Just a tale.  A way to keep hearts alive when terror and trouble were all that they knew, only¡­  The stone had been shattered.  The sleeper was gone. An Old One¡­ last of his kind¡­ was said to be walking the land. Truth?


    Nobody knew, and everyone wondered.  Up north, something stirred.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    The heat and humidity were relentless, pinned like steam by a pod-lid of clouds.  Brought to mind¡­ someone telling him¡­


    ¡°Down in the warm lands, where it be <u>so</u> fearful hot that folk run about bare as a needle, wearing naught but a smile and a necklace of teeth.¡±


    Right.  Miche had no intention of clothing himself in blushes and grins, but he did remove part of his armor.  Kept the cloak, though, so Nameless had something to climb besides newly bared flesh.


    Night came on gradually, down on the rift floor.  Clouds and high cliffs blocked much of the sun, but also extended its gloaming.  All of this meant there was still feeble light when they came to a slash in the rockface, a mile and a half from Miche¡¯s towering image.  It seemed new; created (maybe) by his recent doings in stone.  They explored the cave, finding it deep enough to provide decent shelter, without plunging down into darkness and damp.  Marget seemed pleased enough.


    ¡°Here,¡± she grunted.  ¡°We can defend this place, and it is high enough to serve for a look-out, as well.¡±


    The cave mouth lay about fifteen feet off the ground, with a broken jumble of rock providing a natural stairway.  They could not simply flop down and rest, though.  Not with so much to be done.


    ¡°The dragon is close,¡± rumbled Marget.  ¡°I would claim the best meat before scavengers get to the carcass.¡±


    Miche nodded; very tired, but still with a little left in him. (Also, disturbed by the sharp, tangy reek of dead wyrm.)  So, caching their few supplies, elf and orc set off in search of the fallen wyvern.


    They found it less than half a mile further east, amid massive boulders and great, shattered trees; half draped, half impaled at the forest¡¯s edge.  Looked much larger, more menacing, on the ground than it had in midair.  One of its golden eyes had sprung from the socket and hung by a glistening string.  The other still glared.  A giant stake of splintered wood¡­ all that remained of a gom-tree¡­ had skewered the beast clean through its armored chest.


    Marget rushed forward at once, axe in hand.  Miche kept watch.  It took him a quarter candle-mark to walk around the dead monster, what with smashed trees, crumbled stone fingers and one outstretched wing.  It was very much dead though, with Marget wading right in, chopping through scales and meat with her whistling axe.


    By the time he got back from circumnavigating the carcass, she had a considerable pile of steaks heaped up on an oiled cloth.  Was spattered in blood, much like the first time he¡¯d seen her.


    ¡°Ha!  Old One!  Just in time to share the first meat.  As hunter, it is your place and your right.¡±


    The orc slid down from the impalement site, where she¡¯d begun her excavations.  Held something glowing and blood-smeared in one clenched fist, taking his hand as a brace for her final hop to the ground.


    ¡°The dragon-pearl!¡± she exulted, first wiping, then holding out a shimmering jewel.  ¡°And not petrified, yet.¡±


    Miche looked on, mystified, as she used her dagger to slice a long curl of ¡°peel¡± from the harvested pearl.


    ¡°First-meat to you, Hunter,¡± she repeated, urging the chunky coil on him.


    ¡°I¡­ erm¡­ thank you,¡± responded the elf, taking that glowing rind more to defend his face from it than because he was hungry.


    Inhaled sharply, ordered his thinking, then took a bite from the least gory end.  Found it peppery, tough to chew and extremely pungent, with a kick like a hippogriff¡¯s.  Managed to swallow, only not dropping the rest because his muscles seized up.


    ¡°Phrugth!¡± he gasped, and then, ¡°Zoc farg!¡± causing Marget to fall over laughing.


    ¡°Where,¡± she demanded, once she could speak, ¡°did you hear those words, Old One?  That is cursing to spit with your heart¡¯s blood, into the face of an enemy!¡±


    She¡¯d bitten into the pearl like an apple, seeming to savor its rank, filthy taste¡­ but just for an instant, Miche was elsewhere, staring through crossed swords at the tattooed face of a wounded and glowering orc.


    ¡°I¡­ seem to have fought a few of your people, Marget¡­ though I don¡¯t recall when or why.¡±


    Rising from her seat on the ground, the orc bumped him with one burly shoulder.


    ¡°Males, no doubt.  Young ones,¡± she scoffed.  ¡°Good enough fighters against elven or human¡­ but not the best that the Free Folk can bring.  Eat more,¡± she urged, changing the subject.  ¡°It is said to bring strength and good luck to the bold, instant death to those who are false.  Cannot be shared¡­ except between friends.¡±


    Which it seemed that they were.  Miche braced himself to finish the rest of his dragon-pearl rind.  Gave a sliver to Nameless, who downed it with barely a sniff, then went off in the trees to forage for better.


    Marget butchered more meat than they could reasonably carry, but the elf didn¡¯t argue.  Too busy wondering about the orc he¡¯d once faced in a fight to the death.  Why?  For whom?


    The fact that he didn¡¯t know, couldn¡¯t remember, troubled him deeply.  Just¡­ it had been for somebody else.  A fight over land not his own, though the details escaped him.  There¡¯d been a female, though.  Not a beauty, but fierce.  Strong.  Much too proud to accept¡­ whatever he¡¯d felt for her. Confused, Miche looked over at Marget, who¡¯d paused in her chewing to watch him.


    ¡°We should finish here,¡± he advised.  ¡°Take whatever else you want.  I will burn the rest, to douse that offensive smell... and because a foe should not be left to the birds of the air and the beasts of the field.¡±


    Marget nodded.


    ¡°That is well said, Valleck,¡± she grunted, vaulting back up to her meat-mine.  Meanwhile, he began putting away what she¡¯d already carved.  It was going to be wyvern and apples for a long time to come, Miche thought, to judge by the state of his magical pockets.  But at least they had food.  When she¡¯d finished, he placed a hand on the dragon¡¯s slim head.  Called upon Firelord, then, saying,


    ¡°Be freed of this broken shell, Scourge-of-the-Air.  Return, if you will, as something still greater, and wish me no ill, who would have been eaten himself, had matters gone otherwise.¡±  Then, ¡°I give you clean flame.¡±


    A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    The carcass first glowed, then burned away from its head to barbed tail, not scorching the ground and emitting no smoke.  For just a moment they glimpsed the shape of a great, blazing dragon.  Then it was gone; broken up into motes that flowed away westward.


    Back at their shelter once more, Marget fed Spots, while the elf managed dinner and set up the wards.  Alarm, not defense, for he hadn¡¯t much manna left.  Not without rest.  For that matter, neither had Marget.  She offered to stand the first watch, though.


    ¡°Your sparks and spookery have drained you, Vugtarr,¡± she muttered, going over to crouch by the cave mouth.  ¡°You will be no good at all without sleep.¡±


    True enough.  He¡¯d started to glow again, drawing bugs and assemblers away from their fire, making a feast for Nameless.  Over the marten¡¯s quick darts and snapping jaws, he said,


    ¡°Wake me at third watch, then.  And¡­ thank you.  For all the names and¡­ for staying.¡±


    Marget grunted sourly.


    ¡°You have an oath to keep, Bradmiir, to find me a worthy mate. I stay until that is done.  After that, we part ways.¡±


    Rubbing at tired grey eyes with one hand, Miche nodded.


    ¡°We¡¯ll find him,¡± he promised, settling to the ground with his legs drawn up, arms wrapped around and head on his knees.


    That night, he dreamt long and well; drifting through visions of soaring through the air like a kite.  Of traversing a sparse northern forest.  Of talking to Marget and opening shrines.


    Meanwhile, the she-orc stood watch, sometimes getting up to stretch her legs and look over at Miche.  Shook her head.  He was pallid and small, with no scars.  No tattoos.  Nothing at all like a male of her kind.  Not that it mattered.


    Later, a hand to his shoulder woke the elf up.  No alarm, though.  Just the sense that it was time to arise and be doing.  He got to his feet to find darkness outside and Marget swaying with weariness.


    ¡°I would have watched longer,¡± she told him, fighting a yawn, ¡°Only, sleep tries to claim me, and¡­¡±


    ¡°And it is better to waken another than to leave us unguarded.  Good thinking,¡± said the elf, reflexively cleansing and sorting himself.  Not needing his cloak in that soup-like warmth, he removed the garment and offered it up to the orc.  ¡°To block light,¡± he explained.  ¡°So that dawn doesn¡¯t wake you.¡±


    Marget was very still for a moment.  Then she accepted the cloak, grunting,


    ¡°Only for that, I will take it, Old One.¡±


    Maybe he¡¯d done something wrong, but he was too newly awakened¡­ the orc soon too deeply asleep¡­ to probe after possible wounds.  Instead, Miche went to the mouth of their cave and a little beyond it, greeting Nameless at first and then¡­ after the marten¡­ making ready to welcome the dawn.  Time passed.


    Here in the warm lands, morning came when the clouds thinned and turned rosy-pale, exposing a handful of stars.  Facing east, he opened his heart to Lord Oberyn, who was present even in darkness and rifts.


    Firelord came forth for a bit, though not very far; keeping a hand inside of his follower.  Wary, lest the orc should awaken or darklings approach.  Together, they watched the sky come alive overhead.  Watched as the sun struck rainbows all through that broad valley.  The forest steamed in the rising heat.  Birds opened their throats in song, making strange, eerie cries.


    ¡°I had rather be in the highlands,¡± he said to the fiery god on his shoulder.  ¡°But there is wonder and beauty here, too.¡±


    ¡®Not home,¡¯ argued Firelord, shifting pebbles and rocks with his ¡°whisper¡±.  ¡®Not the right place.¡¯


    The elf tilted his head to look up at the fiery god, whose hand was wrapped up in Miche¡¯s blond hair.


    ¡°Do you remember what is the right place, My Lord?¡± asked Miche.  ¡°Do you know if there¡¯s¡­ when I¡¯ve managed this thing¡­ Do you think there¡¯s any way we might return home?¡±


    Firelord¡¯s face vanished entirely, both small ears meeting in front like two clapping hands.  After a moment, speaking from inside his follower¡¯s mind, he said,


    ¡®Much darkness, first.  Much danger. Person is hunted, and Fireling, too.  If caught, there is an end to the Dark One¡¯s imprisoning.  We <u>must</u> not be taken, Last Person Who Loves Me!¡¯


    From inside the cave came a sudden loud grunt, then a break in Marget¡¯s burbling snores.  Firelord swiftly shot back into Miche, taking shelter and sustenance deep in the heart of his only worshipper.


    The elf bowed eastward.  He hadn¡¯t time for the Dawn Hymn but welcomed the day in his own quiet fashion.  As (he thought) others had done whom he¡¯d known and still ached for.


    He turned and reentered the cave after that, to find Marget just rising; yawning fit to crack her jaw, stretching and scratching her ribs.


    ¡°Any attacks?¡± she asked him, by way of ¡®good morning¡¯.


    ¡°None,¡± he said, smiling.  ¡°At least, none beyond insects, and Nameless has dealt with all those.  Has sleep restored you?¡±


    The orc did not answer, instead she eyed Miche¡¯s bare chest and arms with a scowl.


    ¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡± he demanded, confused by Marget¡¯s behavior.  He could have cycled fresh clothing out of a magical pocket, been fully dressed at a thought, but¡­  ¡°It is hot in this place.  I chose not to wear a tunic.¡±


    Marget shook her head till the braids flew, reaching for armor and weapons.  Merely glowered, at first.  Then she exploded with words, raging,


    ¡°This¡­ bare, spotless hide!  Blank as a cub¡¯s.  As a worm.  You should bear scars, Valleck.  Proudly.  There should be many tattoos to proclaim your victories.  Instead, you have nothing.  Not one mark.  You look like¡­ like you fear to face battle, or you mean to deceive.¡±


    Miche blinked, feeling all at once naked.  He looked down at himself.  Clear to the belt at his waist, there was just smooth, pearly skin over the muscles an athlete would have.  A fighter.  He¡¯d never seen anything wrong with that and could certainly cover it up with a stifling shirt¡­ only Marget¡¯s disdain stung.


    So?  Not his problem.  <u>Hers</u>.


    But¡­


    ¡°What¡­ sort of tattoos?¡± he asked quietly


    A ferocious grin split the orc¡¯s face even wider than her yawn had.


    ¡°Hah!  I knew that there was a male in there!  No servant at all, but a person!¡±


    Digging into her carry sack, Marget hauled out a collection of needles, hammers and small, bright knives that would have been right at home in a dungeon. A brazier, too, complete with small irons.


    ¡°Eat something.  Then I will mark your victory over the dragons.  Such a fight should be boasted of, so that others think long before testing your strength.¡±


    Uh-huh.  He was going to regret this.  He knew it.  Nevertheless, Miche roasted an apple and ate some more wyvern steak.  Then, because she wanted to start on his back, he laid down on his cloak and folded arms, cursing himself for an over-sensitive idiot.


    And¡­ on the one hand, it hurt.  On the other, she was quick and knew exactly what she was doing.  First drew with soft charcoal, then began making small punctures and cuts (not at all like¡­ nothing like <u>that</u>).  Marget sang the song that takes away pain as she worked, rubbing in ashes and pigment, retelling the fight as he¡¯d told it to her; making it live on his skin.


    It took a few candle-marks, and left him reddened on back, waist and shoulders, but at last the business was done.


    ¡°It itches,¡± he complained, getting back to his feet.


    ¡°You¡¯ll live,¡± she snapped back.  Chuckled at first, and then went suddenly quiet.


    ¡°What is it now?¡± grumped the elf (who really did long to scratch).


    Marget went over to stare at the forest, misty with rainfall and heat.


    ¡°It is nothing.  I had a brother.  Tattooed him, as I have you, for good fortune and courage.  He complained of the itch, as well.  Tried for my friend Agrada, once the marks healed.¡±  She said nothing more after that, leaving the outcome quite obvious.


    Forgetting the burn, itch and sting of that wretched tattoo, Miche went over to join her.


    ¡°I am sorry,¡± he said to the orc.  ¡°Your brother surely fought well.¡±  It was a statement, not a question.  Not to one who had loved and remembered her lost one.


    ¡°No matter,¡± she grunted.  ¡°He reached high and he fell.  It is the way things are done.  I have slain many, myself.  Some that I might have favored, had they been able to best me.¡±


    Miche conjured a flask of honey-wine, not sure what to say.  Marget was a prisoner of her people¡¯s customs, a thing he couldn¡¯t change.


    ¡°Maybe¡­ the heat breeds them big, and there is some truly horrific brute of an orc here in need of a large¡­ scary¡­ bride.¡±


    ¡°With tattoo skills,¡± she muttered, brushing his shoulder with hers.  ¡°Able to hunt for herself and dress meat. Put that in, too.¡±


    Marget accepted the wine, pulling long and hard at the flask.  Listened closely, as Miche added,


    ¡°Solid muscle, able to stitch wonderful images onto the skin of her vic¡­ friends.  A paragon of the battlefield and the hunt.  Any orc would be honored to cower at her side.¡±


    ¡°Any male,¡± Marget corrected, handing the flask back. ¡°Any male with the courage to try.¡±


    Down below, in one of those random patches of sunshine that sometimes swept through the rift, something glittered like metal.  Miche¡¯s eyesight was better, his hearing able to separate sounds of the forest from rattling weapons and armor.


    ¡°Something comes,¡± warned the elf, though Marget¡¯s red eyes had gone narrow and hard.  She knew and was already reaching over one shoulder to grasp at a sword hilt. Miche dispelled the wine. Seized her arm, saying, ¡°There is a time to fight, and a time to be wise, Marget.  Let us learn what we face, before committing to battle.  For all you know, it may be your future mate.¡±


    That made her smile.


    ¡°If it is, you must face him, for you stand as my kin, and I can¡¯t interfere.¡±


    Which¡­ right.  Information he could have used earlier, but¡­ Why not?  What in the blistering-curses else could go wrong?

 Sword and Sorcery, chapter eleven

    <u>11</u>


    In elapsing time, it was about simultaneous. In deeds, interwoven, for the threads and the pixels just think that they act for themselves, while Order and Chaos strive.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Gildyr had moments to act.  Great slabs of ceiling and wall broke apart as a hail of deep-bombs rained down from above, hammering away at their prison.  Packed with dragon-flame, the charges erupted as soon as they hit, releasing horrifically powerful shockwaves.  These flared out in all directions, shattering coral and stone, pulping sea-elves and creatures to jelly, burning whatever they touched.


    As the cell-bubbles collapsed, vomiting inmates and air, Gildyr converted himself to a massive, hard-shelled nautilus.  His tentacles shot forth in every direction, seizing guards and prisoners, Cinda and fortunate passers-by, sweeping them all into the airspace under his spiraling shell.


    Frantic for power and time, the druid pulled manna from everywhere at once; draining tiny, alarm-flaring plankton, then working right up to Father Ocean, himself.  (A debt he would have to repay.)  Defended himself and as much of the city as one lone wood-elf could shield.  But there were so many folk out of his reach, far beyond any protection at all. Unable to help them, Gildyr pulled in his tentacles, sealing himself in his shell. Pounding shock waves and flashes of heat tore Averna to pieces around him.  Then¡­


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Up above, as the sun rose from ocean to void, the elven fleet neared its goal; the waters that churned over fabled Averna.  Fed by the boiling gases and heat down below, a monstrous whirlpool thundered and crashed, fully a hundred miles wide.  Constant purple-dark storm clouds were gathered above it, gilded by day-shine, threaded with lightning.  The winds were unending, shrieking from every direction at once.  Wild, shining dragons and sea-griffins rode the updrafts, diving downward to snatch at pulped, boiled creatures cast up from below.


    The fleet dared come no closer, but their actual target¡­ the city¡­ was not under that howling maelstrom.  The sea-elven realm lay in calmer waters, fifty-five leagues to the west.  There, the fleet very much could go.


    Filimar Arvendahl ad Tormund was no natural airman, at all.  He clung to the port-rail, black hair whipping, blue eyes squinted in misery.  Hands locked white-knuckle tight to the Vancora¡¯s rail, he thought: ¡®Valno, flee.  Brother, friend¡­ he comes for you, and I cannot stop him.¡¯


    ¡°No. You cannot,¡± said the High Lord, porting suddenly over.  Crossing twenty-three yards of deck, Arvehdahl seized hold of Filimar.  Deep-bombs began plunging like meteors from the airships¡¯ launch tubes, unleashing hell in the ocean and city below. Each detonation raised a mountainous swell of foaming white water, tumbling with interlaced corpses and parboiled fish.


    Smiling grimly, Arvendahl lifted the treasonous boy by the throat.  Held him up and over the rail.  Out over rampaging water he dangled Filimar, who twisted wildly, clawing at the iron-hard hand that was crushing his windpipe.  In a low, conversational voice, the High Lord mused,


    ¡°I wonder how much this pup matters to you, Tarandahl?  He would betray my movements and plans, but the Mother sees all¡­ including intended deception.  Would you save his life, Tarandahl?  Would you trade your own, for his?¡±


    And then, as if in response, the ocean below erupted in fury.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Shanella came back to her senses, shocked awake by concussions and flares.  Her city crumbled and burned, set alight by the flame that cannot be doused.  She surged to her feet and responded in kind, setting up shields, then tracking the bombs to a fleet of airships that buzzed like gnats overhead.


    Not for nothing was Shanella Kalistiel queen of the waters and fiery deep.  Shouting,


    ¡°Rise, tempest!  To me, spirits of current and wind!¡±


    ¡­ she summoned the ocean¡¯s worst fury, unleashing its might on the fleet up above.  Three yards away, Zaresh fought with his nurses and guards.  Meliara worked hard to soothe and console him, battling constant shockwaves, hell-bursts and screams, for the boy¡¯s attention.


    Beside his aunt, Valerian called upon power.  Like Gildyr, trading everything¡­ <u>any</u> future request¡­ for manna right now.  He¡¯d sensed Filimar¡¯s message.  Felt choking-hard fingers crushing his own throat and cutting off air.  Saw himself battered by wind, dangling over a fatal drop, with sea-drakes and griffins already swooping in.


    ¡°Wait!¡± he cried out, trying to shield Filimar and reach Lord Arvendahl¡¯s mind at the same time.  It was then, at this roiling conflux of Chaos and Order, that somebody got through to <u>him</u>.  Someone he¡¯d turned his back on.  Betrayed.


    In that instant, Valerian recalled everything.  The journeyman quest he¡¯d been given, his master¡¯s commands¡­ and his ultimate failure to follow that bidding.


    ¡®Exchange places,¡¯ ordered a distant and echoing voice.  His Imperial Highness, Sherazedan. ¡®Let me speak.  Let me save him.¡¯


    And so, it was done.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    Nautilus or not, hard-shell or no, Gildyr was blasted backward, tumbling far over ooze and abyss. He looked on in shock as something star-bright and powerful blasted up from the palace.  Not Valerian, his aunt or the queen.  A freed, raging god.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Up above, in the stormy void, the fleet was surrounded by twisting waterspouts, along with the swirling dark eye-wall of a hurricane.  Its streaming clouds rose so high that only a faint, shifting dot betrayed their opening.


    Arvendahl laughed, unafraid.  Using the Mother¡¯s vile power, he raised mighty shields that did not include Filimar.


    ¡°Very impressive,¡± he started to sneer.  Only then, the ocean erupted, pierced from beneath by a lone, shining figure.  In his shock, Arvendahl let go of young Filimar, but the boy didn¡¯t fall.  Just hung there past Vancora¡¯s railing, ghost-pale and staring.


    Arvendahl didn¡¯t notice.  Wasn¡¯t looking.  Instead, his gaze was locked on the elven demi-god who¡¯d risen to shine in the sky like another sun.


    Neither old nor young, pale-haired and silver-eyed, divinely beautiful, brother to Oberyn¡­  Falco¡¯s lost heart-friend, companion and lord.  Sherazedan.


    Arvendahl vaulted the ship¡¯s railing to stride forward on air, breaking into a run as he drew near the one that his heart had never forgotten.


    ¡°My Lord!¡±


    Got there.  Tried to kneel, but the apparition seized his arms at the elbow, preventing obeisance.  Instead, hauled him into a fierce embrace, drawing Arvendahl¡¯s head to his own bright-armored shoulder.


    ¡®Out of him, vileness, Mother of darkness,¡¯ commanded Sherazedan, drawing the Mother like snake-venom.  Her smoky substance roiled and shrieked as it poured from Arvendahl¡¯s nostrils and mouth. ¡®As you seek a host, be prisoned with me, trapped in the space between worlds, for all time.¡¯


    The Mother¡¯s foul remnant sank into the demi-god, then vanished away like a pebble thrown in a well.  Released from possession, Arvendahl would have fallen had the elf-lord not held him.


    ¡®True heart-friend and brother,¡¯ said a voice he knew from the hollow absence, from the ragged exit wound left in his mind. ¡®I have little time.¡¯


    ¡°<u>No</u>,¡± said Arvendahl, pulling back enough to gaze into Sherazedan¡¯s face.  ¡°My Lord, no.  Take this form.  I will die for you.  Live again, through me.  Don¡¯t¡­ just¡­ don¡¯t go.  Please.¡±


    Sherazedan smiled.  No longer disguised as a wizard, his true nature shone forth in fey-light and manna.


    ¡®I cannot stay, Falco.  At the core of reality, I am the linchpin for Order and Chaos.  Light and Dark.  I took the place of one that I love as you love me.¡¯


    ¡°I will go there instead, My Lord,¡± protested the elf.  ¡°Send me and stay.¡±


    But Sherazedan shook his head.


    ¡®You would swiftly be crushed, Falco, and the bonds of reality would then burst asunder.  The boy whose form I have borrowed¡­ once an apprentice¡­ will not survive there much longer.  I must go.  Let him be.  Trust to Fate, my friend.¡¯


    Already, the apparition was fading.


    ¡°My Lord, <u>wait</u>!¡± shouted Arvendahl, desperate for just a little more time.


    Sherazedan shook his head sadly. Stepped further away, as strong chains became visible behind him.  Chains that reached backward, into a space that made no sense at all.


    ¡®It is for now,¡¯ he said¡­


    ¡°Not forever,¡± finished Valerian, suddenly hovering miles in the air, over a raging sea, facing Lord Arvendahl.  Terrible chains had unlocked.  Complex, awful machinery had ceased grinding through him¡­ but he was still coughing blood.


    Arvendahl¡¯s beautiful face hardened.  No longer possessed by the Mother, freed of her madness, he saw all that he¡¯d done.  Refusing to shrink from that knowledge, the elf-lord ported himself, Val and Filimar to the deck of the Vancora.  Hurled both young elves like garbage, as far to the stern of his ship as her taffrail permitted.


    Next, His Lordship strode forward, passing kneeling officers and terrified, half-elven crew.  At his snarled order, the bombardment ceased, though nothing else changed.  That cordon of hissing waterspouts, the roaring hurricane eyewall stayed firmly in place.


    Valerian picked himself up off the deck, offering Filno a hand up, as well.  The young Arvendahl¡¯s throat was seared, branded forever by the crush of His Lordship¡¯s fingers and thumb.  Val himself was no better; still spitting blood, still feeling smashed by a weight too heavy for one mere apprentice.


    Filimar caught his eye. Indicating the airship¡¯s distant prow, he signed,


    ¡®Must speak lord.¡¯


    Valerian nodded.  Signed back,


    ¡®With you.¡¯


    They made their way forward, supporting each other past all of the churning gears, thumping machinery and glowing tanks that studded the deck of an airship.  Battled rain and contrary winds the entire way, for Arvendahl¡¯s shielding did not extend to <u>them</u>.  They alone were torn at and snatched; hair lashing, cloaks streaming, fighting to stay on their feet.


    Facing His Lordship was likely suicide; a disease that might have proved catching.  None of the others aboard would look at either young elf, pretending business elsewhere until Val and Filno had passed.


    His Lordship stood at the forward rail, looking out at the turbulent whirlpool below.  With his back to the two younger elves, he still sensed their approach.  Arvendahl let them come a bit nearer.  Then he pivoted, looking from one to the other, his face a cold mask.


    ¡°You live through no fault of mine, and very much against my will,¡± he said, not raising his voice, yet clear and distinct through the wind.  ¡°I shall make my peace with the sea-witch, below¡­ or resume the battle, if she will have none of my overtures.  You¡­ I will transport.  You may select the destination.  That far, I will obey my lord¡¯s will, and maintain his truce.  After that, should I see either of you ever again, you will die, in as horrible and drawn-out a manner as I can devise.¡±


    Filimar lowered his head but did not plead or argue.  He was an exile now, stripped of his rank and his family.  Valerian placed a hand on his heart-friend¡¯s shoulder.  Clenched twice, still meaning: ¡®With you.¡¯


    Much of what he¡¯d remembered was fading.  Only Sherazedan¡¯s contact and presence had torn the veil between lives, and that was now gone.  He recalled enough to say,


    ¡°Filno is innocent.  He had nothing to do with what happened before.  The peace and safety of Starloft enclose him, My Lord.  Harm Filimar <u>Tarandahl</u>, and there will be war.  For myself¡­ think what you will.  I remember too little to make much defense, but¡­¡±


    He shook his head, fighting a surge of confusion and shame.


    ¡°Whatever I did¡­ however I failed my master¡­ it wasn¡¯t from evil intent.  I¡­¡± Couldn¡¯t go on.  Found nothing further to say.


    Filimar placed an arm across Valerian¡¯s shoulders, turning him slightly away from Lord Arvendahl.  His Lordship cared not at all for excuse or apology, and the promised gate had already flared open, right there on Vancora¡¯s foredeck.  A flickering oval of light, it hung between this place and¡­


    ¡°Karellon,¡± said Filno, lifting his chin.  ¡°We would travel to Karellon, Mi¡­ Your Lordship.¡±


    ¡°So be it,¡± growled Arvendahl, his cold gaze fixed on the distant wind-wall behind them.  ¡°Now, take this trash and begone.¡±


    ¡°Come, Valno,¡± whispered Filimar, more in his friend¡¯s thoughts than aloud.


    Together, they turned and stepped through the portal.

 Sword and Sorcery Five, chapter twelve

    <u>12</u>


    As gates went, it wasn¡¯t¡­ but he should have expected that.  High Lord Arvendahl¡¯s hatred burned unabated.  So long as Valerian lived¡­ Well, His Lordship had no intention whatever of letting a fugitive Tarandahl persist breathing.


    Val stepped through that shimmering portal with Filimar, leaving the deck of the Vancora, going¡­ nowhere at all.  Instead of emerging in Karellon, the two young elves found themselves plunged into icy, swirling, chaotic darkness: the void-between. The shadow below their reality.


    Valerian seized Filimar before his friend could be swept away and forever lost.  A million things clearly had been.  As they drifted, the elves glimpsed husks of people and creatures¡­ dead, inert airships¡­ what looked like half of a shriveled tarrasque¡­ all of them withered by vacuum and cold.  An endless stream of drifting figures, coming from nowhere, receding to nothing; their final gasps and faint shrieks still resounding.


    This stranding ought to have killed the two elves, but Val had been there, before.  He¡¯d found himself thrust down to this same awful shadow-place, after the trouble at Starloft.  Then, he¡¯d wrenched himself free of Gildyr and Cinda to end up in Burrough.  Felt sure he could bring them through, now.


    Only, as he formed a shield for himself and his friend, fighting to peer through darkness to Karellon, something happened.  Bits of nothingness gathered, like the hollow-black opposite version of sparks.  These motes of the void seemed drawn to the drifting young elves, shooting in from all directions to construct a sort of shell.  With black-lightning speed, these anti-sparks locked together, forming a bubble that next filled with light and reality.


    Valerian and Filimar dropped to an actual surface that shifted and buzzed beneath boot soles and palms.  They got up, looking first at each other, then at the curving wall of their cell (Valerian¡¯s second, in less than a day).


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    ¡°Can¡¯t say I¡¯m surprised, really,¡± said Filimar, pulling a smile out of somewhere. ¡°That treacherous warg-son never lets anything drop, except heads.¡±


    Val smiled back, bumping shoulders with Filno.


    ¡°I note that our heads remain firmly attached,¡± he remarked.  ¡°And I intend to see they continue to do so.¡±


    Bold words and possibly empty ones, for their cell had begun to change.  Not its shape, exactly.  More that the dark inner wall facing them was now¡­ writhing.  Contorting.


    Filno and Val looked on with gallows interest as the wall tried various conformations, looking mostly like nothing they recognized.  <u>Finally</u>, it settled down to a blocky, simmering face, bigger than either elf was tall.  The visage was made of millions of motes, so it was foggy and indistinct at its edges; constantly seething with motion, like inky boiling water.


    Having better manners, Filimar bowed before his friend did, inquiring,


    ¡°Our host, one presumes?¡±


    Valerian rose from his own bow, and it was to him that the fizzing-dark face made reply.


    <u>-Pain.  Destruction.-</u>


    A swarm of the motes broke free of their wall, buzzing into the space before Val and Filno.  They formed a rapid series of solid images, using vibration and flashing lines to show color, make noise.  What they revealed was a void even greater than this one.  Somehow, the space between worlds.  Showed that great vessels from elsewhere were plunging through it like fiery spears; cutting, tearing, laying waste¡­ and killing the motes with every traversal.  It was as though the intruders were misty-stepping enormous distances, with great mass and terrible purpose.


    <u>-We perish-</u> whispered the face, shifting its billions of motes.  <u>-Aid.  Assistance required.-</u>


    Once again, Filno and Val exchanged glances.  Then,


    ¡°How?¡± asked Valerian.  ¡°What can we do to save you?¡±


    A thin, seething tendril of darkness streamed like a vine from that jittery wall.  It extended itself, painfully crossing light and air to touch both young elves on the forehead.


    <u>-Awaken-</u> it pled. <u>-Act.  Locate Etherion.-</u>


    And then, before either elf could reply, the motes began dying.  They turned grey and they powdered like dust, having created a toxic oasis in which to deliver their plea. Filimar and Valerian were thrust back into that life-draining void.  That should have been all.


    But there was plentiful dark, grainy manna here in this non-place and¡­ now a bit rested¡­ Val took hold and bent it.  Clasped Filimar¡¯s hand wrist-to-wrist as their cell burst apart. Then, reading the negative shadow of their own world, he opened the way into Karellon, City of Golden Light.

 Sword and Sorcery Five, chapter thirteen

    <u>13</u>


    The Blessed Isles were exactly as near or as far as they deigned to be, existing in a Fey-wild Ocean. They were located up-and-out, not along Midworld¡¯s curve, but straight past it, in a direction that no mortal vessel could go. Seahorse had two glowing blue eyes, though, which saw through the mists and parted the veils, making their voyage possible.


    They sailed toward sunrise; the others waking as dawn lit the sky like a painter¡¯s brush. Lerendar sensed the change, when the waters turned deep, wine-like purple, capped with a filagree seafoam of opal and gold. Here, there were merfolk and dragons, and cities built on the shells of great turtles. Here were soaring castles of cloud. In this place, manna washed over and through every visitor, revealing true forms and healing the troubled.


    Andorin¡¯s dulcimer had converted itself to a flute carved of silver and wood. He played it now, piping a lilting tune that twined with the music of waves and of wind in the rigging. From below decks came laughter and chiding and orders to ¡°Wash first, you heathens!¡±


    Lerendar turned with a smile to the ship¡¯s mid-hatch, whence rose all the tumult of childish squeals and clattering feet on the ladder-well. His wife-to-be and his child were not the first out, though.


    First to rise from below was a lovely, shimmering air-sprite; a vision of cloud-purple hair, stained-glass wings and pale mist. The bard kept playing but nobody else made a sound or a motion, except to look upward as Lady Alfea rose spiraling into the air. Her slim arms were raised, greeting the dawn. Her hair¡­ grown impossibly long¡­ streamed all around and behind her, trailing the sprite like the tail of a comet. Her butterfly wings came alive with images, reflecting her mood and all that she saw as she flew. For garments, Alfea had only rainbow and mist and her own violet hair. She was singing, in a childish-sweet, untutored way.


    Zara, Pretty One and Mirielle were next to burst from below, their faces smeared with butter and crumbs, rosy with laughter. They, too, tried to fly, succeeding in very short, sparking hops. Zara¡¯s effort took her straight into her father¡¯s strong arms. He fielded her like a hurtling court-ball, before she went over the rail. Bronn caught Miri, while Pretty One landed on Andorin¡¯s shoulder (to be handed down without interrupting the music).


    Beatriz was next out, followed by Katina, holding his brother¡¯s new baby. Last of all, fighting a smile, came Ava, leaving her post at the taffrail to join all the others.


    ¡°Papa!¡± yelled Zara, seizing his head to command his attention. ¡°Papa, I¡¯m learning to fly! Lady Fee said she¡¯d teach us and help us get wings! I¡¯m gonna get wings, Papa!¡±


    Wondering if all children everywhere were always this loud, Lerendar toned down her voice and his hearing.


    ¡°I¡¯m sure they¡¯ll be wonderful, Scamp,¡± he teased, tossing her upward and catching her out of the air again. ¡°But don¡¯t fly too high or they¡¯ll melt like candy-floss.¡±


    The girl¡¯s blue eyes widened. One hand twined in Lerendar¡¯s scarlet cloak, she craned around to look up at Lady Alfea. The air-sprite was dancing with dragons and breezes.


    ¡°Lady Fee!¡± called Zara, using magic to re-boost her voice. ¡°Lady Fee! Not too high, or you¡¯ll melt!¡±


    Lerendar dropped his hearing still lower. Kissed his woman when she came forward, holding a plate of much-needed breakfast.


    ¡°Trade you,¡± he offered, exchanging small Zara for food. Odd fact, but everything tastes better on deck, at sea. Lerendar made very short work of his eggs, toast and bacon, just about conjuring it directly into his stomach. Here in the Fey-realm, he had magic¡­ just as his mother had claimed.


    There was food for the prince, rogue and ranger, as well, brought up by the spirits of Seahorse. Ava faerie-cached hers, not willing to eat before Lerendar. Not so the others, who lounged around, scraping their plates and draining their cups. Noisily.


    ¡°Did you greet your lord-father properly?" scolded Bea, smoothing Scamp¡¯s curly dark hair from her face.


    Zara rolled her eyes. Heaved a disgusted sigh, then turned in her mother¡¯s arms to bow.


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    ¡°Good morning, my lord!¡± she growled, sounding aggrieved. ¡°You look very lordy. I never seen such a lord, never-ever. Of all the lords, there¡¯s my papa. He¡¯s a lord, if anyone didn¡¯t know that, already!¡±


    Lerendar kept a straight face with real difficulty. Miri and Pretty One were flat on the deck, laughing their empty heads off, while Andorin grinned.


    ¡°Pray do not mention my own rank,¡± teased the sea-elf. ¡°I have not all morning to listen while I am extolled by this charming young muse.¡±


    Ava hovered uncertainly at the fringes, ready to defend her lord¡¯s honor if necessary¡­ but fighting a smile of her own. This¡­ was good. Felt like family. It drew the young scout like a campfire¡¯s warmth. Just to her left, Katina fussed with the baby, hiding her smile behind long, copper hair.


    Lerendar settled the matter by reaching across to muss Zara¡¯s dark curls. Her summery eyes, pointed ears and bright smile were his. Her black hair, spice-bark skin and sarcastic wit were all Bea.


    ¡°That,¡± he declared, ¡°was a thorough ¡®my lording¡¯. I feel braced to embark on a day full of lordish activity, now.¡±


    His daughter scrunched up her face at him.


    ¡°One ¡®my lord¡¯ a day, every morning! That¡¯s the rules, Papa!¡± she replied fiercely. ¡°No more. Not till tomorrow!¡±


    ¡°I am chastened,¡± he laughed, bowing his head in mock sorrow. ¡°On the other hand, Prince Andorin and Lord Elmaris over here could certainly do with a greeting.¡±


    <u>¡°Uggghhh!</u>¡± groused Zara, tipping her head backward onto her mother¡¯s shoulder. ¡°How many are there??!¡±


    ¡°No concern at all, little maid,¡± soothed Andorin. He¡¯d tucked his flute away. Now, taking Zara¡¯s small, grubby hand, he kissed it, adding, ¡°Foreign royalty require no special greeting beyond a swift curtsy, and¡­ as for this shady fellow¡­.¡±


    Jerking his head at the rogue, black eyes dancing, Andorin said,


    ¡°He came backward out of his mum, and he¡¯s been confused, ever since. Doesn¡¯t know he¡¯s a kidnapped prince.¡± (Stage whispered that part behind his hand, but loudly enough to be heard by all.) ¡°You¡¯ll help the scoundrel to hide from his enemies by calling him ¡®Rugwart the Foul¡¯, and by pouring all of his worship onto your father, instead. Trust me¡­ he needs it.¡±


    Bea¡¯s expression was indescribable, as were Katina and Ava¡¯s. No three females had ever fought so hard not to laugh. Elmaris, on the other hand, looked ready to throttle Andorin. There might have been words, but then Lady Alfea dropped back to the deck; radiant, laughing and achingly beautiful. In a cloud of glittering fey-lights, she descended to join them. Her stained-glass wings fluttered a bit, casting pictures of Seahorse seen from above, along with a string of mist-shrouded islands.


    ¡°I had forgotten,¡± she gasped, as the wings disappeared and her clothing returned, ¡°how very wonderful it is to fly.¡±


    Taking Bean from Katina with a word of warm thanks, the lovely air-sprite kissed her bairn¡¯s forehead.


    ¡°Next time, Little Bean, I¡¯ll take you up with me. And so, every day, until we are back with your Da.¡±


    Simple promise and love, but nobody laughed or doubted her. Turning sapphire eyes onto Lerendar, Alfea next said,


    ¡°There are islands ahead. Not lumbering turtles or spouting whales. Real lands, draped all in gold light.¡±


    Lerendar nodded.


    ¡°The Blessed Isles, Milady,¡± he explained. ¡°We should be there soon, if our quest be judged worthy. There are temples and shops and an oracle-spring on Epona, which is first and greatest of all the dawn-lands. There, we will surely hear news of Valerian.¡±


    Alfea¡¯s face changed subtly at the sound of her young husband¡¯s name. Pretty One had crept up, and now thrust a small goblin paw into Lady Alfea¡¯s hand.


    ¡°He is in peril and torn many ways,¡± whispered the air-sprite, squeezing Pretty One¡¯s hand. ¡°We must hurry, but¡­ I sense that our way is not a direct one. Not yet.¡± She glanced upward once, continuing, ¡°I traded much to return here, back to one worth all that I cast aside. All that, and more.¡±


    Maybe because of her words, clouds appeared on the eastern horizon. Sea birds and shining dragons wheeled through the air, as a mountainous, forested island appeared. Wreathed in mist and capped with gold spires, it seemed to hang between sea and sky; not quite of either: Blessed Epona of the nine peaks.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Elsewhere and not quite meanwhile, High Lord Arvendahl decided to hedge his bets. Perhaps his stratagem with the gate had succeeded. Perhaps that demon-spawn devil-pup traitor had found a way through, bringing with him the exile.


    ¡®Always best to be certain the deed is done right,¡¯ he thought.


    His Lordship sat in his opulent cabin aboard Vancora, gazing at bobbing spell globes and rustling charts. At his gesture and thought, one of those silvery globes drifted nearer, crossing his polished wood chart table.


    There was an organization whose discreet services he¡¯d employed in the past. Called ¡®The Red Hand¡¯, their motto was: No escape, no mercy, no hope. More: they never failed to deliver. Five of the heads that decorated his palace walls had arrived in a black box, lid printed on top with a spread, blood-red hand.


    They were a den of assassins based in Karellon, and their fees were quite steep. 12,000 gold pieces, a divine artefact, or five souls. Typically, Arvendahl paid in bright coin, without question. For a target this vital, though¡­ to stanch a wound so painful and raw¡­ he was willing to meet and double their usual price.


    Into the spell globe His Lordship spoke, first tracing a sigil and then saying,


    ¡°I would converse with Losirr the Feral, Master Assassin. For him, and as many hunters as he would engage, I have work.¡±


    The globe swirled and rose, its light reflected in Arvendahl¡¯s gem-blue eyes. A shadowy figure formed in the orb, and a voice murmured,


    ¡°Losirr speaks. How may I serve my lord¡¯s pleasure? Who dies this day, and how badly?¡±

 Sword and Sorcery Five, chapter fourteen

    <u>14</u>


    Down below, a bit earlier:


    Shanella¡¯s personal shielding and magic had warded most of the palace and part of the city, but the cries of the dead¡­ of her people¡­ clogged her hearing and clawed at her heart. Angry, the sea-elf queen ignored a brief, flickering missive from the voidlings above, refusing negotiation.


    Her son was alive and fully responsive, returned to her from wherever his soul had been wandering. Meanwhile, the Tarandahl lordling had vanished, blasting a hole through the palace that still glowed red at its edges. His aunt was present, though, doing her best to calm Zaresh.


    Shanella ought to have struck back at once, but compassion for the terrible plight of her subjects won out over revenge. Using her magic, Meliara¡¯s and that of the willing druid, she set to work lifting debris, instead. Reached out with contagion magic to pull dragon-flame into Averna¡¯s broiling vent, whispering: ¡°Lesser to greater, like unto like. Fly to the source of all fire and heat, Wrath of Serpents.¡±


    The business took time, but slowly, great boulders of shattered coral and stone rose shimmering off of the seabed. Like ponderous meteors flying reversed, the blocks and walls lifted, sometimes releasing survivors, but mostly revealing just squashed, tangled corpses below.


    The wood-elf druid had sheltered all that he could. As a mage, his power rivaled her own¡­ but so many thousands had perished; crushed, burned, or pulped by massive shockwaves. Shanella could not bring herself to speak anything else than commands, not even to thank him for helping.


    Soon, the queen¡¯s heart turned from pity to rage.


    Dragon-flame twisted and streamed from its shriveled fuel to the boiling vent, scoring her city¡¯s ¡°sky¡± with searing bright gashes. Bits of people and creatures hung in the water, bloodless and torn; too much for even the ocean¡¯s currents and scavengers to deal with.


    ¡°I will have vengeance,¡± whispered Shanella. ¡°For myself, and for those who believed I could save them. The ones I failed to protect.¡±


    Turning to face Meliara, she said,


    ¡°Princess of Air, you have done as you promised¡­ after bringing destruction and death to my realm. For the return of my son, I am grateful. Leave. <u>Now</u>. Depart from me with all those you care for, and never be seen here again.¡±


    Meliara rose from tending the bound and struggling prince. There was nothing to say, and she wasn¡¯t fool enough to attempt an apology. Merely bowed her head in assent. When a tendril of magical seaweed quested into the chamber, the oracle let it take hold of her wrist. It was a sending of Gildyr¡¯s she sensed; one stretched out from the druid¡¯s position. Still hard at work fighting to rescue survivors, he¡¯d heard the queen¡¯s order; felt her rage and her pain.


    Meliara vanished moments later, along with the tendril of weed. Shanella scarcely noticed. To the dead, those of her folk whose roughly-torn souls yet lingered, she cried,


    ¡°Rise! Find and destroy the ones who have done this thing. Father Ocean, grant me blood in repayment of blood, measure for measure, in unending torrents!¡±


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Overhead, a sudden sharp rap on his cabin door roused Lord Arvendahl out of his plotting. He rose to his feet in fierce anger, for he¡¯d left orders that he wished no disturbance.


    Vancora¡¯s first officer was an elf whose name Arvendahl hadn¡¯t bothered to learn. She knelt in the passage just beyond the cabin¡¯s carved threshold.


    ¡°My Lord,¡± gasped the officer, bowing her head to the deck. ¡°Creatures rise from the ocean. The fleet is under attack, Sir.¡±


    Arvendahl snarled in frustration. Stilling the contact-globe with a gesture, he kicked the officer out of his path, then strode back onto the deck of his airship. Summoned his sword, Grassfire, igniting its blade as he went. Using magic, he reached down for the earth that lay below water, ready to trigger apocalypse.


    Outside, the walls of that hurricane eye were fast closing in. Waterspouts whipped like jellyfish tendrils, lashing at drifting airships. The fleet, he saw, was being driven apart. More, though¡­ dead sea-elves and merfolk and things of the deep had arisen in sodden, furious droves.


    As the wind shrieked and howled¡­ as lightning raked the dark skies, overwhelming his shields¡­ a horde of undead rose from the maelstrom below like slavering ghouls. Dripping fluid and ectoplasm, these crushed and burnt corpses clambered up over the gunwales and onto his vessel in hundreds. Thousands.


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    Arvendahl was no coward. Shouting,


    ¡°Repel boarders! Defend Vancora!¡± He leapt to the fray. Turning his head, he commanded his limping first officer. ¡°<u>Climb</u>! All vessels, best speed through the eye and out of this storm!¡±


    ¡°Yes, Lord!¡± she called back, barely audible over the sudden fury of tempest and battle.


    An elf-lord in wrath is a blood-freezing sight. Arvendahl glowed like a star. Wielded by the High Lord, Grassfire blazed like its namesake; fierce, hot and unstoppable, devouring all in its path. As the shrieking undead poured onto his ship, as Vancora surged wildly upward¡­ deck slanting, mage-engines roaring¡­ Arvendahl battled and slew like a demon.


    Cutting, slashing, spinning away from attack. Gutting, beheading, bisecting and kicking the very-much dead off his blade. Meanwhile, his crew and officers fought as they were expected to. His Lordship barely took notice, battling to defend himself and his airship as the hurricane closed like a fist. Waterspouts claimed first Raptor then Varg, turning the airships to shattered kindling and windmilling bodies.


    Rain lashed, painting the decks with pinkish rivers of blood. Wood splintered and metal rang under sword-cut and spear-thrust. Undead monsters landed with wet smacks on the planking, bringing down shrieking half-elves and officers.


    Meanwhile, Vancora drove for the skies, for that one bright dot overhead. Her mage-engines howled with the strain, shaking the sea-dragon nearly apart. She got there, by Oberyn¡¯s grace, just as a screaming nix-body dropped onto His Lordship from up in the rigging. He twisted wildly, trying to get his sword out and around. Too late, as Grassfire¡¯s blade was caught on the stoven-in ribs of a merman.


    A tide of reeking undead scrambled over the struggling elf-lord, hauling him into their fetid embrace. Blood thundered and rang in his ears. His breath came raggedly fast, but¡­ he¡­ would¡­ not¡­ die. Not here, not this day. Bitten, slashed, gouged at, he released manna wildly; a sudden, unfocused burst that incinerated Vancora¡¯s mainmast and shrouds, along with the dead, and most of Vancora¡¯s crew. Their screams blent with the last cries of those torched ocean corpses, were carried away by a mild, gusting wind that whistled high over the cloud band.


    Purple-dark, shot through with lightning, the storm below closed on all of the fleet except Vancora, Terroc, Deathstroke and Falcon. Everything else was gone. Arvendahl straightened, sheathing Grassfire. His flesh was torn in many places, the wounds already darkening. One eye was gone¡­ but he lived. As Vancora leveled, her straining engines dropping from howl to low purr, he snapped,


    ¡°All captains, report!¡±


    At his command, the glowing image of three elves¡­ one just a terrified mid-shipman¡­ appeared on the deck before Arvendahl.


    ¡°My Lord,¡± they chorused raggedly, bending the knee. Then,


    ¡°Terroc reports all clear, Milord, with half-power remaining and loss of twenty-four crew, three officers,¡± said Shevann, captain of the Terroc. The smaller airship drifted to port about ten miles away. The vessel¡¯s commander was still breathing hard, clutching a wadded cloth to a streaming wound on her side, but she managed to stand as she made her report.


    Arvendahl nodded. Turned his eye next to a stoic male elf with black hair, blue eyes and an upsettingly familiar face. Tormun, master and commander of Deathstroke; some five miles away, dead ahead.


    ¡°My Lord¡­ Deathstroke is secure,¡± said the tall elf, father of traitors and exiles. ¡°Power is low but climbing. Thirty crew lost, and all but my first officer, dead. I resign my commission¡­ Milord.¡±


    Once again, High Lord Arvendahl nodded. Deathstroke¡¯s first officer was present, a mere shadow behind Captain Tormun. Addressing that half-glimpsed first mate, Arvendahl said,


    ¡°Resignation accepted. First officer assumes command. Throw him overboard, Captain. The gannets and crabs may have him.¡±


    He did not linger to see the job done. To watch a small, flailing dot plunge from Deathstroke, down to the storm below. Tormun¡¯s image vanished moments later, though, replaced by a grim-faced, light-eyed female.


    Next, the High Lord¡¯s gaze shifted to the young midshipman, all that remained of Falcon¡¯s bridge crew. Falcon was listing badly, one of her manna tanks ruptured by lightning, all but six feet of her mast gone. The red-haired boy bowed again.


    ¡°M- Milord¡­ Falcon is damaged, but able to fly. I¡­ have tasked people to patch the main tank and¡­ and raise a spare mast. Three crew still alive, Sir, and¡­ and just me.¡± He was crying, which Arvendahl couldn¡¯t abide. ¡°W- We tried, Sir. There were so many, and Captain Varric, he¡­¡±


    ¡°Enough sniveling. Pull yourself together and lead your ship, or I¡¯ll send someone across to replace you,¡± growled the High Lord.


    The boy hiccupped, dashing at tears with one clenched fist, the other still gripping tight to his sword hilt. Someone placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, giving the lad a brief shake. Murmured something that Arvendahl couldn¡¯t hear, but which put some iron back into the sagging young boy.


    ¡°Yes, Milord. My apologies, Sir. It will not happen again.¡±


    Arvendahl had turned by that time, no more interested in one feeble lad than he¡¯d been in the death of a traitor.


    ¡°We return to Milardin,¡± said His Lordship. ¡°Half speed, to conserve manna, flying over the clouds. All officers to check in on the candle-mark, as lit now.¡±


    At Arvendahl¡¯s gesture, a magical taper appeared at his side, striped all along its wax length. Similar candles materialized on the decks of Terroc, Deathstroke and Falcon. All four sparked to light together, synchronizing ship¡¯s time. Then,


    ¡°Crew to work on the mast. Healer, to me!¡± snapped the High Lord, whose wounds were beginning to stiffen and burn. He would have himself put to rights and then¡­ more than ever¡­ take care of the matter with Tarandahl.

 Sword and Sorcery Five, chapter fifteen

    <u>15</u>


    -Reboot successful.  Full function resumed. -


    He came back online to the confusion of wildly pinging internal gyroscopes and physical meat senses.  Found himself being carried in a series of long hops, clutched in a massive fist by something that sprang up and forward repeatedly, to drift back down in a retro-jet roar and the crackling flare of bright manna.  Landings and takeoffs were very precise, doing little damage to the slightly curved surface below.


    His locational sensors put him at .361 light-years from OS 1210 and Cerulean Dream, out of contact with OVR-Lord or even with V47.  It was the battle-mech¡¯s shell that held and transported him, but not its AI which¡­ he queried¡­ was cleansed of alien malware, but running a deep scan and systems check.  Offline, hunting for lingering damage.


    The pilot did not disturb his friend/ partner/ linked system¡¯s meditation.  V47 was doing precisely as it was meant to.  In the meantime, something else had assumed control of the altered mech, and was moving it rapidly over a strange, artificial landscape. Servos whined and metal clashed with each upward bound.  Steel resounded and thundered with every short, graceful touchdown.  At the peak of each hop, the pilot saw/ scanned a huge and gently curved metal surface.  Steel and neutronium-alloy, mostly, with interleaved layers of silver and gold; branched, sparkling circuitry everywhere.


    Packed with structures in orderly rows, with buildings, rectangular parklands and one very long, winding sea, the surface extended past the forward horizon.  It swept upward to disappear behind a seething, caged magnetar which¡­ words, concepts and sensory data couldn¡¯t encompass.


    He stared, seeing a brilliant and beautiful black-light star 2.261 miles in diameter, massing 1.8 standard suns.  Its savagely powerful magnetic field, intense gravitation and rotational energies had been harnessed to build and maintain the vast shell that partly surrounded it.  Otherwise, the pilot¡¯s data would have been wiped by a 10^10 mag-field, and his biological substance utterly fried.


    Periodic storms swept the magnetar¡¯s surface, looking like vast tornadoes of tangled gamma and X-ray light.  These horrendous tempests emitted long, tangled field-lines of magnetic power.  Its ferocious energies¡­ its immense manna¡­ were drawn off into a massive storage array, effectively caging that lovely stellar ghoul.


    As for the system currently operating V47¡­ upon being queried, it replied with an entirely foreign, outdated handshake protocol. Sending,


    //!#~~! TTN-iA --->  V47-Core ~~ Greeting! ~~//


    The pilot responded with his own contact/ work-level interface access, noting that TTN-iA was tagged ¡®friendly¡¯ in very old, spotty noodle code.  There was nothing else, no other intelligence present within the magnetar¡¯s shell. Nothing computerized or biological seemed to be thinking here other than TTN-iA, V47 and Pilot.


    The ancient AI had been busy.  It had altered V47 considerably, increasing the battle-mech¡¯s shielding and mass to a hefty 3.57 tons and adding a second set of legs.  V47 was now quadrupedal.  Its pilot had drives and protocol for such a configuration, though switching required expansion of functionality.  (Operating two extra limbs while fighting and flying was¡­ as Ace would have put it¡­ no joke.)  The term ¡°centaur¡± came to his conscious awareness from a very old, long-buried file.


    V47 Pilot launched two of his drones, having them fly a scan pattern over the hopping battle-mech.  Had to admit that the new configuration was impressive, if odd.  Querying the AI¡¯s destination netted a torrent of images.  There was gate, it appeared.  A Mark-30 industrial transport model, currently inactive.  It was to this behemoth of a portal that they were headed, in mile-long leaps and out-of-the-atmosphere bounds.


    His helmet had formed automatically.  Stayed on, too, after the first few hops.  The shell¡¯s atmosphere did not extend very far from its surface.  Carried very few chemical traces, other than metal, water and plastic.  Felt and smelled newly generated.


    Curious (and because he¡¯d wondered the same thing about Orbital Station) the pilot recalled his drones and asked,


    ¡°TTN-iA, query:  Where is everyone?  This structure is very large, clearly meant to house assets, crew and biological inhabitants.  Why is nobody present?¡±


    He received another squeal/ burst of outdated code, followed by images the pilot parsed as well as he could.


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    //~~ Gone, ~// was what he gathered. //~~ Project abandoned.  Hostile activity detected.  Biological resources filed. Etherion. ~~//


    The flickering images portrayed humanoid biologicals streaming away from Titania¡¯s shell.  Not physically.  Their wizened forms were still present, it seemed; maintained to the best of its ability by TTN-iA.  They¡¯d gone, somehow, in mind.


    The ancient system brought them down with a <u>THUMP</u> on the shore of that winding and sterile sea.  Partly within it, actually, as V47 came back online, and TTN-iA relinquished control of the battle-mech.


    ¡®Pilot has regained conscious function,¡¯ remarked his friend. ¡®Scans reveal optimal power and tissue-health.  Trace anxiety-chemistry present in Pilot¡¯s organic systems.¡¯


    He was gently lowered to the artificial beach, (shore leave, again!) released into precisely rhythmic, thigh-deep surf.  V47 Pilot felt his facial muscles shifting into a smile.  The massive hand still hovered, ready to seize him again, should he be overwhelmed by the surging water, lose his footing on ¡°sand¡± that was composed of uniform, prismatic small cubes.


    He did not stumble, having regained gyroscopic and meat-sense stability.  Did touch one of V47¡¯s huge gun-fingers with his own cyborg hand, sending,


    ¡°Thank you, V.  I note that you have returned to full function, as well.¡±  Then, because Icebox¡­ Mikale¡­ would have said it, ¡°Gotta love the new look, Partner.¡±


    V47 launched drones of its own, scanning itself from fresh angles, in multiple wavelengths.


    ¡®A tetrapod conformation provides greater speed and stability on discontinuous settings such as shoreline and city.  Pilot may require an upgrade for the additional limb-set, however.¡¯


    He was already working on that.  In the meantime, a swarm of tiny lenses and drones had assembled beside them, 2.3 yards from the water¡¯s edge.  TTN-iA shaped a feminoid body out of 3,257,004 individual components, causing circuitry to flare through it like forked, branching lightning. A pair of mirrored eyes opened up in the face region, which was blurry and seething, otherwise.


    Electronic handshakes were sent and exchanged all around.  Access granted past work/ comm level; what in AI terms amounted to friendship.  TTN-iA communicated mostly through images, first echoing whatever was sent, then altering the code to a glittering holograph.  Through its pictures, they learned that the Mark-30 gate was now powered and active, but 137.22 miles further up-curve, on the Winding Sea¡¯s opposite shore.


    They might have just flown across, but TTN-iA raised a series of spires from out of the curving shell.  A sort of steppingstone path arose through that artificial ocean, causing crosscurrents as each block surged through the water and into the air.  Looked like a string of landing buoys.


    137.22 miles was a long walk, but manna was plentiful here, and time very distorted.  The magnetar pulsed and whirled overhead, its savage eruptions forever controlled, drained and stored.


    V47 Pilot climbed back into his mech, first settling into the probes and contact plates¡­ <u>home</u>¡­ then calling up tetrapod ambulation and flight data.  Leaned (at first) pretty heavily on the tutorial-mode.


    TTN-iA traveled as a cloud of swarming components, leading the way.  Managing an altered shape came much more naturally to the battle-mech than it did to the pilot, who frankly struggled.  The glitchy add-on¡­ quadruped-upload¡­ took a full 32 ticks to mesh with the pilot¡¯s systems, causing him to miss-time steps or to place those extra limbs in the water, rather than onto the stones.


    He started to get the way of it, though.  Achieved near-optimal functionality, after a candle-mark filled with slips, stumbles and partial immersion.  Then V47 suggested,


    ¡®Querying Pilot:  This system is able to further alter configuration.  A hydrodynamic shape is possible, allowing this unit to ¡°swim¡±.  Accept proposal: Y/ N?¡¯


    ¡°Yes,¡± responded the pilot, who was sure he could swim better than run about on four legs.  V47 flared with sudden bright light, absorbing manna, converting mass.  Inside, the pilot¡¯s position changed from seated, with contact plates pressed into his lower back for those wretched rear legs, to stretched out.  A row of probes traced his spine, arms and¡­ not forelegs.  Just <u>legs</u>. Still different, but better.  Then new serpentine shape was much simpler to maneuver, slipping off of the stones and into the sea with barely a ripple.


    TTN-iA plunged into the water, as well, now resembling a school of swirling-bright fish.  Next, the steppingstones retracted; receding out of sight and back into shadow, reabsorbed by the shell down below.  As they shot through that barren ocean (churned by wave machines to exactly .3 waves per tick) V47 pilot queried,


    ¡°Why did the human operators leave, TTN-iA?  Why did they shut down the project, and where did they go?¡±


    //! ~ Left~// The AI responded.  //! ~ Hostile activity detected. Command received.  War unwinnable.  Retreat to Etherion. ~//


    A term it had used previously.  One for which he had no data or files, whatsoever.


    ¡®Pilot, this line of inquiry evokes the strongest possible defense protocol.  If persisted in, a complete memory-wipe and destruct is advised,¡¯ broke in V47, anxiously deploying show-vids, music and squirts of calming drug.


    ¡­but the damage was done. Along with images from many angles of a wandering planet, of a circuit-laced mithral sphere and frantic human technicians, the pilot received a set of gate coordinates that he instantly memory-holed.  Put away in a file tagged: dangerous malware.  To be opened two ticks from the day before yesterday, if ever at all.


    Found his biological senses ringing and heart pounding wildly, mouth going suddenly dry as V47 went through a quantum-swift series of cleansing commands.  Together, they negated that destruct protocol by just .0043th of a tick.


    It was there, though¡­ that hazardous file.  That fatal knowledge.  V47 and Pilot threw barriers, firewalls and entire legions of Internal Countermeasures up, containing the data.


    But it was there.

 Sword and Sorcery Five, chapter sixteen

    <u>16</u>


    The remains of the fleet¡­Vancora, Terroc, Deathstroke and Falcon¡­ had put hard about. High over storm winds and raging abyss, they made half-speed for distant Milardin. But up-striking lightning and questing cyclones made the long journey a nightmare of constant watch and frantic repairs.


    The small, speedy Falcon suffered worst of all, having sustained the most damage and lost four/fifths of her crew. All but her young captain, Hallan Gelfrin ad Reddick, and three half-elves were dead. A spare mast had been raised for manna and steering. The main tank, Hallan struggled to patch. He¡¯d strung himself over the side with Chief Laurol, working to seal a long tear in the plating.


    Hanging there over a raging tempest, the determined young officer riveted sheet-metal held up by the magic and strength of the chief. Sarrit leaned over the rail, meanwhile, keeping watch with arrow and darts for attack. There were dragons and griffins at this level, too, and the keen-eyed marine had already brought down three of them.


    On the quarterdeck, Not-Jonn steered, cursed and hammered the instruments; alternately raging at Lord Oberyn and begging his aid. Not-Jonn was Falcon¡¯s helmsman, down to one arm, but still in the fight... getting all the speed that he could out of Falcon''s struggling engines.


    The bodies of Captain Varric and the rest of the crew had been shrouded in canvas, then spoken over. They lay now in the captain¡¯s cabin, for no one had the heart to heave their dead shipmates into the storm. They were going home. All of them.


    Over streaming, purple-dark cloud and forked lightning, young Hallan placed the last mithral rivet, then spoke a word of command.


    ¡°Veyan!¡± he called out, raising his voice to be heard over gusting wind and the rattle of sail. ¡°Mend!¡±


    Chief Laurol uttered some words of her own, adding her magic to the red-haired young captain¡¯s. The patch-plate glowed red, seemed to alter and creep, then became flush with the damaged container. Just like that, manna stopped hissing and fizzing out through the seams, and the giant bronze tank became whole.


    Hallan hung there in harness, torn between crazy laughter and tears. Beside him, Chief Laurol was carefully putting up leftover rivets and patch-plating, tucking everything back into Falcon¡¯s main pocket. Squinting at the repaired tank, she said,


    ¡°Rare fine work, Sir. Himself ¡®ud be proud.¡±


    ¡­meaning Varric, the Captain, who¡¯d died defending his ship. <u>Not</u> the High Lord. A bowstring twanged and an arrow hissed past them; parting Laurol¡¯s white hair to bury itself in the eye of a swooping griffin. The monster uttered a bubbling screech, its great, beaked head whipped around by the force of Lancer Sarrit¡¯s fine shot. The beast convulsed once, then spiraled, wings trailing, down to the hungry storm.


    Hallan nodded his thanks to Laurol and Sarrit, not trusting himself to speak. Rapped on the tank with one scratched-up fist, for luck and to signal Falcon to winch them aboard. One of the airship¡¯s glowing blue eyes was on their side of the hull, helping keep watch. It remained level with Hallan and Laurol, as they were drawn back up and over the railing, to stand on the deck.


    ¡®Repair effective,¡¯ sent the ship, as Hallan shucked off his harness and line. She¡¯d begun speaking to him, now that his brother¡­ now that Captain Varric was gone. ¡®Remaining manna preserved, absorption at quarter capacity, Captain.¡¯


    Hallan nodded, feeling the airship¡¯s spirit fit in with his thoughts. There was something of Varric still there and¡­ that helped give him courage. Aloud, he said,


    ¡°Aye that, Falcon. Thank you.¡±


    Sarrit had lowered his bow. The grizzled half-elf marine gestured forward, where Vancora, Deathstroke and Terroc were no more than tiny, glimmering dots.


    ¡°They ain¡¯t plannin¡¯ ter wait fer us, Sir,¡± he grunted. ¡°We¡¯re on our own, looks like.¡±


    Hallan turned his head to watch the departing fleet. Swallowed hard, then squared his slim shoulders, seeming too wispy for all of that sudden braiding and metal.


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    ¡°Let them go. We will continue repairs, and beat them to port, once ¡®Speedy¡¯, here is back to full power. I shall personally wave at His Lordship, as we fly circles around Vancora on our way in.¡±


    Sarrit and Laurol both grinned at him, the chief saying,


    ¡°Aye that, Sir! I¡¯ll wave, as well. Behind ¡®is Lordship¡¯s back, with only one finger!¡±


    Hallan should have admonished the Chief, but¡­ but he¡¯d been just about raised aboard Falcon, from cabin-boy to midshipman to¡­ to captain. The crew were his people, his family, just like they¡¯d been Varric¡¯s. He managed a smile and said,


    ¡°We¡¯ll give the High Lord the salute he deserves,¡±


    ¡­and then headed back up to the quarterdeck. There, Airman Not-Jonn was fighting the wheel and railing at heaven. He, too, had noticed the fleet¡¯s desertion. Spat over the rail in response.


    ¡°Guess ¡®is Lordship ¡®as better things ter do than stand by ¡®is own people,¡± grumbled the helmsman, scowling darkly. Like the others, his light brown hair was tied back in a tail. Unlike the rest, his face was a network of scars.


    ¡°It is the way of cowards to flee before trouble,¡± said Hallan, as Falcon meshed further into his thoughts. ¡°We have all that we need, right here. A good ship, a fine crew and¡­ and a captain who¡¯s willing to learn whatever his people can teach him.¡±


    Falcon hummed, engine noise swelling from rattle to purr. On the instrument panel, power continued to build. As for the crew, well¡­ they¡¯d already loved him. He was their boy, and his blood had mingled with theirs on the deck, as they¡¯d fought back-to-back, defending their vessel. There was nothing they wouldn¡¯t have done for their captain.


    The sun was directly over the mast by then, and everyone deeply bone-weary. No time to sleep, though. Not with so few left to man Falcon.


    ¡°Full rations and a tot of grog apiece,¡± ordered Hallan, adding, ¡°We need it. I¡¯ll take your place at the wheel, Mister Not-Jonn. Eat, rest as well as you can. Then, we¡¯ll switch out. I¡­¡±


    It was then that a sparrow fluttered up from behind them, seeming almost to tumble in flight, so wild were those gusting, high-altitude winds. The small bird fought its way to the deck of the Falcon, where it landed on Hallan¡¯s right shoulder.


    ¡°Hullo,¡± said the young officer, startled. ¡°Long way from home, aren¡¯t you, little fellow?¡±


    The sparrow puffed out its disordered brown feathers. Its claws sank into the captain¡¯s gold-braided epaulet as it smoothed itself down with its beak. Sarrit had already started below for some biscuit, dried meat and grog, when the sparrow hopped off of Hallan¡¯s shoulder and onto the deck. There¡­


    Well, it changed forms; becoming a dark-haired, rumpled young wood-elf. Druid, from the look of him, one of the fugitives they¡¯d set out to capture. His clothing was all askew, antler headdress drooping over one ear, cloak tangled around him, no belt, no boots, no blade and no laces. Nor was that all.


    At the wood-elf¡¯s gesture and word¡­ as Sarrit rushed back to join Laurol and Not-Jonn protecting their captain¡­ a slew of others emerged from the druid¡¯s travel-pocket. In just a few moments, an elven ranger, a tabaxi, a drow and a mortal wizard thumped down on the deck of the Falcon, rubbing their backs and stretching. With them came three diverse warriors (one was an orc) and a lovely blonde she-elf. Not just <u>one</u> fugitive. Nearly all of them. Here, now, onboard his ship.


    ¡°Peace,¡± gasped the druid, as Hallan reached for the hilt of his sword. Extending a placating hand, trying to smile, the wood-elf croaked, ¡°We mean no harm at all, Captain¡­ good folk¡­ we just¡­¡±


    The druid staggered. Would have fallen, but the drow and mortal together caught hold of their sagging comrade. That black-and-white tabaxi, meanwhile, stood with her face to the wind, fur rippling, ears pricked forward, golden eyes glowing. Turning once more to face Hallan, she bowed. A small golden monkey popped out of tattoo to hop on her shoulder, right before Hallan¡¯s wide eyes.


    ¡°An airship!¡± exulted the cat-girl, her voice all rumbling purr. ¡°Not since my days on the Flying Cloud, have I stood on a deck! Captain, we have need of shelter and passage. Having escaped unjust pursuit and imprisonment, we would work as crew in return for your aid.¡±


    Hallan looked them over carefully, using Falcon¡¯s insight as well as his own.


    ¡®There is no darkness but sorrow and loss and exhaustion. They have been wrongly accused,¡¯ said the ship, in his mind. ¡®The dark-elf seeks vengeance, but the matter is personal. He, too, may be trusted.¡¯


    Hallan nodded, accepting the airship¡¯s magical judgment. Murmured,


    ¡°Understood, Speedy.¡± Then, to the newcomers, he announced, ¡°I am Captain Hallan Gelfrin ad Reddick, of His Lordship¡¯s cutter Falcon. These are First Mate Laurol, Mister Sarrit and Mister Not-Jonn, my officers. We have¡­ we¡¯ve come through battle and storm and could use a full crew. But, erm¡­ But first, let¡¯s get you lot fed.¡±


    Best news the tabaxi had heard all day, seemed like. She ducked her sleek head, rumbling,


    ¡°Aye, Sir. These are Gildyr, a druid of Lobum¡­ Cinda, a ranger of Far Peak, in Lindyn¡­ Achilles, son of Murch, who is a wizard¡­ three paladins of the Constellate, by name Arnulf, Nadia and Vorbol¡­ Lady Meliara, an oracle¡­ and myself. Salme, of Distant Sands Oasis, third heir. This little rogue is Cap¡¯n, my friend and companion.¡±


    Hallan nodded, again. Nothing could erase what had happened or bring back the dead ¡­ but it seemed that Lord Oberyn had heard all the nagging and prayers, after all. Seemed like maybe he¡¯d pulled off a bit of divine sleight-of-hand.


    ¡°Welcome aboard,¡± said the captain; fearing to hope, lest he scare away shy, fragile luck.

 Sword and Sorcery Five, chapter seventeen

    <u>17</u>


    A series of brief vignettes:


    But of course, it was a trap. Naturally, the witch was cheated and slain. Or, she should have been.


    Having beaten the ghoul (as its final shriek still troubled the air) Ulnag turned to face the one who had called them both there. Turned to a throne made of twisted metal-scraps, wire and bone. On it, a skull had been nailed, at the level where a tall man¡¯s head would rest, were he to sit on that razor-edged seat. The skull wore a riveted iron crown. Its jaw hung loose, attached by a shred of flesh on the moldy left hinge. Gave it a mocking, sardonic look.


    The eye-sockets lit up with green corpse glow as Ulnag straightened out of her fighting crouch. A faint and flickering image covered it, forming the outline of a tall, seated man. Over the throne, against a backdrop of pour-stone and metal, a spiral of shining red light flared to life. Looked very much like the mark on the chest of her slave.


    ¡°Come, Servant of Darkness,¡± whispered a thin, reedy voice, the echo of greatness and cold, fierce command. ¡°Approach the throne.¡±


    The circular chamber was only some ten yards across but littered¡­ carpeted¡­ with eons of bone and withered, dried corpses. Flies buzzed and swarmed as the witch started forward, one hand clutched hard to the festering wound at her side.


    For the first time, Ulnag noticed a second, narrower stair, in shadow behind the dark throne. Its angles were strange. Shouldn¡¯t have worked, but the witch had no doubt at all that the stairway led to another chamber; one holding something this phantom would hide.


    She shuffled across, keeping her emptied dagger in hand. True evil accepts no allies. It uses, betrays and discards. Ulnag was fully aware of that. Thus, when the stone floor trickled upward to clamp and imprison her legs¡­ when a million death-screams congealed to form icy-tight ropes¡­ she wasn¡¯t surprised. Fought back, even; hurling her dagger and unleashing spells that did no harm at all to that crowned, enthroned ghost.


    It laughed at her efforts, not batting aside but absorbing them, then her, drawing Ulnag¡¯s lifeforce in great, lusty gulps. Through her, it also drained those she¡¯d slaughtered and eaten while getting there.


    The process took time, leaving the agonized witch further shriveled, the phantom more solid with each consumed soul. At last, mostly sated, nearly alive, the corpse-king rose from his throne. Dark-haired and icily handsome, he was. Tall, merciless, awful. His eyes remained skull sockets, glowing pale green, but the rest of him seemed a whole human man of old, noble lineage.


    He wore an elegant uniform, topped by a shimmering, buzzing cloak of black flies. Clasped with a red, pulsing gem, the cloak draped and swirled as the Fallen One stood. He descended the dais-steps a bit slowly, seeming to savor motion. Wasn¡¯t entirely free, though. A faint tendril of energy led from his cloak brooch, back to the pinioned skull. No matter. He could move about now, thanks to his recent meal, and he clearly relished doing so. Circled the chamber once, still sipping at Ulnag, enjoying the dregs of her strength.


    ¡°You should be honored,¡± he mocked, brushing at Ulnag¡¯s withered grey hair with idle fingers. ¡°For you have, indeed, served darkness, Hag. You have slain many, yielding not just your own soul and power, but theirs; providing an opulent feast.¡±


    Only, there was a part of her that¡­ try as he might¡­ the prince of ghouls could not drain. Something that shone through the mud that was Ulnag. Something that would not yield to the Fallen One¡¯s pull. She hadn¡¯t the strength left to scream as he gouged at the last bit of power inside of her. As he dug for a star that forever receded.


    ¡°So¡­¡± mused the nearly whole man, leaving Ulnag to weep in her bindings. His voice had filled out along with his form, resounding with power and health. ¡°You have fed on the blood of an Old One and tasted his soul. Somehow, that bit of the wretch protects you. That is truly amusing.¡±


    He left her to crouch on the floor, drained to a husk but unable to die. Smiling, the Fallen One went to the chamber¡¯s lone window. Leaned on the stone sill and looked out, musing,


    ¡°I thought I had ended the Old Ones and all of their works¡­ then rumors surfaced of broken stone and a freed elven warrior. I paid little heed, for desperate people will clutch any hope, and there have been ¡®saviors¡¯ before. I have slain and consumed every last one of them, Hag.¡±


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    Oddly, that glowing tendril seemed to gain substance, pull harder, the further he got from his throne. Now, it was nearly an adamant cable.


    Turning back from the window, he followed the binding¡¯s unbreakable pull, stopping once more beside Ulnag. She was a papery shell by that point; each painful breath, labored heartbeat, providing her captor fresh substance.


    The Fallen One lapped at those bottomless dregs, causing unspeakable torment, turning the witch¡¯s soul inside-out. Kept talking as he did it, as though they were met over drinks at a tavern. Indicating the sullen red spiral that hissed in the air by his throne, he said,


    ¡°Then, yon Chaos-mark flew to my tower, bringing with it a trace of dark goddess and Old One. Now, you¡­ who have supped from a near immortal.¡±


    He lowered his head, hands clasped at his back, thinking. Then, looking up again, posture erect, he remarked,


    ¡°If this hero exists¡­ if that goddess yet dwells in him¡­ then I will have all the power required to leave this prison, forever. I would be free, Crone. I would cease battling the weapon¡¯s advance and allow this dark world to perish. Only, escape must be purchased through sacrifice. Not mine and not yours. Fouled coin pays no passage, Witch. But an elf-lord and goddess¡­¡±


    He smiled, the corpse-light forming eyes in those empty sockets. Eyes that glowed with a fierce, greedy sheen.


    ¡°Their deaths would power the gate. Would open the way.¡±


    He studied the huddled witch for a moment. Then, coming to a decision, the Fallen One freed her, dissolving stone shackles and harsh, last-cry ropes.


    ¡°You will regain your strength, to seek out and capture this Old One. You will then bring him to me, along with his in-dwelling goddess. Do not think to resist my command or to flee, Hag, for your soul is mine.¡±


    Weakly, filled with horror and loathing, Ulnag stared up at the Fallen One. Met his dead, hollow gaze and knew he was right. Unable to fight him, all she could do was to whisper,


    ¡°Yes, Lord¡­¡±


    ¡­and plot.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    In an old and tumble-down manor house, at the northernmost end of Winding Road in Milardin, Lady Faleena collapsed, sobbing. Tormun¡­ his last thought of her, of their son¡­ was dead.


    She¡¯d felt his light go out in her mind, as part of her heart stilled, forever. For half a candle-mark she¡¯d lain curled up on the floor, trying over and over to reach through their bond to her lord-husband¡­ But Tormun was dead, and Lady Faleena in spiraling free-fall.


    Could not give in or give up, though. Couldn¡¯t just die because, somewhere, Filimar had surely felt the death of his father. He was going to need help. He¡¯d been with His Lordship¡¯s fleet, on the Vancora. Not anymore. Now, Lady Faleena could no longer feel her son¡¯s presence. He¡¯d moved. Alive, thank Oberyn, but elsewhere.


    Faleena forced herself up off the sitting-room carpet and back to her feet. Gathered her needlework and put it away in a faerie pocket. Smoothed her brown hair and dried her eyes before summoning one of the servants.


    A young half-blood page arrived moments later, weeping openly. Like his mistress, the boy had felt Tormun¡¯s death. And like her, he mourned.


    ¡°Milady,¡± he whispered, turning a tear-streaked face up to look at her. ¡°M- Milady¡­ Lord Tormun...¡±


    Faleena took a deep and shuddering breath. Touched the boy¡¯s tousled blond head, briefly, saying,


    ¡°I know, Ander. But¡­ there are others to think of. My lord¡¯s death was a murder, and his last thought a warning. Send word to Sandor, Kellen and Arien, if you please, that I would speak with them in all haste. Then, pack your belongings. Have Lydia do so, as well.¡± There were only two servants, beside the family¡¯s guard¡­ and all were in danger. Biting her lip, Faleena pushed Ander¡¯s shoulder, urging,


    ¡°Hurry, Child, and pack nothing but what you can easily carry.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Milady,¡± he answered, finding some hidden steel and squaring his shoulders. ¡°I¡¯ll go get young master¡¯s friends and¡­ and I¡¯ll protect you, Milady. See if I don¡¯t. Me and Lydia and Gort¡­ nothing and no one¡¯ll get past us, Milady. I promise.¡±


    She laughed and cried in response, too wild with sorrow to do more than kneel and embrace the brave child. Then,


    ¡°Go. Hurry,¡± she said to him, rising once more. ¡°We have little time.¡±


    Tormun¡­ oh, Tormun¡­ No body to burn and no way to release his trapped soul¡­ Tormun had warned her to flee; sending all of the love and courage that would fit into thirty fast heartbeats.


    Faleena was riven with a pain and grief too deep for words. Would have joined her lord in death, only¡­ only somewhere, Filimar needed her. He was in terrible danger, and all but alone. That kept her breathing. Helped Faleena put one foot in front of the other, pack and then¡­ when her son¡¯s companions arrived, at a dead run¡­ helped her to give them their orders.


    ¡°Listen,¡± she said to the young elves, (after embraces and tears) ¡°Here is what you must do¡­¡±


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Elsewhere, far ahead in a different timeline, the orbital station was no longer under attack. The Draug fighters had all withdrawn, lured away by the strange actions of one malfunctioning mech-core.


    V47 Pilot and craft had flickered and jumped through void-space. They¡¯d used the motion to enrage and draw off that rampaging alien fighter wing. Twelve leaps per tick, according to sensors and video.


    OVR-Lord parsed the available data, spreading this innovation network-wide. As for V47, its current location and status were unknown. There was a 72.61% probability that the asset and mech had been destroyed. Standard protocol advised decanting another pilot and building V47 anew. Yet, OVR-Lord failed to give the required commands.


    Something was happening that went beyond simple emergent behavior, and the AI¡­ calculating odds, scanning potential world-lines¡­ chose not to intervene. This was much more than aberrant activity, it decided¡­ and even abandoned, war-battered units might cherish some hope.

 Sword and Sorcery Five, chapter eighteen

    <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.

 Sword and Sorcery Five, chapter nineteen

    <u>19</u>


    The deadly burden had been sealed off as well as V47 and Pilot could manage.  It was a data packet; files, images and coordinates that TTN-iA had shot in like a dagger-frog¡¯s egg, causing immediate chaos and threat.  In response, they¡¯d thrust the packet deep down amid basic machine code commands; a location that no one would check. Who cared to probe the subroutines binding flesh and machine?  What data of value would be filed with a homeo-cyber maintenance guide?


    But still, it was there.


    Innocently delivered, for TTN-iA had intended no harm.  Had simply answered a query sent in by the pilot.  The AI¡¯s knowledge was grandfathered.  It could contain and transmit such a hazardous data file.  V47 and Pilot were doomed.


    Nevertheless, because orders remained and function continued, the pilot and mech soldiered on.  Both assets belonged with Gold Flight on Orbital Station 1210.  They had to return.  Were required to report all actions and upload relevant information¡­ possibly spreading that dangerous file.


    Calculated odds showed a 27.1% likelihood that OVR-Lord would welcome this burden, should it be transmitted further.  Still worse (a weak .08%) chance that the AI would succeed in erasing it.  Trouble.  Spam.  Malware. Misread code, topped with every other foul concept he knew.


    Traveling fast, they crossed a lifeless ocean; passing empty domed cities whose spires glimmered with beckoning light.  Built to house millions of sapients, the cities were perfectly clean and utterly quiet.  In absolute order, for time beyond record.  Waiting forever for something to draw a first breath.  To send a command.  Naturally, the trio¡¯s nearness provoked a response.


    Queries and packets zipped through the water, offering mechanical service, upgrades and sustenance.  V47 Pilot had no time to visit City-3¡¯s hangar bay, but a sudden¡­ whim?  An impulse of joggled processing-chips and stressed systems caused the pilot to send a command.


    ¡°Access ready biomass,¡± he instructed the city¡¯s AI.  ¡°Consult available patterns.  Produce a free human sapient.¡±


    They¡¯d been abandoned?  Left to fight an unwinnable war against enemy forces that never stopped coming?  Locked in place by commands that no one was here to rescind?


    Then, whispered that streak of stubborn rebellion, what would happen if we made our <u>own</u> human?  One raised to know, love and defend us?


    City-3¡¯s intelligence leapt to the pilot¡¯s request like ICE on a virus.  Though he possessed no real authority to write code, just the intent carried weight.  Maybe 12,000 galactic years ago, City-3¡¯s AI would have balked.  Now it was bored and alone.  Without purpose.  Had V47 Pilot ordered so much as a drink, he would have been hailed as a prophet and hero.  But requesting a human?  An actual challenge?  The city¡¯s systems swung into action at once, thrilling all through their network and mainframe.


    //~ Command received, V47-core.  Command accepted.  City-3 queries V47-core: Description of human sapient required. ~ //


    Description¡­  Something came to him, then.  An image he scanned and converted to TTN-iA¡¯s outdated code.  A young, smiling human girl, with braided brown hair and freckles (like Foryu¡¯s).  Someone friendly, trusting and good.


    V47 Pilot encoded this beautiful creature, then sent all her data to City-3¡¯s waiting AI.  TTN-iA added some touches as well (having anciently seen and dealt with actual humans).


    The ready biomass was present because self-willed sapients frequently damaged or ended themselves.  They required constant repair and re-issue.  Only, this was not just a rebuild.  This was a birth.


    ¡°Protect her,¡± he instructed the eager AI.  ¡°Let no one approach who intends to do harm.¡±  City-3 responded at once.


    //~ Defense protocols initiated, V47-core. New sapient will not sustain damage or harm. ~ //


    By this time, the travelers had reached the Winding Sea¡¯s stepped outer shore.  Name, thought the pilot.  Free human sapients always have names.  Consulting his archived show-vids, he paged forward to Princess Raine, young heir to the fictional Arda Dominion.


    ¡°She is called ¡®Raine¡¯,¡± he said, as they emerged from the water onto a silent beach.  V47 changed forms again, resuming bipedal mode while using reverse-static to fling away moisture.  TTN-iA converted from swirling fish-school to feminoid construct, then flitted across to hover by V47.


    And there, 4.37 miles up-curve, lay the Mark-30 industrial gate.  Metallic and circular, its structure crackled with power.  It towered; capacious enough to transport a dragon-class warship or an entire flight of battle-mechs.  Being a cargo-grade portal, it could only access gates of similar size, linked through a very limited network.  Just Mark-25 and above.


    //~ Available destinations include Far World, Haven and Bide-a-While Station.  Querying desired arrival point? ~ // asked TTN-iA, sending full transport coordinates and a flurry of orbital images.


    -Far World circles the star Firelord, 37 parsecs from the galactic core. Transport to Far World would increase distance. ¨C  Sent V47, adding, -Haven is forbidden to assets.  Selection of Bide-a-While Station is advised, Pilot.  It is 20 SUs from Oberyn, currently located on the same side as Glimmr. ¨C


    The pilot nodded.


    ¡°Agreed,¡± he said. ¡°Please send us to Bide-a-While Station, TTN-iA.  And¡­ thank you.  Hope is expressed that we uplink, again.¡±


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    //~ Full access granted, ~ // responded the Magnetar shell¡¯s archaic AI.  //~ To be anticipated: renewed handshake and presence of V47 and core. ~ //


    The pilot took further full-optic scans of the glowering dark-star and its half-complete shell.  Thought of the future human sapient¡­ mere bio-gel in a vat¡­ that the system now nurtured and sheltered.  Looking around, he pinged 1200 empty buildings and numerous unused machines, 78.52% of them still in the box.


    ¡°All this will change,¡± he promised.  ¡°I will find a way to make everything right, somehow.¡±


    V47 and TTN-iA acknowledged his statement and archived it.  Then it was time to leave.


    //~ Gate will be sealed against all but V47, ~ // announced TTN-iA.  // ~ To be anticipated: soon receive query and landing request.  Time passes slowly in silence and dust. ~ //


    The AI had hedged its bets (as Ravn would say).  It had cloned him and V47, producing backup copies for possible rebuild.  For his own part, along with the upload he was trying so hard not to access or open, the pilot now held full specs for TTN-iA.  No one was lost forever, so long as their data survived uncorrupted.


    He and V47 approached that massive industrial gate, wending their way past mountain-high stacks of panels and cross-beams; drifting through great spools of carbon-weave cable.  The project had been abandoned quite suddenly; its abrupt shut-down leaving construction bots still parked and waiting on site.


    And then, because, why not?  If the local network would accept one command, why not another? Trying again, the pilot sent,


    ¡°Resume construction of magnetar shell.¡±


    Not overwriting the previous code.  Only a full human sapient had such permission.  Just¡­ extending it.  Bringing an end to the long interruption.  Motion resumed .7 ticks later, along with the thunder, rumble and ringing clang of construction.


    The pilot felt satisfaction; smiled as he and V47 prepared to pass through the gate.  Bigger than Orbital Station¡¯s hangar deck, the Mark-30 utterly dwarfed them.  Crossing its ring, they looked like a gnat buzzing into a cargo-hold.  Then, with a flare of bright light and synchronized wave-functions, the gate activated.


    Traversal was nothing at all like a space-jump, he discovered.  Instead of dropping down to the fragile dark between worlds, the gate made use of an already extant space-fold.  It used a sun¡¯s worth of stored energy to shove its passengers between entangled regions.  Useful, so long as you were headed for one of its presets.


    The passage seemed to have no duration at all but was able to place them in time as well as in space, meaning that V47 appeared through the gate at Bide-a-While Station mere ticks after the battle at OS 1210. (The ensuing re-clock was highly disorienting, causing out-of-time data to be refiled as alternate memory.)


    A storm of adverts popped up all around V47 as the battle-mech glided away from the station¡¯s flickering transport gate.  Offering service, lodging, food and companionship, the jostling screens fought to out-shill each other, attempting to scan V47 Pilot for clues to enhanced allure.


    He paid little attention at first, being very distracted by Oberyn¡¯s sudden nearness.  From Glimmr, the star was a brilliant white dot.  V47 Pilot could have covered its glow with his thumb held at arm¡¯s length.  Here, Oberyn shone like a hangar floodlight full in the face.  The pilot cycled his optics down, saving the delicate photoreceptors and his own meat-and-slush eyeballs.


    Bide-a-While Station was built on an asteroid, he noticed; scanning the place as he looked away from Oberyn¡¯s broiling glare.  The refueling station was partly on top, partly inside of that hollowed out space rock (composition 78.2% iron, 16.8% nickel, 3% trace minerals and water ice).  An ultra-heavy, spinning neutronium sphere provided comfortable gravity.  Neon signs and extensive docking facilities offered rest and recreation for those leaving or entering the inner system.  It was not a military establishment.  V47 Pilot had no protocol for such stations, except avoidance of free, human sapients.


    He would have moved on, converting to starfighter mode and thundering back to Glimmr, but one of those adverts kept leaving his side-view heads-up display, placing itself in front center.  Very unusual.


    ¡®V47 Pilot, welcome!¡¯ it enthused, chiming an upbeat tune as it flashed his own smiling image. ¡®Come to the <u>Shop of True Need</u>, Pilot!  Buy, sell or trade!  No offer too low, all data packets accepted for storage!¡¯


    All¡­?


    That got his attention, and V47¡¯s, as well.  Not in a good way, as far as the battle-mech was concerned.  Speaking around a planet-sized mess they could barely acknowledge, V47 sent,


    ¡®Pilot, strong caution advised.  This advert seems targeted, which indicates insufficient concealment.¡¯


    ¡°Understood, V¡­ but if the shop has an answer, we could use good advice.¡±


    Good?  Any advice or direction would have been welcome.  V47 was unconvinced. Ran several worldlines¡¯ worth of calculations, coming up with a low probability (51.62%) that accepting the shop''s invitation would result in any net benefit.


    ¡°We¡¯ll play it cool,¡± promised the pilot, once again channeling Ace (season 16, episode 30: Star Fall).  ¡°If it wasn¡¯t concealed, we¡¯d already be dead, V, and if the shop AI has a plan, I¡¯m willing to listen.  What <u>else</u> have we got?¡±


    V47 acknowledged receipt of communication but sent nothing further.  It was the first time they¡¯d¡­ not argued, exactly¡­ but disagreed.  The pilot felt sudden anxiety, which V47 was slow to wipe out with music, show-vids or chemicals.


    Nevertheless, he requested permission to land, docking at the heavy cargo port, because it was the only platform able to handle their mass.  V47 pilot disembarked, once more in full cyborg mode.  Ordered a polish, wash and defrag for V47, who remained stubbornly silent.


    Helmet on, stability jets firing, the pilot soared up to regard V47 straight in the photoreceptors.  Said,


    ¡°If I¡¯m wrong, I¡¯m sorry, and I¡¯ll fix our latest muddle as fast as I can, V.  I respect your opinion.  You¡¯re my wingman¡­ but I have to find out what¡¯s going on here, and whether the shop can help us.¡±


    The mech was already getting a foam-up and scrub, as hundreds of busy drones removed the scars of its recent collision and battle.  Now, V47 lifted a giant hand, palm upward, creating a landing platform.  Its pilot settled down onto that hilly surface, placing one chromed hand on an enormous thumb.  V47 finally spoke.


    ¡®It is possible to disagree while retaining full access and contact permissions,¡¯ sent the battle-mech.  ¡®This is a difficult concept to parse.¡¯


    The pilot found himself smiling, seeing his own image reflected many times over in V47¡¯s freshly-buffed surface and lenses.


    ¡°Yes, it is,¡± he agreed.  ¡°That is a full-sapience feature, I think.  Not a bug.¡±  He next patted that giant red-and-gold thumb, adding, ¡°I¡¯ll be back, V.  Engage the local maintenance service. Upgrade for speed, but don¡¯t power down.  We need to push on, the day before yesterday.¡±


    ¡®Acknowledged, Pilot,¡¯ responded his friend, who recognized show speech.


    Then another persistent advert appeared in his HUD.  This one flashed green, seeming to rotate and pulse.  Its text read: ¡®Don¡¯t delay!  Come in today!  There is more to be seen, from the places between!  One time discount for Gold Flight aviators!¡¯  There was even a cartoon red mech that shifted twelve times per tick from fighter to warrior mode, all the while dancing to bright, jaunty music.  Might have been nothing but random chance¡­ until that jigging fighter turned into a black-and-gold Reaper, with R432 painted in dripping red by the cockpit bubble: Bulldog, Ace¡¯s ¡°warbird¡±.


    Seemed someone knew just how to bait their hook.  Question was, bite?  Or get out of town in a hurry?

 Sword and Sorcery Five, chapter twenty

    <u>20</u>


    The matter was delicate, requiring the elimination of two young elven nobles. Not of the highest families, either of them, but sufficiently well connected to make silence and stealth advisable. His Lordship required their deaths, further demanding that he be present to witness the deed. He had not requested excessive torment, nor any reveal of the death-strike¡¯s cause. Possibly meant to deal with those bits, himself.


    Losirr the Feral paced the Chamber of Setting Forth; hands clasped at his back, thinking hard. Very faintly, from high above, came the noises of business and street and the ¡°flock¡±; those defenseless kine on which he and his sort eternally fed.


    Lord Arvendahl was a valued customer. He paid well and on time, never quibbling over The Red Hand¡¯s steep price. In his own way, the elf was a force to be dreaded, for he knew where The Hand denned up; had seen what they were. That a blade, a noose, a blown needle was always ready for him, Arvendahl knew as well¡­ Yet he strode that sharp line with absolute confidence.


    Losirr considered the marks, those to be culled and feasted on afterward: Valerian Tarandahl, a northern high-elf, and Filimar Exile, a son of the shore. Both were newcomers to the city. According to His Lordship and scuttlebutt, they¡¯d been meant to take up their posts in the Imperial Honor Guard.


    The strike would have to be made before either young lord took service, then, as The Hand sought no brush with Imperial power. If it came down to Arvendahl versus Ildarion the First, Tamer of Dragons, Sword-Arm of Oberyn¡­ His Lordship could quietly hang. No money refunded, no warning at all.


    So: speed, silence and absolute stealth, then. Losirr scratched absently at his own shaggy dark hair, considering his options. No new-fang, fresh from the grave, for this task. He¡¯d go himself or send forth his Left or Right Hand: Mandor the Charmer or Fallon Deathsinger.


    Losirr preferred keeping <u>himself</u> in reserve. In five hundred years, he had never failed to bring down his quarry¡­ but who and what he was, were tough things to miss or disguise. Worse, he could not discorporate without spell-craft that might be shielded against.


    Mandor could shape-change; mist, rat or wolf-dog as well as his constantly smiling elven form¡­ but disliked direct sunlight and temples. Extremely dependable otherwise, Mandor was Left Hand of Death. Prone to play with his victims, though; liking to lure them into a friendship, first. Claimed that it made their eventual deaths more artistic and poignant.


    Fallon Deathsinger killed because she knew nothing else. Because she needed revenge against one out of reach and long gone. There was no rest at all for Fallon, except the brief peace brought by her victims¡¯ terror and anguish. She could fully discorporate, passing through walls like so many wide-open doors¡­ but could not cross running water or remain physical for longer than thirteen deep breaths. Fallon was Right Hand of Death. A trusted flank-runner who would only swerve if offered the throat of the one who had slain her, all those centuries past. She specialized in drownings and shattering falls, but one of the doomed was a mage; surely able to breathe water, and feather-fall.


    So¡­ who, then? Both Hands had mastered the thousand death-ways. Both were implacable once on the trail. Finding the choice difficult, Losirr turned to his god. Rumbling low in his throat, the master assassin crossed the Chamber of Setting Forth. His feet made no sound on that chilly stone floor. His breathing and passage stirred the air hardly at all.


    To the great totem statue of Rictor, Lord of death and decay, he went. The Red Hand worshipped no minor god. No weakling or cub. Unlike the flock above, they burnt no incense and chanted no hymns. Their totem was a log, roughly hewn into thirteen vast, snarling mouths; each maw representing one of the Shadow Tribes.


    Drawing close, Losirr first bowed, then placed his scarred hands on the base of that great wooden image. Next, with sudden, fierce violence, he gouged at the wood, adding fresh cuts to its deeply scarred surface. Till his own nails were loose and his hands ran with blood, Losirr dug at the wood. Finally, a long, sharp splinter came free, piercing one of his blood-soaked hands.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Not far away (as the griffin flies) Val and Filno stepped out of the portal and onto a busy street. Found themselves in lower Karellon, where great doings and bustle were stirring. Everywhere the elves looked, folk were rushing about, carting goods and putting up decorations. Images of golden dragons and His Imperial Majesty draped every surface except for the road, it seemed.


    Puzzled, Val stepped over to one of the city¡¯s constables; a half-elf in black chainmail emblazoned with dragons.


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    ¡°A moment of your time, Officer,¡± he said, bowing slightly.


    The dark-haired constable turned to look, then saluted, clenched fist to brow. Bowed low enough that his chainmail rang clashing loud on his truncheon and sword hilt. His glowing name plate read: Lang.


    ¡°My Lords,¡± he replied, ¡°What is your pleasure? How may this one serve?¡±


    In Karellon, as in Milardin, the mortal races were utterly subject to elven power. The half-elf thus made no eye-contact, keeping his head down before a pair of obvious noblemen. Valerian indicated the nearest fluttering, dragon-shaped banner. Regardless of wind, it was spelled to keep swaying, sometimes displaying His Majesty¡¯s image, as well.


    ¡°We have just gated in from the fleet,¡± he explained. ¡°Our knowledge of Karellon is scant. What, if you please, is the meaning of all this activity?¡±


    Officer Lang smiled a bit, risking a swift glance upward at Valerian¡¯s face. Whatever he saw there must have seemed reassuring, for the half-elf said,


    ¡°The young lords are blessed to arrive near the time of hatching, when Vernax the Golden restores its first glory, and our emperor rides forth in power.¡±


    Ah. Val would have thanked him, but Filimar handled things his way. Producing a low value coin from his faerie pockets, the young exile flipped it at Lang.


    ¡°Very good, Fellow,¡± said the former Arvendahl. ¡°You may carry on with your work, now.¡±


    The half-elf¡¯s expression closed up again. He caught the silver penny, because to refuse it would have been seen as an insult. But then Val interfered his way, using magic to exchange the penny for a gold sovereign (one of Filno¡¯s remaining few). Lang felt the coin change its size and weight, saw Valerian¡¯s wink, and relaxed.


    ¡°Thank you, my lords. A good day to you.¡±


    ¡°And glad tidings,¡± finished Val, unable to help himself despite Filno¡¯s stare. After another slight bow, he seized Filimar¡¯s arm and then drew him out of the street, to the fluttering shade of a shop-awning. It was after midday, and cookfire smoke was rising all over the city, bearing a welter of smells.


    ¡°We need a place to stay until I¡¯ve secured our spot in the Guards, Filno. I¡¯ll pass you off as my milk brother.¡± A thought that brought him brief warmth. ¡°Your father I know, ad Tormun. But your mother¡¯s name¡­?¡±


    Filimar scowled.


    ¡°She is no maidservant, Valno. She is Lady Faleena Arv¡­¡±


    Didn¡¯t finish. Instead, two things happened at once. First, distant war bells tolled out through the ether. Then Filimar stopped talking. Not over any mere coin, either. The color drained out of his face, leaving him pale as a starving barrow-wight.


    ¡°Filno?¡± asked Val, tugging his friend¡¯s arm. Then, through Filimar, it struck him, as well; the terrible dousing of light. The loss of someone who mattered too deeply for words.


    Filimar¡¯s father was dead. Suddenly. Violently. Having stood up for right and been killed for his honor. The young exile slumped, half-turning north toward home. Valerian caught him before he could fall, saying quietly,


    ¡°Steady, Filno. Courage. No battle is lost till you¡¯ve given up fighting.¡±


    His friend looked at him through eyes like a pair of stab wounds. Having to work to draw breath, clutching hard at Valerian, the dark-haired young elf whispered,


    ¡°In w- water, Valno. Eaten by fish. Nothing t- to burn. No way to¡­¡±


    Valerian embraced his friend tightly, feeling an icy brush of the past, himself. Shook his head stubbornly.


    ¡°No. There¡¯s a way, and we¡¯ll find it. My oath, Filno. Your lord father will have his release and his honors.¡±


    Filimar was crying. Quietly, barely shaking in Val¡¯s grip, but torn clear down to the heart of him. A certain amount of attention was drawn by the spectacle of two young elf-lords, one clearly distraught, on the streets of Low Town. Attention they couldn¡¯t afford. Valerian stood straighter, lifted his head, and pasted a confident look on his face. Patting Filimar¡¯s shoulder, he said loudly, carelessly,


    ¡°There now, Brother. Take heart. I¡¯m certain the lass will forgive you, anon. You know females¡­ Inconstant and empty-headed as sparrows. One moment she hates you, and the next, you¡¯re the love of her life. Your mum can¡¯t be that set against her.¡±


    A good enough sop to appease swiveled ears and sideways looks¡­ for now. They still needed shelter, though. Val sketched a quick sigil, calling up Karellon¡¯s city map. Found what he wanted¡­ there¡­ three streets over, where Low Town melded with Outland. Spotted the Constellate chapter house, where no one was ever refused. (No matter the bloodthirsty warg-son who hunted them.)


    By this time, Filimar had gotten himself together. Still looked like the wretched shade of a twice-murdered ghost, but was able to stand on his own.


    ¡°Your word, in truth, Valno?¡± he whispered, drying his face with a brocade sleeve. ¡°We¡¯ll find some way to help Dad to the Halls?¡±


    Valerian clasped his friend¡¯s shoulder. Find Etherion¡­ Serve the Emperor¡­ Rescue the soul of Lord Tormun¡­ Trouble comes in threes, he¡¯d been taught, and it was certainly pouring down now.


    ¡°I promise,¡± he said, pushing worry and doubt to the fringes. ¡°In the meantime, folk are watching, and we have a dangerous enemy. You must act as though nothing is wrong, and you have not a care in the world beyond which breeches go best with a gold ¡®broidered shirt. Your life and your freedom depend on it. For now, if anyone asks, you are broken-hearted over the loss of Neira¡­ the faithless baggage.¡±


    Filimar managed to straighten and nod. His gaze had a way of turning suddenly inward, though, and he swayed like a drunk battling serious headwinds.


    ¡°They¡¯re coming,¡± he murmured, looking restlessly northward again. ¡°My mother and people are fleeing Milardin. They need haven.¡±


    Valerian nodded, getting his friend underway with a muttered spell and a shove.


    ¡°Best we get settled, then, so we¡¯re in a position to do them some good. First, a room at the Constellate House, then¡­¡± he puffed out a long, weary breath. ¡°Then, we tackle those palace clerks and attendants.¡±


    Ought not to take more than a month and a mountain of bribes to work their way from front gate to the High Lord Seneschal, he figured. That, and a whole lot of charm. Meanwhile, Milardin¡¯s war bells continued to ring. Trial fireworks flared and exploded high in the sky¡­ and a master assassin called in his chosen predator.

 Sword and Sorcery Five, chapter twenty-one

    <u>21</u>


    Raven-haired Ninursa was one of the Seven Gods who Decree. Or had been. Now, she flowed up from a long-hidden sidhe. Out to the surface. War was coming. Battle was soon to be joined; a fight in which every remaining pantheon, their children and lesser reflections, would find themselves caught. There was no escape and no place to hide from this last, deepest stab at reality. Fate was inexorable.


    The Seven Gods were not much worshipped outside of their haven, but their adopted child¡­ a young mortal fighter¡­ was out in the wide world. Reason enough to risk venturing forth.


    Ninursa was only a splinter of Creation and Nature, now; barely a shade of her former great self. Where once entire herds, youths and maidens had been offered in slaughter and service, these days a few pecked apples topped her crumbled stone altars. As for followers¡­ here a grim farmer, there a shy milkmaid still sang the old hymns; still chanted her names, for good luck.


    The Seven could have stayed hidden. They could have let themselves wither and fade as war swept Order and Chaos and all of the realms in between. Instead, they had chosen to act.


    In her slim hands, Ninursa carried a sword. It was all that remained of Nanna and Enli, joined together in one last act of Creation. With their own divine substance, Ninursa¡¯s first children had formed a terrible weapon; its sharpness spectral, its strike unerring. With this sword, one might cleave the breath and life from a god, without doing visible harm.


    With this sword, one might transfix reality, break even adamant chains. Made from two sacrificed gods, light and dark, the weapon¡¯s fate was uncertain. Great evil was certainly possible, but also the thrust that would cripple Chaos for eons to come.


    It had been made, for good or ill. It existed. Very soon, it would summon a wielder. Not Ninursa, who had chosen to give up her own last safety and life-force by taking it out of the sidhe. Their adopted son, their dear Villem, would have to convey it the rest of the way, if only Ninursa could reach him in time. If only she had enough strength.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Aboard Seahorse, Lerendar stood with one hand on the forward rail, leaning into the wind and the spray. With his right arm he embraced Beatriz, who held their young daughter.


    Zara bounced and wriggled in her mother¡¯s arms, exclaiming and pointing at wonders. Their sleek elven ship was now gliding into Epona¡¯s harbor, responding to Lerendar¡¯s docking command. As they drew nearer and the Isles¡¯ screening mist faded, a sight of such golden beauty and peace appeared, that all aboard ship were left speechless, blinking like turnips fresh from the dirt. All but Beatriz, that is, who frowned, peering forward and murmuring,


    ¡°Renny¡­ what? What¡¯s everyone staring at? All I can see are some giant, bird-covered rocks and this fog!¡±


    His wife-to-be¡¯s curly hair was silvered all over with mist droplets, where everyone else was dry. Her eyelashes also dripped with pale dew, and her wide, dark eyes wandered sightlessly. She was a mortal. A human; long with the elves, but blinded and pent by the Bann. A problem he could now fix.


    Lerendar took Zara from her mother, then handed the child to Ava, who still hovered nearby. Next, taking Bea¡¯s face in his hands, he kissed her forehead and both dark eyes. Leaned back, afterward, still holding her face, using his thumbs to wipe off that silvery mist.


    ¡°Choice of my heart,¡± he said to her, ¡°<u>See</u>.¡±


    And she did, all at once wide-eyed and gasping. He hadn¡¯t the sigils or spells to control his newly found magic, but here in the Isles, that didn¡¯t matter.


    ¡°Oh¡­¡± she whispered. ¡°Oh, Renn, it¡¯s¡­¡±


    ¡°I know,¡± he said, when she faltered, staring and clutching at Lerendar¡¯s arm.


    Seahorse was already striking sail, slipping beneath the great arch of mithral and pearl that spanned the two arms of Epona¡¯s great harbor wall. The sheltered port was an ancient crater, long ago claimed by the sea. At its western edge, that crater rim had collapsed, leaving a natural harbor and seawall.


    Every bit of its shimmering stone was carved and jeweled, portraying ten-thousand epics. Soft light came from everywhere, not just the warm golden sun. There were people and creatures about, most making music or talking, seated on stone or on cloud. Said the bard, Andorin,


    ¡°A word of advice, Lando¡­ good people¡­ the Isles are very beautiful, but also dangerous to those who do not know their ways. It is terribly easy here, to forget.¡±


    The way he said that word, the color he put on it, made clear to all that here the past was a thing one could shed like a snakeskin.


    ¡°Eat or drink nothing you haven¡¯t paid for with coin,¡± the sea-elf continued. ¡°And keep these about you at all times.¡±


    So saying, Andorin produced a handful of dull metal amulets, spiked like burrs and hung on thin chains. Everyone from Lerendar right down to Pretty One had an amulet hung ¡®round their neck, where it was just a bit heavy, slightly sharp and uncomfortable.


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    ¡°What are they?¡± asked Katina, as Andorin looped hers and then little Bean¡¯s.


    ¡°They are the truth, the past, and the reason you¡¯re here, whatever that means to you. No lure of the Isles can lead you completely astray, so long as you keep your amulet on and remain together.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll be with us, Sea-singer, won¡¯t you?¡± asked Lady Alfea, placing a gentle hand on his arm. But the bard shook his head, saying,


    ¡°No, Milady. I shall remain on the shore, facing home. Something has happened, back in Averna. I feel it even through all of this lulling peace. I would keep a clear head and ready my magic, in case I am summoned.¡±


    Andorin¡¯s gills opened briefly, then snapped shut again, a sign of concern or surprise. Elmaris slouched over to stand by his heart-friend.


    ¡°Believe I¡¯ll stay with you, Prince of bad manners and puddles. Unending peace and delight hold no charms for me. I¡¯d just end up making more trouble.¡± (Which was probably true.)


    Bronn, the dragon-scarred ranger, was next to come forward. Reflexively tugging her hood lower, she mumbled,


    ¡°I¡¯ll go with This One and the others. If anyone strays, I¡¯ll haul them back to the ship.¡±


    No one had to remain with Seahorse, for the ship could take care of herself. The graceful serpent-hunter coasted into Epona¡¯s harbor, barely raising a wake. Making for the polished white-marble docks, she cut water as clear and bright as blue glass. Her shadow matched her below, seeming to ripple and fly over sand the color of pearl.


    Nearing her goal, Seahorse backwatered a bit with shimmering spectral fins, slowing to a gentle stop at the harbor¡¯s main pier. Lines snaked themselves up from their coils on deck, looping smoothly about the pier¡¯s golden cleats. Tugged by invisible hands, those lines hauled Seahorse snug to the padded stone wharf. Next, her gangway slid forth, rattling slightly as it crossed the distance from swaying deck to firm land.


    Lerendar gathered his people, checking twice to be sure that they still had their amulets. The sky overhead was as clear and bright as the waters below, sporting slight drifting wisps of opaline cloud. The scent was a mixture of ocean, enchantment and forest, promising greater wonders ahead.


    Once all was seen to and organized, the tall elf-lord preceded them down the gangway. He¡¯d expected to meet a harbor master or public official, but no such person materialized. Lerendar settled the matter by leaving three golden coins atop a carved piling. Then, telling Seahorse,


    ¡°We¡¯ll return once we¡¯ve found word of my brother. See to needed repairs and scrubbing, in the meantime,¡±


    ¡­he brought them ashore.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Before anything else (before even deciding where to go next) Falcon took care of her dead. There were paladins aboard, now, and one fellow high-elf, meaning that honors and final release could be given to those who¡¯d fallen defending their ship.


    Captain Hallan, Lady Meliara, the druid, wizard and paladins pooled their magics to create a ghost-ship alongside of Falcon. Shining with spectral light, the translucent vessel was Falcon, but mirror-reversed and unfocused. The name and colors were different, for it wasn¡¯t entirely real. Shrike, was painted onto its bow, while those wandering eyes glowed a very pale green.


    Spells kept the two airships tethered, as Falcon¡¯s dead were carried across a gangplank that started out wood and ended up manna. The ocean and clouds could be seen down below, half-glimpsed through spectral planking and armor.


    Gildyr lifted and carried his share of the fallen crew, bringing them over once a paladin blessed and spoke over each corpse. Seven dead, plus Captain Varric, who Hallan carried, himself. Though elsewhere the storm mounted and raged, near Falcon and Shrike those clouds did not come. They streamed westward, instead; seeming to follow Vancora, Terroc and Deathstroke.


    On the Shrike¡¯s glowing deck Gildyr, with Hallan and Falcon¡¯s other survivors, laid out the dead. Carefully, with weapons placed alongside. At last, the job was done, though Hallan was very slow to leave Captain Varric¡¯s body. Kept moving his brother¡¯s sword nearer to hand, twitching the canvas shroud away from his face¡­


    ¡°He¡¯ll want to be able to see.¡±


    ¡­finding reason on reasons to linger. Gildyr looked over at Lady Meliara. She was nearer in rank to young Hallan than any mere wood-elf and could speak to the heartbroken boy as an equal.


    She nodded, stepping over to place a light hand on Hallan¡¯s slumped shoulder. They¡¯d tried repeatedly to bring Falcon¡¯s dead back to life, but the way was blocked. The door shut. The dead prevented from crossing back over. That crushed hope had torn the survivors almost as badly as their crewmates¡¯ death.


    Meliara whispered to Hallan, now, speaking of duty and honor, courage and love. Of living to finish what Varric had started.


    ¡°The vessel is yours now, Captain. I am a seer. A voice of the gods. And though dark is the way, there is hope at the end, for you and for those you set sail with this night.¡±


    Hallan blinked. Only just not crying. Very quietly, he said,


    ¡°I keep thinking, maybe it¡¯s just a bad dream. Keep waiting for Varric to sit up and laugh at me. If¡­ when I get back to Falcon¡­ h- he¡¯ll be dead for sure. He¡¯s my brother and¡­ and how can I turn my back and just let him be dead? Don¡¯t the gods know that I need my brother?!"


    Meliara¡¯s breath caught. Thinking of sorrow to come, her blue eyes strayed to Villem, standing at the other end of the gangplank with Gildyr. Being mortal, he hadn¡¯t come aboard Shrike. Turning back to the boy, she said,


    ¡°Love is always a risk, Hallan. But a risk worth taking. Give him his honors and let him go, trusting that your cry has been heard, and all will come right in the end.¡±


    Hallan was captain, now. He had to be strong. He nodded, already older, in the manner of elves under terrible stress. Meliara preceded him back to the Falcon. Then, once he stood braced on a solid deck once more, Hallan conjured flame. As the tabaxi¡¯s monkey piped a tune, Hallan whispered into the ball of fire he held cupped in his hands. Then, taking a very deep breath, he pitched it across the space between Falcon and Shrike.


    The ghost ship burst into pale, spectral flame. Bluish-tinged fire raced up Shrike¡¯s rigging, tank and mast. Higher still, to the great rigid float and directional sails. Down to the bodies they¡¯d laid out on deck, as well.


    Shrike moved on her own. As she turned away, pulling free of the Falcon, glowing figures came to stand at the rail and look over. One of them, red-haired and tall, was Captain Varric.


    The spirit smiled fondly and lifted a hand in salute at his brother. Hallan saluted back, bidding a last farewell to the friends and crew who¡¯d helped raise him. Beside their young captain, Laurol, Sarrit and Not-Jon added and held their own sharp salutes. Together, they stood at the rail as Shrike sailed away through the sky. Stayed there long after the ghost ship was only another bright star; a wavery dot seen through tears that no one let fall.

 Sword and Sorcery Five, chapter twenty-two

    <u>22</u>


    A series of interviews, conducted on board Falcon (once Milardin¡¯s third air-cutter, now gone¡­ driven¡­ free-blade). Five Day 23rd, Month of First Thaw, year 1207 of His Imperial Majesty¡¯s blessed reign, morning watch, second bell. First Mate Laurol Greenbow, attending.


    Captain Hallan Gelfrin ad Reddick to incoming crewman: ¡°Have a seat. There, yes. Now, rank, skills and previous affiliations, if any?¡±


    Prospective Officer: ¡°Uh¡­ Gildyr, Sir. I am Gildyr Shagbark¡­¡±


    Captain interrupts (seeming surprised): ¡°<u>Shagbark</u>?¡±


    Prospective Officer: ¡°Yes, Sir. Gildyr Shagbark, son of Shavonne and Gilcrist, a druid of Lobum. Um¡­ not sure I have any rank, as high-elves would mark it, Sir. Wood-folk don¡¯t hold with nobility. The High Druid speaks, and sometimes we listen.¡±


    Captain Gelfrin (frowning): ¡°<u>Sometimes</u> won¡¯t work aboard ship, Mr. Shagbark. There has to be discipline in order to keep Falcon flying. You don¡¯t get to pick which orders to follow, or when to obey them. This is a small ship, and she has to be tightly run.¡±


    Prospective Officer (nodding vigorously): ¡°Yes, Sir. I understand. I and the people I brought need passage to Karellon, Sir. All of us are willing to work hard and do what we need to, in order to pay for the trip.¡±


    Captain Gelfrin (writing in the ship¡¯s logbook): ¡°Understood, Mr. Shagbark. Life history (brief, if you please) highlighting previous shipboard experience.¡±


    Prospective Officer (making a face, rubbing at the back of his neck, squinting at the porthole behind Captain Gelfrin): ¡°Um¡­ well, Sir¡­ I have memories going back to the Peace of Oberyn that are very clear and consistent. Before that, like everyone else¡¯s, I think, my memories turn a bit muddled.¡±


    (Captain Gelfrin stops writing. Looks up. Seems to hear <u>Falcon</u>, and nods.)


    C.G.: ¡°Go on.¡±


    Prospective Officer: ¡°I left home as the Peace ended, Sir, convinced that I had to find a¡­ Well, maybe ¡®friend¡¯ isn¡¯t quite the right word. Not sure that he thinks I¡¯m a friend, but anyway¡­ to find a young northern lord, Valerian Tarandahl ad Keldaran.¡±


    Captain Gelfrin (straightening logbook, sharpening quill): ¡°That would be the same Tarandahl that His Lordship was after.¡±


    P.O.: ¡°Yes, Sir. The very same, for reasons I¡¯m still trying to work out, but¡­ I went to Ilirian, to Starloft, which is the Tarandahl stronghold, and there I met with Valerian. See, Sir¡­ he¡¯s somehow bang in the center of all that¡¯s been happening. All of this Chaos and trouble.¡±


    Captain Gelfrin (setting down quill, looking up): ¡°And will finding this Tarandahl help set things right, Mr. Shagbark? Will it restore the Peace or¡­ bring back those who have died?¡±


    P.O. (spreading hands): ¡°I don¡¯t know for sure, Sir. All I can do is try. I need to reach Karellon with the people I brought aboard. It¡¯s too far a trip for just me, with so many passengers. To be honest, Sir, I don¡¯t have much experience aboard ship¡­ spent some time on the Crater Lake in a rowboat, fishing¡­ but I¡¯m willing to learn, Sir, and I¡¯ll work hard.¡±


    Captain Gelfrin (glancing over at First Mate Laurol Greenbow, then hearing <u>Falcon</u>,): ¡°Very good, Mr. Shagbark. I am willing to offer you the post of Third Officer, under Second Mate Sarrit Conn. Is this agreeable?¡±


    Third Mate Shagbark (nodding and smiling): ¡°Yes, Sir. Very much.¡±


    C.G. (too weary and heartsore for smiles): ¡°Sign the logbook, then. Welcome aboard, Mr. Shagbark. Present yourself to Mr. Sarrit on deck, for training¡­ and send in the next candidate, if you please.¡±


    Falcon¡¯s record lapsed for a bit as their new druid officer left the captain¡¯s small cabin. The humming and clicking of an airship in top form filled the silence as Captain Gelfrin¡­ Hal¡­ made a few notes below Shagbark¡¯s signature. To Laurol, seated in a chair beside Varric¡¯s¡­ his¡­ desk, he said,


    ¡°I think Mr. Shagbark will do. Falcon likes him, and that¡¯s important.¡±


    Laurol nodded, saying,


    ¡°Yes, Sir. It is. And he rather impressed me, too. I¡¯ve a bit of the sight, Captain¡­ old Sidhe blood¡­ and helping his quest feels like the right thing ter do.¡±


    Hallan looked up from his logbook at Laurol (once Chief of the Boat, now First Mate. She¡¯d nursed him through illness, helped teach him his runes, been all the parent he had besides Varric.) Glowing a bit in the light of the office porthole, and his own stress, he asked,


    ¡°Do you think that this Tarandahl noble can change what¡¯s happened, Laurol? There¡¯s no running from Fate. I know that. But¡­ but if we¡¯re up there at the front lines, doing our best against Chaos¡­¡± he couldn¡¯t finish the rest, but Laurol got it anyhow.


    ¡°I can¡¯t answer that, Captain. I¡¯m just an old Airrior, more grey than brown. No great one, me. But¡­ the right thing ter do is still right, whatever the outcome. Reward or not, Sir.¡±


    Hallan nodded and sighed. There was a sharp, two-beat knock at the hatch, then, as Falcon announced:


    ¡®The next prospective officer stands in the passage outside, Captain. Admit her?¡¯


    ¡°Yes, please, Speedy. Send her on in.¡±


    Falcon did as he bade her, dissolving the oval hatch so that their next prospect, a black-and-white female tabaxi, could enter. Record resumed as she crossed the deck to stand before Hallan.


    Captain Hallan Gelfrin ad Reddick to incoming crewman: ¡°Have a seat. Now, state your name, rank, skills, and previous affiliations, if any.¡±


    Prospective Officer (tail lashing): ¡°I am Salme Shadow Claw, of Distant Sands Oasis, third heir.¡±


    Captain Gelfrin (looking up, frowning slightly): ¡°You mentioned that, as I recall. You¡¯re royalty then, Milady?¡±


    Prospective Officer (making odd, indecipherable noise): ¡°The far past has gone with my former name, Captain. For what matters, I was third mate aboard The Flying Cloud, fastest ship ever to harry His Majesty¡¯s fleet, Sir. I am also a dancer, to stretch pay between postings. I know my way aboard a vessel, Captain, as does the little one.¡±


    (Brief interruption, as the Prospective Officer¡¯s golden tattoo turns into a living gold monkey. Monkey stands erect upon Prospective Officer¡¯s left shoulder. Salutes Captain Gelfrin).


    C.G. (inclining his head): ¡°You are a team, then. Both experienced hands. The Cloud is a legend, Lady Shadow Claw. Very much feared by merchant and sea-lord, alike. Falcon¡­ is no longer a part of Milardin¡¯s fleet. Perforce, Milady, we have turned free-blade¡­ but we are <u>not</u> privateers. I have no intention of preying on His Majesty¡¯s shipping and trade.¡±


    Lady Shadow Claw (whiskers and ears sweeping forward): ¡°I did not think that you would, Sir." (Rumbling noise) "How will Falcon purchase needed supplies and pay crew-wages, then?¡±


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    Captain Gelfrin (squaring the logbook and quills): ¡°We have coin enough for the moment, and I can access the Gelfrin family account¡­ but if it comes to that, Milady, there are bounties on all of the freebooter vessels¡­ including the Cloud, herself. Picking up one or two of <u>those</u> would keep us in gold for some time, I think.¡±


    Lady Shadow Claw (eyes slitting, producing a sudden hiss): ¡°Excrement-lump, to be buried deeply in sand, now commands The Flying Cloud, Sir. <u>Her</u>, I would gut with these claws, spreading her blood on the decks to feed the shade of Captain Tristan... May his banquet, below, never cease.¡±


    Captain Gelfrin (blinking): ¡°I¡­ see. Very good, Milady. If you are willing to accept it, I can offer the post of Sentry, setting you to work with Mister Sarrit as chief look-out and shipboard security officer. Your first loyalty must lie with the Falcon and myself, Lady Shadow Claw. Will that raise any problems?¡±


    Lady Shadow Claw (whiskers once again forward, ears erect, pupils enlarged): ¡°You have earned my respect and service, Captain Gelfrin. The offer is accepted with gladness. The little one and I will serve aboard Falcon as we did on the Flying Cloud, with unswerving loyalty, Sir.¡±


    Captain Gelfrin (nodding, clearing his throat): ¡°Very good, Lady Shadow Claw. Thank you. Sign the logbook, if you please, under the last entry. Right. Welcome aboard, Leftenant Shadow Claw¡­ Airrior Munk. Present yourselves to Mister Sarrit, on deck, to receive further orders¡­ and send in the next candidate.¡±


    Falcon¡¯s record lapsed once again, as the fluffy tabaxi and capering simian left. The captain¡¯s office was tidy, wood-paneled and small, at the very stern of the airship. Varric¡¯s touches were everywhere: charts, spyglass, globe, crossed family swords, ancestor tablets and one battered horn drinking-cup rimmed in bright gold.


    The Gelfrins were not a large or prosperous family. Their account contained little but farm-yield and rents, along with Captain and Midshipman¡¯s pay. Besides which, accessing the family funds would set off alarms¡­ if he and the ship were supposed to be dead.


    ¡®Captain,¡¯ said Falcon, interrupting his troubled thoughts. ¡®There has been... an irregularity.¡¯


    Hal looked up and aside, for the vessel wanted to show him one of her records. Marked ¡®Four Day 22nd, Month of First Thaw, Second Dog-Watch¡¯, it showed one of the fugitive boarders, a female ranger, slipping out to the starboard rail. There, in the moon¡¯s silver light, she simply turned sideways and vanished.


    ¡®Not deemed important enough to disturb captain¡¯s rest, but the next listed candidate left in the watches of night and has not returned to this vessel.¡¯


    ¡°Thank you, Speedy,¡± It was Varric¡¯s nickname for their swift little cutter; one that Falcon seemed to enjoy. Hal next turned his gaze back to Laurol.


    ¡°We¡¯re missing one of the boarders,¡± he said to his worried first mate. ¡°The mixed-blood ranger is gone. Not overboard. She seems to have betaken herself to the shadows, alone.¡±


    Laurol nodded, considering. Then, as Hallan struck Cinda Whitlock¡¯s name from the logbook,


    ¡°Will she let on that we¡¯ve survived and turned free-blade, Sir?¡±


    Hal stopped himself from shrugging. He was a captain, now, and expected to be decisive.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know her well enough to make a firm judgement¡­ but if the company she¡¯s kept is any predictor, she can be trusted. These are good folk, I think, Laurol.¡±


    His first mate nodded, looking relieved.


    ¡°My gut says you¡¯re right, Sir.¡±


    ¡­which made him feel better. Nothing they could do about it in any case, for the ranger was long gone. Once again, Falcon announced a prospective crew member. There were two sharp raps at the hatch. When the captain nodded assent, an oval section of bulkhead vanished away.


    It was the drow who entered, this time. Like the others, he wore clothing lent from the ship¡¯s store: canvas trousers, leather boots and loose blue shirt. Unlike the rest, his flesh was dead-white wherever it wasn¡¯t puffy with recently salted cuts. His red eyes burned fiercely in that icy, expressionless face. More than that¡­ not just drow, he was also mixed. There was high-elf blood, there. Record resumed.


    Captain Gelfrin (making and holding eye-contact): ¡°Come in. Have a seat.¡± (Distinctly uncomfortable pause, then,) ¡°State your name, rank, and applicable skills, if you would. Previous affiliations¡­ at your own discretion.¡±


    Prospective Crew (long pause, returning eye-contact): ¡°I am Kaazin Kylarion, son of a she-wolf¡­ whom I have dealt with¡­ and an escaped elven captive, as you have already noted. I have no rank but outcast, in any cavern or settlement. I can fight. I do not lose my head or my balance. I ask for nothing but passage to Karellon. For that, Captain, I am willing to work.¡±


    Captain Gelfrin (quietly glancing at First Mate Laurol Greenbow, who nods very slightly): ¡°Understood. I can offer the post of helmsman¡¯s mate, under Mr. Not-Jonn. Steering an airship is a skill that might win you a berth on future vessels. If you choose to accept¡­¡±


    Airrior Kylarion (nodding once): ¡°I do¡­ Sir.¡±


    Captain Gelfrin (turning the ship¡¯s log and sliding it across the desk, quill in the seam): ¡°Very good, Kylarion. Sign below your name¡­ Now, present yourself to Mr. Not-Jonn, at the helm and¡­ welcome aboard.¡±


    Airrior Kylarion (pausing mid-rise to look at the captain): ¡°Sir.¡±


    Falcon¡¯s official record lapsed as the drow left the command office, taking his seething anger out with him. Speaking to Falcon, Hallan said,


    ¡°Speedy, reschedule the next interview for after midmeal. I need day-brew and something to eat before facing any more boarders.¡±


    ¡®Very well, Captain. Order given. Will you take your meal in the office?¡¯


    ¡°No¡­ I¡¯d like to eat on the quarterdeck, Speedy. Stretch my legs and see how our recent conscripts are doing.¡±


    There remained a mortal wizard, the paladins and a noble lady to interview, and Hallan was already weary in spirit and body. He¡¯d outgrown his midshipman¡¯s garb overnight but wasn¡¯t quite tall enough to don Varric¡¯s clothing. Thus, he was wearing a mix of Not-Jonn and Sarrit¡¯s old dress blues. He thrust his legs out of under the desk, stretching till his joints cracked. Then, patting back a yawn, Hal got to his feet.


    Laurol was smiling; an expression she hid when Hallan looked over.


    ¡°We¡¯ll resume interviews at the start of the next watch, Leftenant Greenbow. Go have midmeal and think about something else, for a while.¡±


    Laurol Greenbow smiled at her red-haired young captain.


    ¡°Aye, that, Sir. And you ought, as well. ¡®Imself ud go out to the taffrail and watch the horizon or visit the helm n¡¯ talk about home.¡±


    Hallan¡¯s shoulders sagged briefly, beneath the weight of that newly piled brass.


    ¡°Don¡¯t expect we¡¯ll ever see home again,¡± he mused. ¡°At least¡­ not while His Lordship¡¯s in power. But Lin can handle the estate and¡­ and we¡¯ll manage.¡±


    ¡°Aye, Sir,¡± agreed Laurol, rising from her bolted-down chair. ¡°Plus, if we rescues enough of ¡®Is Majesty¡¯s merchant ships, we could win ourselves pardon and fortune, too.¡±


    Hallan straightened and lifted his head. There were no smiles left in the young captain, at present, but he nodded fondly at Laurol. Everyone here¡­ every being from Speedy right down to that addled wizard¡­ depended on him. On Hallan Gelfrin ad Reddick, captain and free-blade Airrior. It was a huge, nearly crushing, responsibility.


    Taking Varric¡¯s spy-glass from its brackets, the red-haired young officer turned and left his cabin, murmuring,


    ¡°Afternoon bell, then, Leftenant.¡±


    Laurol saluted, watching him leave the office; Falcon¡¯s glowing blue eye sliding along the bulkhead in Hallan¡¯s wake. The oval hatch remained open, but Laurol did not leave immediately. Instead, casting her gaze at the overhead, she cleared her throat.


    ¡°I ain¡¯t the one as generally speaks ter you,¡± said the first mate, addressing thin air. ¡°That¡¯s Not-Jonn¡¯s place, ¡®im having died an¡¯ come back an¡¯ all¡­ which he does seem ter get yer attention more often than not¡­ But our Hal needs some help, Lord Oberyn. We all do. No one special, me. Just a jumped-up battle commission¡­ but I visits the temple regular, when we¡¯re at port, and I always makes a donation. So¡­ not fer me. I ain¡¯t one y¡¯d notice up there in the sky¡­ but fer Hal, our boy¡­ our captain¡­ please let us come through this alright.¡±


    If she¡¯d expected lightning or doves¡­ well, that didn¡¯t happen. A blue eye opened up on the bulkhead beside her, though. As First Mate, she¡¯d begun hearing Speedy, too. Still jumped at the fizzing noise in her skull but was slowly becoming accustomed to Falcon¡¯s voice.


    ¡®There is a meal prepared in the galley, Leftenant,¡¯ said the ship, in her mind. ¡®Grog, biscuit, mustard and beef, same as yesterday¡­¡¯


    ¡°¡­Same as tomorrow and every day after,¡± finished Laurol, smiling at Falcon¡¯s swirling and luminous eye. Then, ¡°I¡¯ll be along directly. Don¡¯t know if you have any pull with the watch-above, Speedy¡­ but I don¡¯t know anyone purer than <u>you</u>. If you had a word with the gods, seems like they¡¯d have ter listen.¡±


    Falcon¡¯s eye changed color briefly, its glowing blue turning deeper. It followed Laurol out of the command office, as Speedy¡¯s voice once more tickled her mind.


    ¡®I have no contact with any watch-above, Leftenant Greenbow. Nonetheless, I have sent out a message, requesting aid from any being of power disposed to answer our beacon. Is this prayer?¡¯


    Laurol patted the bulkhead, sealing the office hatch with a lock-sigil. Nodding, she said,


    ¡°Good as any I could raise¡­ though maybe not so good as Mister Not-Jonn, who lifts some rare fine cussing to them in the clouds.¡±


    ¡­which caused Speedy to begin listing every curse and insult she¡¯d learned since being commissioned and launched, twenty years earlier. Quite a scurrilous list it was, too, and Laurol was chuckling by the time she got to the galley for midmeal. Starting with ancestry, appearance and likely destination, then working her way toward personal habits, Speedy covered nearly all there was to say about anyone. Even a god.


    But maybe Lord Oberyn had a sense of humor as well as a plan¡­ and maybe a splinter of ship with an untested crew would make it to safety, after all.

 Sword and Sorcery Five, chapter twenty-three

    <u>23</u>


    Miche rose through the soggy air and into the grip of a sluggish wind. Below him, the orc¡¯s scowling face spiraled and shrank with the landscape. But it wasn¡¯t as if there was much to see. Amur was a reeking, lawless shanty-town with open sewers in the middle of each mucky street. Only that glittering shrine portal, hovering over the rooftops and ladders, offered a measure of hope. A chance at escape¡­ If you could reach it. If you could find a way through. Clearly, most of Amur¡¯s profit lay in promising hope to those who clustered and chanted beneath.


    Miche had other concerns, because Nameless had scrambled up through the dripping trees, scattering leaves and strange birds like a noisy storm-wind. The marten broke through the canopy and leapt after Miche. Had the elf been wearing a cloak, his friend would have made it. But there was no cloak present, now, and nothing to sink its hooks into.


    Nameless stretched wildly, uttered a very shrill scream but didn¡¯t fall. Instead, a spell caught the marten and swept it into Miche¡¯s outstretched hands.


    ¡°You¡¯re an idiot,¡± he admonished the creature, ¡°And you¡¯re far more trouble than you¡¯re worth¡­ but I guess you can stay.¡±


    Nameless barked three or four times, wrapping itself ¡®round his neck like a scarf. Not that he needed the layers. It was every bit as hot, humid and smelly up here as it was down below. Just windier, with a view of ancient roads and a distant river winking though mile after mile of tropical forest.


    Amur infested a hollow in that densely wooded rift valley, stoppered with clouds, hemmed in by trees. Like festering garbage, stuffed into a pit. He crossed the ¡°city¡± over thousands of bowed, chanting worshippers. Soared past their rickety towers and frail wooden platforms, riding the updrafts and winds to reach that beckoning, silvery door.


    At some point, a believer looked up, cried aloud, and roused the whole mob. The crowd surged out of their mire and filth to howl and scream at him. Some begged, raising their thin, poxy arms and their tear-streaked faces. Some cursed, throwing stones or firing arrows. Others trampled their fellows to race after a drifting warrior-prince.


    Had he been able to fly, he could have just zipped right into the portal, escaping their view and their unwanted worship. Instead, Miche had to hold levitate while controlling the winds (who were disposed to be mischievous, batting him this way and that like a courtball). Luckily, wind-sprites were easily distracted by anything shiny that they could pick up and scatter, and Miche had bits of black-and-gold confetti in one of his magical pockets (for¡­ parties? Games?). Whatever, he pulled out and tossed the stuff, now. Created quite a spectacle (as well as a hot later market in souvenir hero-scraps). Better, all of those bits gave the wind-sprites something to do besides tease him.


    He got to the doorway at last, only a little bit tweaked and hair-pulled, with the crowd looking on; breath pent and hands clasped tight to their chests. They¡¯d fallen silent, even the ones racing up to the top of their highest, flimsiest tower. Overloaded, the fragile thing swayed like a pendulum. Would have crashed down onto the people below, had Miche not muttered another grudging spell. Their tower didn¡¯t collapse. Never would, through all of this dark world¡¯s eternity. It just hung there, perfectly stable, at a very sharp angle, forever.


    Meanwhile, Miche reached the shrine¡¯s whirling gateway. Seen close-to, it was carved all over with sigils and runes that flared to life as he neared. The massed people below made a noise like a sigh and then commenced singing. First one or two voices, then swelling in volume as more and more picked up the tune. A very old and sweet song, it was. One he might have remembered¡­ had he bothered to listen.


    Didn¡¯t, though. Still wanted nothing to do with this awful place and its miserable folk (excepting Marget and Nameless). Ignoring their song, he swept through an oval stone gate that was twice elf-height. In through a soap-bubble screen that seemed to comb through him, removing all traces of Chaos, venom and dirt; that swept away all of Marget¡¯s ink, leaving only luminous ghostly-bright lines forming images over his skin. There was a moment of cold, blank, utter nothing. Then¡­


    Miche¡¯s boot-soles touched down on the bottom steps of a stone tunnel, in another location entirely. Maybe twelve feet long, the arched passage ended above in bright sunshine, birdsong and swaying, gold-spangled shade.


    His first impulse was to simply rush forward, but the elf took a moment to cleanse and reclothe himself, telling Nameless (sternly),


    ¡°No stinking. Not here.¡±


    Firelord simply retreated, not wishing contact with another (maybe more powerful) god.


    ¡°Right,¡± murmured the elf. ¡°Alert for anything. In, out. Best behavior from both of you.¡±


    Nameless screaked from its perch in the hood of his new scarlet cloak. Firelord punched him in the kidney, a blow that was aimed from within. As much of a promise as he was likely to get from either old friend, he supposed. This was the third shrine, though, and threes were always important. Extra magical.


    Taking a deep breath, the elf started forward, ascending warm, mica-flecked stairs to the mouth of the tunnel. Stepped out into a formal garden. Very wide, smoothly bowl-shaped, with a sparkling miniature sun just above, the garden seemed to exist out of time and place; connected to nothing whatever, except through its tunnel.


    Miche felt himself leaving the physical dark world behind. Saw new trees and strange plants, meandering streams and bright ponds stocked with beautiful gold-and-red fish. Birds and small dragons swooped through the air, which filled his lungs like a tonic; refreshing, reviving.


    And then, the shrine goddess appeared.


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    He looked, and then looked away, bowing low, clenched fist to brow. She hovered above a gleaming, polished stone altar, wearing wreathing mist, her own drifting dark hair and a gentle smile.


    ¡°Welcome, Traveler,¡± she said to him. ¡°Much time has passed since the last visitor, but this place of refreshment and rest still exists. Come. Take your ease.¡±


    Cautiously, the elf started forward along a white flagstone path. There seemed to be nothing wrong, here. Nothing in need of repair. In fact, he felt like a grossly physical hammered thumb in a haven of spirit and light.


    ¡°I thank you, Goddess,¡± he said in reply, clearing his throat a bit. ¡°I have come to your shrine seeking knowledge. I am here in this world¡­ that world outside, rather¡­ because of something that happened in mine. Before you welcome me, Goddess¡­ my deeds must not have been good ones. I do not remember, except that I tried to make everything right and¡­ I failed. All is dark and corrupt in the world outside of this haven, because of me.¡±


    Her eyes were wide and beautiful; every color at once and none at all. She¡­ he couldn¡¯t look at her. Not without longing. She said, her voice a freshet of musical notes,


    ¡°Mishe-tah. Miche. Vallarek. Val¡­ I cannot give you what you desire. I am not able. Yet¡­ through the other wish, Little Tree, if you would learn more?¡±


    He looked up again, meeting that splendidly beautiful gaze. Hearing ¡°Val¡± had done something to him. Freed something inside.


    ¡°Yes,¡± he said, nodding. ¡°Whatever you would show me, Goddess.¡±


    She reached forward with one slim, glowing hand.


    ¡°It is not a pleasant tale, Old One. For its darkness, for breaking protocol, I offer apology. But, dearest heart, you are not to blame. See.¡±


    She brushed at his forehead with glittering fingertips, and all at once everything changed. He was a mighty elf-lord, in a time of fading manna; when spells began failing and power had to be hoarded. When long-subject races began to rebel, causing slaughter, famine and war.


    His wife¡­ lovely, dark-haired Hana¡­ had been a sorceress of great power. Remained a subtle and gifted tactician, and very much the jewel of his heart. Their children were Ander, Randon and Kara; all of them healthy and beautiful, bringing their parents great joy.


    He lived an entire two-thousand-twenty year life. Loved truly and was deeply loved in return. Was lord of vast estates and captained an airship, the Javelin. But there was darkness mixed in, as well. The mortals had risen. Their leader was War Marshall Thrask, a brutal and pitiless man whose intent was the utter extinction of magical races and all of their works. Especially elves.


    With a lifetime extended by potion, machines and draining his magical captives, this Thrask united the mortals. Promising freedom and peace, he led them to war against those who had reigned for so long.


    It was a bloody and terrible fight. The combined forces of elves, orcs and dwarves fought in great airships; designed and became the first cyborgs. In response, the mortals built huge, armored titans of steel. Bred wildly, as well; able to field a thousand new soldiers for every lone orc, elf or dwarf. Able to bring an awful false life to their dead.


    Ander, his eldest son, was killed in the crash of an airship, early in the war. That was a blow he felt when it happened and could not ever truly forget. Nor was Ander the only one lost. Many more fell in battle, but the fey held their own, because manna was weak, but not gone entirely, and because mechanical forces, wrought by the dwarves, made up the difference in troop strength. More than that, those dwarven engineers constructed a new sort of ship, one that could leave the world entirely, searching out safety and peace among distant stars.


    His wife was involved in that effort, as well, keeping the engineers safe in their mountain stronghold. Their on-leave unions were brief but intense, and Hana quickened again; life sparking from love in the time of darkness and war.


    But their enemy learned of this ¡°space-ship¡±. Well knowing the Old One¡¯s reliance on living machines, he created a death-code. One that locked up and froze every last one of the elves¡¯ airships, cyborgs and weapons. Doomed those human-piloted titans, as well, leaving the landscape cratered with burning aircraft, dying cyborgs and inescapable giant steel tombs.


    The death-code extinguished the shrines, too, putting an end to the Travelers Rest network. Even worse, the insidious code sparked a total system collapse. From the edges inward, their world began shrinking. Dying.


    Only the space-ship was untouched, for it had not been ether-connected, from fear of discovery. In his last few weeks of life, the elf-lord fought to defend waves of refugees seeking the mountain and ship. He did not board, himself. Stayed to battle that oncoming tide of mortal-husk soldiers. Saw Hana aboard, though, with Randon and Kara, and the still-unborn little one. She¡¯d wanted to stay with him, but¡­


    ¡°No. I am doomed to this place and this final push. Fate is not mocked or denied, Hana¡­ but you will escape. You¡¯ll be free of this nightmare, and that is enough.¡±


    Even the delay for last words and a brief, frantic hug was dangerous, for his troops were being destroyed, and there weren¡¯t enough places for all who struggled to board the escape ship. She could not cover his face with kisses enough, reached wildly to hold hands, touch fingers as long as she could, then kept eye-contact, signing and sending: I love you, until the dwarven chief artisan hauled her into the boarding tube and slammed the hatch shut.


    He had not stayed to see the mountain yawn wide and the space-ship launch like a dragon. Instead, he¡¯d gated back to his army. Fought valiantly, bought time, lost¡­ and was captured. Kept alive, of all the fey warriors.


    Was dragged, forced to kneel, before War Marshal Thrask in the highest room of an old shrine tower. The elf had been badly injured, kept by his captors for torment and sport. Better off than Thrask, though, who¡¯d become more of a corpse than a man. The enemy war-leader stared at the very last elf through eyes that glowed with decay and with drained, stolen souls. Like a paper-wrapped skeleton, kept upright by hate, Thrask leered at him, whispering,


    ¡°You did not prevail then, and you won¡¯t succeed now. Your death was most entertaining, and it taught me much, Old One.¡±


    Thrask signaled his guards, those who had once been men, wrung out to keep their lord partly alive. And then¡­ he was back in the shrine. Just Miche, again; lost and alone, but free. Mourning a wife and family he¡¯d never actually had, a war that had ended eons ago. The shrine had gone flickering-dark, he saw. Its birds, fish, flowers and trees becoming just shiny, wire-form outlines. Beside him, the goddess was now a swirl of sparkling motes, repeatedly flashing the words: System reset.


    <u>That</u>, he could deal with. Hurriedly, Miche yanked the cylindrical talisman out of its magical pocket. The shrine¡¯s altar held three flat, colored buttons he hadn¡¯t noticed before. To their right was a round hole into which one might place a key or¡­ or a memory-drive.


    Thinking of Hana, still feeling her touch and hearing her cry out his name, he bounded across that flickering garden and then up three steps to the altar, slamming the talisman into place. At once, his map adjusted. Updated. The garden reformed. Still lovely, but different. Next the goddess took shape again, smiling.


    ¡°Welcome, Traveler,¡± she said, this version blue-eyed and golden. ¡°Much time has passed since the last visitor, but this place of refreshment and rest still exists. Come. Take your ease.¡±


    He started to reach out a hand to her, then let it fall back to his side. Too torn, too filled with anguish to speak. His wife¡­? Illusion. Their children, the unborn little one¡­? A dream. A two-thousand-twenty year life, spun in the space between heartbeat and breath. And what she had shown him before breaking down?


    Had it been real?

 Sword and Sorcery Five, chapter twenty four

    <u>24</u>


    ¡°Had it been real?¡± he¡¯d asked himself, torn by doubt and the clinging shreds of a borrowed life. Very long, not entirely joyous or noble, and violently¡­ horribly¡­ ended. Worse, with an enemy left that still lived, still remembered, and now maybe knew where he was.


    Nameless and Firelord had experienced none of this turmoil but sensed his distress. The marten¡¯s response was a vicious ear-nip that snapped the elf partway out of his spiral. Firelord added a burst of manna, healing the ear and improving his flight skills (never the best).


    He felt¡­ unbalanced. Top-heavy. With a grand, epic two-thousand-twenty-year life on the one hand, and five short months on the other. Had to pack it away somehow or go mad. The shrine-goddess, meanwhile, had summoned a splendid meal and soft music. She no longer looked like (his) Hana. Seemed to remember nothing at all beyond welcoming weary travelers and repeating the latest (very old) gossip.


    Travelers¡¯ Rest¡­ So, the shrines were a system of waypoints? Places of healing and rest? Fit with what he¡¯d learned from that borrowed existence, along with all that he¡¯d done in his lifetime as Miche-who-used-to-be-Val.


    Time did not matter, here. Or¡­ it flowed sideways, somehow, passing tangentially to the outside world. Once all of the shrines were active, again, he could maybe access any place, any when, in their span. Something to think about, anyhow. Question was, how far back did the shrine-system reach? How long ago would it take him?


    For something to do besides eat, wonder and listen to ages-old news, he pulled the spring stone out of its pocket and placed it gently onto the altar. Just a small, opaline rock, it sparked a bit on contact with this new healing shrine.


    ¡°Her place is not here, Mishe-tah,¡± said the goddess, rematerializing to look over his right shoulder. ¡°Nor is it nearby¡­ but she is strengthening. All of us are.¡±


    He nodded, fighting the urge to slip an arm ¡®round her waist and draw her in for a very deep kiss, as so many times he¡¯d¡­ not done, because he wasn¡¯t that person, and this wasn¡¯t his Hana. A bit more harshly than intended, he snapped,


    ¡°Good to know, Goddess. Thank you. By way of useful information, do you know where this ¡®Fallen One¡¯ dens?¡±


    She went temporarily blank; lovely face stilling, golden hair ceasing to drift. Then¡­


    ¡°He is north, past the Walking City, beyond the High Station, to Far Keep¡­ but there is much that is not accessible. Sites and nodes that have darkened. I do not know more, Old One.¡±


    And it hurt him to stay in that place. Twisted like knives in his heart, to hear a voice that no longer sparkled with love. The elf got himself under control. Stuffed away useless emotion along with the spring stone. Said,


    ¡°Again, good to know. I intend to find and activate the next shrine on the map¡­¡± (which now showed the rift as a narrow canyon and featured <u>six</u> urgent travel advisories regarding the city of Amur) ¡°¡­and, for all you have shown me, my thanks, Goddess.¡± For all it had cost her, as well.


    Taking and pocketing most of that wonderful food, he next made his way up the garden-bowl¡¯s side to its entrance. Funnily enough, never felt himself standing sideways. Just watched his environment curving around, overhead, with that miniature sun always central.


    The shrine-goddess followed as far as the mouth of the tunnel. Before he stepped through, she said very softly,


    ¡°Once you have finished this quest, when all of the nodes are awakened, again¡­ come back to me, dearest one.¡±


    Got that out, but no more, because the garden collapsed once again; dissolving her shrine back to bright dots and thin, glowing lines, with: System restart in 10¡­ 9¡­ 8¡­ spinning away in the middle. He pivoted, reached, but the portal took hold and ejected him out of her garden, back to a passage of mica-flecked stairs.


    This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    He stood there, numb, for a very long moment; needing to leave, but unable. Then, bowing his head, fist to brow, he replied,


    ¡°I will return, once my task is complete and all that is wrong has been healed.¡±


    ¡­And if the way back led through this ''Fallen One'', best that shriveled-up corpse-lord look to itself. The elf sketched a sigil onto the tunnel wall that meant ¡®home site¡¯ or ¡®refuge¡¯. Now, instead of the rock-shelter, t<u>his</u> was the place he¡¯d appear, if he had to escape in a hurry. He placed a hand on warm, gritty stone beside those pale lines, then turned to leave. Down the steps, and out through the portal once more.


    The elf had no patience at all for the steaming swamp that was Amur. So, he shot up high in the air, past the clouds and out into westering sunshine. It was cooler up there and windier, with no sign of whatever had cast that dragon-like shadow and taken the hopeful Amurites.


    Instead, as he burst through swirling white mist, the elf saw a chain of remarkable floating islands. They looked like inverted mountains, with broad and forested tops. Ending below in rough points, their rocky flanks were pocked with great caverns. Dozens of waterfalls cascaded from the nearest isle, creating ribbons of shining gold light that ended in fog. It was an incredible sight, with a rippling ocean of cloud down below and an endless horizon of blue, up above. Enchanted, Firelord left him to rocket around and explore. Probably safe. Hopefully.


    The elf would have joined him¡­ only, Marget still waited, below. Despite over two-thousand years of added, false memory, Miche remembered, still. Got himself reoriented with the aid of his map, then half-flew, half-drifted to Amur¡¯s south border. There, he plunged downward again. Left the cool air and sunlight, sinking through dense, swirling mist and back to that reeking, tropical stew.


    Marget did not see him coming. She¡¯d edged out to almost the end of their thicket, growling and rolling her shoulders. Would have been terribly visible, had the Amurites been looking anywhere else but the portal and clouds. She sensed the pressure change caused by his drop, though, looking upward in time to help steady Miche (Val)¡¯s landing.


    ¡°Hunh,¡± the orc scoffed. ¡°Your stealth needs work, Old One. You are more fluttering goose than owl.¡±


    He smiled, seeing Marget as a beloved comrade and friend. As sister-in-battle. Touching down, he gave her a forearm-grip handclasp that came from a war-leader, not a hunted, lost exile.


    ¡°Enough of this sinkhole, Marget,¡± he said. ¡°If you trust to the skies again, I¡¯ve something to show you, above.¡±


    The orc¡¯s red eyes narrowed suspiciously. Leaning in, she snuffed at him. Rumbled,


    ¡°It is you, and not. What chanced in yon shrine, and why does another look out through your eyes, Vrol?¡± A very good question, and one he was still working out, but...


    Miche levitated enough to look the orc square in her face, then did his best to explain, saying,


    ¡°I went into the garden shrine and found it in good repair. I warned the goddess before she welcomed me in, that all of this¡­¡± he gestured broadly around at the steaming forest and rank, dirty Amur. ¡°¡­is maybe my doing, caused by something I did.¡±


    Marget snorted.


    ¡°You take too much on yourself, Vrol. My doings are mighty, but they don¡¯t destroy worlds. You are only a male.¡±


    An attitude he¡¯d¡­ encountered before? Miche-not-Val-any-longer nodded.


    ¡°Whatever I did, whoever I was has been mostly taken away. The shrine-goddess let me experience some of what happened here. If I seem different, it is because... for two thousand years I was somebody else. His tale ended in war, death and defeat of the elves by this Fallen One. There were some who escaped, though; out to the space between stars.¡±


    She¡¯d been staring at him in that very direct way of hers.


    ¡°This other is no spirit or shade,¡± she growled. Stating, not asking.


    ¡°No,¡± he assured her. ¡°Just somebody else¡¯s past. Lord Erron of Sky-Vale, leader of battles, captain of Javelin¡­husband and father. Not me¡­ but tough to set aside.¡±


    Marget shook her head, making all of those hundred rough braids fly and causing her armor to rattle.


    ¡°Not a good thing to do, to one with little left of their own. You are very young for your breed, Vrol, yes?¡±


    The elf gestured, lifting both arms from his sides and then dropping them.


    ¡°I have only months of my own, Marget¡­ in which you¡¯ve been a true bright spot. I¡¯m sorry that I disrupted your mating fight, but I am very glad that we met.¡±


    The orc leaned in to touch her forehead to his, then stepped away. Scooped little Spots up, as the fawn had been butting her legs impatiently.


    ¡°I am satisfied, Old One,¡± she said. ¡°Though you have been someone else, yet it is you. My brother and friend. Come! I tire of cities and heat. Show me this very great sight that you spoke of.¡±


    He smiled, laid a hand on the orc¡¯s corded green arm, then used magic to levitate all of them. They rose smoothly, soon leaving Amur behind. Broke out of the clouds into glory and sunshine and magical islands that spun and floated like thistle-down.


    Marget¡¯s jaw dropped.


    ¡°Cloud castles,¡± he told her. ¡°For you.¡±

 Sword and Sorcery Five, chapter twenty-five

    <u>25</u>


    They were meant to stay together because Epona¡­ first and greatest of the Blessed Isles¡­ was a very dangerous place. According to Andorin, the island was quick to rob purpose and will from any who journeyed there. But somehow, once off the gangway from Seahorse, Lerendar found himself wandering the streets of a nebulous city, holding the hand of a goblin girl. ¡®Pretty One,¡¯ he thought, clinging fast to the only real thing in this cauldron of shifting illusion.


    He¡¯d come here with others. Just¡­ not sure who they were or where they¡¯d all gone, or how long ago. That he had a wife-to-be and a child, kept pushing its way through the mist in his head, only to vanish again.


    Then something cold, heavy and sharp scratched the flesh at the base of his throat. Something important. With his free hand, Lerendar groped up to take hold of the small, spiky thing, clenching it hard. Doing so brought pin-picks of gem-bright blood. Caused a faint, burning pain that helped clear his head.


    Looking around, he saw a cobblestone street made of floating rocks like chunks of ice in a silver canal. Rows of buildings lined either side of the road. They were shuttered and grey for the most part; places he sensed he was not meant to enter. One, up ahead, blazed with color and light and music-box tinkles, playing a famous bit of the Dawn Hymn.


    Lerendar squeezed the young goblin¡¯s hand. Both of them would have to go into that shop, he realized. Only¡­ the girl-child was crying. Talking, too, in short, broken gasps.


    ¡°M¡¯ sorry¡­ din¡¯t meant no harm. Please¡­ ¡®Ee told me ter wish. I tried! Please¡­ I tried.¡±


    And somehow, that was important. Lerendar managed to focus his drifting attention. Gripping tight to the girl and his small, jagged amulet, he demanded,


    ¡°Who? Who told you to wish?¡±


    The girl-child lifted her face, looking around as though seeking a harbor. Other than her frantic grip on his hand, the elf sensed that she saw and felt nothing but darkness.


    ¡°The Bright One. The Sky Lord them worships, above. ¡®Ee told me ter wish¡­ but it all come out wr- wrong!¡± He wasn¡¯t sure what the girl was on about, or why it mattered so very much, but¡­


    ¡°Around your neck,¡± he said. ¡°Feel up around your neck for something heavy and sharp. Almost there¡­ more to the kata-right¡­ there. Now, hold tight.¡±


    She did so, causing some of that lost and blind drift to clear from her gaze. Pretty One looked at him, confused and miserable. Whispered,


    ¡°Why did it ¡®ave ter be me, Y¡¯r Lordship? I were scared¡­ almost got kilt¡­ din¡¯t know where m¡¯ sibs were or nuthin¡¯!¡±


    It was all very dream-like, with the bright shop receding no matter how far they walked on that magically shifting road. Said Lerendar,


    ¡°The goblin kitts were with me and¡­ some others. We got out of the cave to a seashore. Found a shipwreck haven, I think.¡± There¡¯d been screaming. Darkness. Splintering wood. Failing spells¡­ and then nothing at all.


    ¡°We died,¡± he continued. ¡°We hadn¡¯t much magic and there were too many to fight.¡± Like the girl, though, he¡¯d tried. Her small, wet face pinched up in misery, but she nodded.


    ¡°Chaos got everyone, din¡¯t it?¡±


    Remembering, he said,


    ¡°Yes. Until your wish and¡­ whatever my brother was doing¡­ put us all on another path, triggered the Peace of Oberyn.¡± And maybe that was the point. Lerendar stopped walking to squat down and look at the girl, eye-level. Said,


    ¡°Wishes are awful and powerful things, Pretty. You can never put in enough detail to block Chaos entirely¡­ and there¡¯s always a price. Remember the Epic of Princess Alina? How badly that wish went wrong? Even Lord Oberyn didn¡¯t dare try, and he is a god.¡± With god-level cost for failure.


    He found himself hugging the child and patting her back, although somehow, some-once they had been enemies. On top of all that, his leg itched like ten wicked fiends were at it with pollen and knives. ¡®Dead¡¯ had been only a part of his troubles, it seemed.


    Now the shop was before them, playing its tinny and haunting short tune. Lerendar rose to his feet once again. Gave the girl¡¯s hand another brief press, saying,


    ¡°We¡¯re meant to enter the shop.¡±


    She looked up at the golden-haired elf-lord, her scarlet eyes clouded with tears.


    ¡°I¡¯m scared ter go in there, M¡¯ Lord,¡± the girl whispered. Lerendar nodded.


    ¡°Me, too,¡± he confided. ¡°But there¡¯s no going back or around, and I won¡¯t let go of your hand.¡±


    ¡°Promise?¡± she asked, tugging his arm. ¡°Promise you¡¯ll not lemme go?¡±


    By way of answer, Lerendar scooped the child up to plunk her down on his hip as he often did with his own little daughter, whose name and appearance stayed lost to him. Couldn¡¯t remember her mother, either, no matter how hard he struggled to bring them both back.


    ¡°I hate this place,¡± muttered the elf-lord, as the girl first buried her face in his neck, then turned resolutely to stare at the shop. With one hand, she clutched Lerendar¡¯s shirt, but the other now flickered with silvery magical force.


    ¡°I¡¯m ready,¡± she said. ¡°If I gets in trouble fer wishin¡¯ wrong, well, I¡¯m jus¡¯ a goblin an¡¯ nobody cares¡­ but I¡¯ll tell ¡®em weren¡¯t nuthin¡¯ ter do with you, M¡¯ Lord.¡±


    His sword-arm was free, just in case, and there were more weapons¡­ a sling, knife and bow¡­ in his nearest faerie pocket. More than that, he¡¯d fought at the side of this girl, this sorceress, before. They¡¯d forged a connection that bonded them here in the dreaming-mist of the Isles.


    ¡°You kept your promise, and I¡¯ll keep mine,¡± he assured her. ¡°They¡¯ll have to go through me to get to you. I¡¯m a Tarandahl. We¡¯re bred with more courage than brains.¡±


    That made her smile.


    ¡°I¡¯m glad we ain¡¯t fightin¡¯ no more, Y¡¯r Lordship, an¡¯ glad everyone¡¯s back alive¡­ but I don¡¯t wanna wish no more wishes, never again.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t blame you,¡± he agreed, stepping off of a bobbing cobblestone and onto the shop¡¯s wooden porch. Then, ¡°War face,¡± he ordered. ¡°Half the battle¡¯s in looking so fierce that no one durst cross you.¡±


    Pretty One scowled, looking ferocious, indeed. Lerendar went full, mighty elf-lord, glowing with manna and pride. Then, heads high, he and Pretty swept into the Shop of True Need.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    ¡®Go in, or not?¡¯ had been the question. Only¡­ the burden he carried left V47 Pilot spam-all for choice. He had to return to the Orbital Station, report in to Flight Command, but the data packet he carried was deadly; knowledge its authors would kill to protect. Bringing it with him might doom not just his own base and ship, but the miners on Glimmr, as well.


    The pilot had kept his communications brief. Had barely accessed Bide-a-While station¡¯s traffic AI, asking aloud for permission to land. They¡¯d received the go-ahead to put in at the freight dock, where a message from one of the shops had caught their immediate, wary attention. Now, telling his battle-mech,


    ¡°Stand by and be ready to launch at my signal, V,¡± the pilot jetted back down to the asteroid¡¯s surface. There was an atmosphere, sun-shield and comfortable gravity, along with pulsing neon and flocks of distracting, bright adverts. Most of them featured the ¡°Behuggler¡±, Bide-a-While station¡¯s cute purple mascot.


    The ads he could do something about, setting his electronic address to shift randomly, with only V47 possessing the other half of the key. Instantly, the pop-ups and music dimmed by 87.65%, clearing his field of view. Only the Shop of True Need advert still hung there, refusing to move aside or be blocked. Strange.


    As he touched down, the asteroid grew from moon-like rock to horizon-spanning environment. It had been partly flattened on top; the shiny, metallic surface cross-hatched with grooves for better traction. The Mark-30 Industrial Gate hung overhead like a storm cloud, sparking faintly.


    There were three solar-class freighters docked at the service pier, their crews wandering Bide-a-While station in scruffy and talkative knots. Cyborg dwarves and half-elves, 78.92% of them, the rest a mixed bag of races and types. They stared at V47, gaping up at the towering red-and-gold mech. For the pilot, V47 was home; the other half of himself. For the freighter crews, that griffin-class mech was a very rare sight. For that matter, so was he.


    Had he not been fighting to conceal, isolate and prevent a dangerous download from opening, the pilot might have accepted their offers of drink and a meal at the ¡°diner¡±. But he had to hold his mind and focus his systems just so. Could not relax vigilance for ready-mass food and bad-tasting, barely potable depressant fluids. At least, not yet.


    ¡°I have business within,¡± he told Gofir-1, captain of Gofir. ¡°But once I have managed my data-transfer, I will be free for¡­ thirty-five ticks.¡± An eternity, in over-clocked cyber time. An age in which to slam fluids, exchange handshakes and comm.


    The dwarf grinned at him, splitting a beard that was 82% dark, braided hair and 18% fiber-optics.


    ¡°Aye that, Mech-Jockey,¡± he laughed.


    The dwarf captain and his crew had personalities, expressions and behavior to go with their programming, the pilot noticed. Things he wondered at. ¡°Stubborn¡± seemed to be his one lonesome trait, but then, he¡¯d spent very little time conscious.


    Now, he projected hologram clothing to roughly match the crew¡¯s green flight suits. Accessed local cameras to watch his own stance and expression as he tried on a smile. Gofir-1 roared with laughter, clapping his back through illusory leather and cloth.


    If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    ¡°Aye again,¡± said the dwarf, meat-eye twinkling almost as bright as his pale cyborg lens. ¡°I know you official types don¡¯t get out much¡­ Fact, never seen one, before¡­ but it¡¯s better ter ¡®cover yer glory¡¯, Officer.¡±


    ¡®Laugh¡¯ seemed appropriate and enjoyable. Fortunately, though he wasn¡¯t experienced, there were the show-vids, and V47 had a tutorial pulled up and ready. The pilot¡­ laughed. First time, ever. And it felt very good, like calming-drug, only better. Actually did something to bury that dangerous packet still deeper. Icebox (Mikale) had a boast for such moments, the pilot recalled. With a smile and cocked eyebrow, he said,


    ¡°You¡¯re right, Captain. The worlds aren¡¯t ready for this.¡±


    The joke was well received, especially as the dwarves had watched different show-vids, geared toward freighter crews and their long, boring flights. For them, it was a new, funny statement.


    Gofirs 1 ¨C 6 accompanied V47 Pilot along the main thoroughfare, which was lined with establishments offering drink, food, games and companionship. Their floating signs were very enlightening, and their data ¡°hooks¡± (like malware, designed to seize a sapient¡¯s main drive) strove to take over and walk him inside.


    ¡­if he¡¯d been drunk or stim-vidding, possibly, but not when fully alert, with V47 on watch mode. Not when he had a probable trap to spring.


    They halted at an odd conundrum. The pilot saw an actual shop front, complete with flashing arrows and peppy music. Dome shaped, formed of stone-plastic composite, its door was dilated open, though nothing showed through. The words ¡°SHOP OF TRUE NEED¡± spiraled from top to base of the structure. For him, at least. Gofir-1 clearly saw something different and sent as much, sharing vid with the pilot.


    In the dwarf captain¡¯s view, all that was there was a narrow dark alley. Just a cleft between ¡°Vork¡¯s Lucious Beauties¡± and ¡°Bide-a-While Snacks¡±. That alternate vision hung in their shared view for .03 of a nano-tick, but it gave them cold, corrupt files, all the same.


    ¡°Dunno, Officer¡­ me an¡¯ the crew can¡¯t pass the business line. Blocked from leaving the main drag or stepping out between buildings¡­ but y¡¯ say there¡¯s a shop, there? Y¡¯r seein¡¯ something we ain¡¯t?¡±


    The pilot nodded, sending affirmation long before he completed the gesture.


    ¡°Yes, Captain,¡± he replied, while his head was still moving downward and Gofir¡¯s hand coming up. ¡°I see an establishment called ¡®Shop of True Need¡¯, and its adverts compel me to enter.¡±


    ¡°!¡± sent Gofir-1, his splayed metal hand less than halfway up to the pilot¡¯s arm. ¡°That shop is a legend, Mech-Jockey, appearing when it will, to them as needs it¡­ and no avoiding the call, either. You go on then, Officer. We¡¯ll wait. Catch ye on th¡¯ flip side.¡±


    Gofir-1¡¯s hand finally reached and clasped the pilot¡¯s right arm, giving him a rough, friendly shake. He¡¯d never encountered that gesture or phrase before, and they triggered an open access send.


    ¡°On the flip side,¡± agreed the pilot, smiling without a tutorial. Then he walked in alone. Really, actually alone. The moment he stepped through that arched, darkened portal, the pilot was physically transferred, his connection to V47 severed entirely. It was worse than before, with TTN-iA. There on the magnetar¡¯s shell, V47 had been locked in combat, then rebooting. Here, his link to the mech¡¯s AI was utterly gone. Amputated. Someone had just chopped half of him loose, and the pilot went into nearly blind panic. Sent query after unanswered query, pivoting to face a blank wall where the doorway suddenly wasn¡¯t. No response from V47, and no sense at all of where he¡¯d been taken.


    Reflexively, the pilot rolled arm cannons and missile launchers back out of their fey-space pockets and into position to batter that wall into dust. Then,


    ¡°Wait! V47 Pilot, withhold your strike. The effect of separation was unanticipated, your distress unintended.¡±


    The pilot¡¯s head whipped around at the sound of that creaky voice, adding his own optics to the scans produced by three just-launched drones. He did not so much send as torrent: ¡°Open. <u>Now</u>, or I self-destruct.¡±


    He meant it, too; able and willing to atomize the shop and every sapient present inside. A gnomish store clerk darted over to hover before him, flying on tiny, bubbling jets. At the creature¡¯s gesture, a pinhole aperture formed in the wall. Suddenly, to his overwhelming relief, V47 came flooding back into contact with Pilot. He staggered, having to brace himself on the curving grey wall to keep from falling.


    V47 had blasted loose of its gantry, was hovering over Bide-a-While station in ¡°Ready-Attack¡± mode; locked and loaded for battle.


    ¡°V¡­ it¡¯s fine. I am here,¡± he sent, meshing again with the fighter¡¯s AI. ¡°Are you well? Systems check optimal?¡± had to be asked and responded to fifty times on both sides, before either was satisfied.


    ¡®Pilot, this location is riddled with error,¡¯ responded his mech. ¡®Speed and caution are advised, as is return.¡¯


    ¡°Yes. That¡¯s affirm. I will hurry. Just, stand by.¡±


    He straightened, getting his respiration and heart-rate under control with help from calming injections and music. Swallowed hard, anyhow, as he turned to regard that hovering gnome. A withered female sapient of small size and out-moded enhancements, looked like. She seemingly posed no actual threat, but his cannons and launch-tubes remained out. The drones stayed aloft, as well, scanning in every possible frequency.


    ¡°You lured me,¡± growled V47 Pilot, in a send/voice he barely recognized. ¡°I am here. State your purpose.¡±


    The gnome looked him over, smiling and shaking her head.


    ¡°In any iteration, you remain yourself, dear boy,¡± she mused. ¡°But I see that you are not in the mood for exchange of pleasantries. Down to what used to be called ¡®brass tacks¡¯, then. Pilot, you are in possession of extremely singular and highly valued data. The shop would rent this from you, removing its trace from your memory core. That is our purpose.¡±


    V47 had picked up the statement, despite the near constant send/ receive handshake still passing between mech and pilot. Now,


    ¡®To what use will the shop put this data?¡± inquired V, seeming much more aggressive than usual.


    ¡°A fair question,¡± said the old gnome, buzzing back over to light on a cluttered display counter. ¡°I can promise that the data will merely be¡­ hmmm¡­ ¡®pawned¡¯, I think was the term; kept by the shop for a time, possibly cloned, but ready when you return to reclaim the packet.¡±


    The pilot considered, feeling very much only a waking month old.


    ¡°This place is secure? Shielded from hacking attack or surveillance? I may speak freely?¡± he demanded.


    ¡°Nothing you say here will pass to the outside world, and no self-destruct command will spring from your words, Pilot,¡± promised the gnome.


    He nodded, arrayed his files, then said,


    ¡°It defines a location. Provides coordinates for a gate to the place where our makers reside.¡± The pilot stopped, bracing for total core-wipe. When that didn¡¯t happen, he went on, saying, ¡°They have abandoned us, Shop-clerk, and they do not wish to be found. Can this data be used to cause harm?¡±


    The gnome¡¯s small, wrinkled mouth pursed.


    ¡°Yes,¡± she responded. ¡°In the wrong hands, the knowledge could result in your makers¡¯ utter destruction.¡±


    He wasn¡¯t sure how he felt about that, but...


    ¡°If the packet is to be stored temporarily, I will upload a copy, then delete the original and purge my own systems. I will have your guarantee, first, that this data will not be passed onward.¡±


    What would the Draugr do with such knowledge? Wipe out the makers? Hunt down their wandering planet? Sounding just as aggressive as V47, the pilot said,


    ¡°No assurance, no file, and to 404 with the consequence.¡± Added, as Ace would have done, ¡°Take it, or leave it.¡±


    Again, the gnome smiled, inclining her fuzzy white head.


    ¡°Assurance given, Pilot¡­ but you must return to this place, for the final decision cannot rest with this shop or its agents. Yes? Very well. Look at me, then. Open your systems and¡­ there. All done.¡±


    He initiated a total scan. All systems from conscious will to digestive subroutines. Found that the gnome had spoken truly. That deadly packet was gone. A box wrapped in old-style brown paper and string appeared on the counter beside her. In strange lettering, it was marked: Warning! Don¡¯t open till Solstice! The box was addressed ¡®V47 Pilot¡¯, and it glowed faintly, setting the whole shop quivering, grinding and tinkling. The gnome made a face.


    ¡°As I said, you must return to collect this data, Pilot, then use it as you see fit. Moving to other business, no price was discussed.¡±


    She tilted her head to one side, fingertip pressed to her very small chin.


    ¡°Hmm¡­ you¡¯ve always been something of a clothes-horse, or¡­ ah! I have just the thing.¡±


    With a swift gesture, the clerk opened a window in midair, revealing the interior of Orbital Station¡¯s O-Club. What remained of it after Draug attack, anyhow. Empty space yawned on one side, while torn metal and sparking wires filled up the other.


    The pilot strode forward, suddenly anxious. He had left Foryu and the Club¡¯s AI in there, with instructions to wait for him. Construction drones were trying to demolish the club and nearby commissary, he saw, balked by a lone, disembodied companion. Foryu.


    She zipped around like ball-lightning, desperately shorting out systems and blocking advance; protecting the podium in which she and the Club¡¯s AI had taken refuge. V47 Pilot turned his head to look at the shop clerk, He was still very much armed, alert and upset. A bad combination.


    ¡°Help her,¡± he ordered, ¡°Or send me to do so. She is a companion. She cannot hold off the station¡¯s work crew for long.¡±


    The gnome inclined her head once again.


    ¡°If it is your wish, dear boy, two artificial sapients will be salvaged from Orbital Station 1210.¡± And, just like that, their data streamed out of OS-1210 and into the Shop of True Need through her window.


    The half-orc AI formed first, patting itself down as it scanned for damage. Next Foryu, looking weary and frightened. The pilot lunged forward to catch her, for his companion was near to collapse. She still wore his jacket, which now sported twin ray-burns on one shoulder. Her flesh and metal were hot from fast movement and shifting through others¡¯ systems.


    Distress radiated from the beautiful cyborg companion, who¡¯d been sending an aid-call on every available frequency. From some show-vid or file came the words,


    ¡°Shh¡­ shh¡­ you¡¯re safe. All is well, brave one.¡±


    Her arms went around his neck. She buried her face against his shoulder; shaking, exhausted, but whole. Foryu ceased her distress call at last but didn¡¯t look up.


    ¡°Oh, Pilot-Sir,¡± gabbled the O-Club¡¯s AI. ¡°How close we came to destruction, and how this companion fought to prevent them from demolishing my processing unit!¡±


    He gave the half-orc AI a brief smile and friend-sending.


    ¡°You are in a location of shelter. One which may have need of¡­¡± he searched his data banks. ¡°Of additional help.¡±


    For of course, the Officers Club was now gone; reduced to spreading particles just as the window shut down. Turning his attention back to Foryu, the pilot dropped his head to put his face against the companion¡¯s curly brown hair. She looked up at him, blue eyes wide.


    He put his mouth to her forehead and then made a slight, soft popping noise. A thing, like those comforting words, which had sprung from a very old archive. She smiled, so he did it again, this time on her warm and half-open mouth. Much passed between them in that micro-swift contact, and when he lifted his head away, she told him,


    ¡°I like that.¡±


    ¡°Me, too,¡± he admitted, giving Foryu a squeeze, then releasing her. Said the shop gnome,


    ¡°There is still a considerable credit balance, Pilot. View the merchandise, please, and select any items of interest.¡±


    V47 Pilot nodded. Holding Foryu¡¯s hand, he wandered the vibrating shop. Saw 12,786 artifacts, including a strangely embroidered white shirt (which he picked up) and a glowing, cylindrical object, about the size of his thumb.


    ¡°What is this?¡± he asked the hovering gnome.


    ¡°You have a discerning eye, young elf,¡± said the clerk, with a wide, wrinkle-altering smile. ¡°That is a very old-fashioned (but still useful) memory drive; the relic of ancient armies and long-ago battles. Quite a bit of storage capacity left, as you can see.¡±


    For some reason, it appealed to him. The pilot glanced first at Foryu, who¡¯d been examining that oddly patterned shirt. Now, she said,


    ¡°You can never have too much storage capacity, Pilot. I could fit inside, if there is no physical space in your battle-mech.¡±


    There wasn¡¯t, according to V47 (who wasn¡¯t a bus). The pilot smiled at Foryu, sending a quick burst of friend/belong/access. To the gnome, he said,


    ¡°I will take this shirt and the memory drive, then.¡±


    Meanwhile, Foryu had spotted a beautiful, opaline stone. It fit into her cupped hand like it belonged there, pulsing along with the companion¡¯s heartbeat.


    ¡°It is lovely,¡± she whispered. Looking up at the gnome, she asked, ¡°How much?¡±


    ¡°You couldn¡¯t afford it,¡± sniffed the clerk. Then, nodding at V47 Pilot, ¡°But he still has credit enough.¡±


    ¡°Yes. Done,¡± agreed V47 Pilot. ¡°We¡¯ll take this¡­ rock¡­ as well.¡±


    The gnome smiled obscurely.


    ¡°Of course you will. Very well, then, Pilot. That about squares us¡­ except for your promise to return for the stored information.¡±


    He nodded, feeling like he¡¯d been tricked. Manipulated, somehow. But the gnome seemed amused. Sad, maybe.


    ¡®Recommend that you return to Bide-a-While station, Pilot,¡¯ sent V47. ¡®This clerk-entity produces an aura of menace.¡¯


    Which was true. By this time, the shop door had opened again. Through the gap, he could see Gofir¡¯s entire crew, along with station security. V47 was just overhead, all weapons in launch mode and ready to rock. Even the mascot, Behuggler, was present; perched on V47¡¯s right gun barrel.


    That they¡¯d come in response to his absence¡­ for possible rescue¡­ warmed the pilot right down to his core. He felt the face-muscle stretch of another smile.


    ¡°Stand down,¡± he ordered the crowd, recalling his drones and then stepping out of the shop with Foryu in tow. ¡°All is well. I went¡­ there was¡­¡±


    Well, he couldn¡¯t recall. Had misfiled the data, somehow. Just knew that he¡¯d have to return; maybe soon, maybe not, to finish something he¡¯d started.

 Sword and Sorcery Five, chapter twenty-six

    <u>26</u>


    Below Karellon, by the great wooden image of Rictor the Ever-Hungering, Losirr rose from a crouch.  Rumbled low in his throat, more startled than humble or worried.  He¡¯d just been contacted, and matters had changed. Significantly.  The contract remained firmly in place, but¡­ Well, the chosen assassin was near.  A thing that he sensed, rather than saw, at first.


    Losirr controlled his own shape with an effort.  He usually shifted to beast when the prospect of blood lay twitching before him.  Now, not so much troubled as excited, aroused, the assassin-lord jammed himself back into humanoid guise.  Exerting iron control, he converted back to a tall and muscular, shaggy-haired man.  His senses stayed magically sharp, though, letting him see the figure of horror that coalesced all at once from the shadows around him.


    A final, despairing shriek given form.  The darkness of blinded eyes and a choking last spasm.  A frantic heartbeat stilled brutally; suddenly.  That¡¯s what took shape before Losirr, by Rictor¡¯s gaping-jawed totem.


    ¡°Fallon,¡± he rumbled, ¡°There is work for you.¡±


    It¡­ she¡­rippled slightly, forming two pale, cat-like eyes in that miasma of frozen shock.  At this time, she did not materialize any further, for doing so took effort and was a genuine threat, besides.  She was hideously powerful.  Had mastered the thousand death-ways, but Losirr knew them all, too¡­ plus one more.  Beyond that, he held what she needed most.  Having got her attention, the master assassin continued, saying,


    ¡°The matter is delicate, with more hands poking the blaze than just he who sparked it.  Your marks are two young elf-lords, one a northerner, the other a landless exile.  They are newly arrived in the city, but they do not lack connections.  Their deaths must be secret.  Our employer wishes to be present, thus kidnapping the marks to a private location first, would be wise.¡±


    He used the command voice, with which he could drive a victim onto a spear, over a cliff or into a raging fire.  No hand, no mark on the body required. In response, Fallon clenched partly solid, her version of a bow.


    The assassin¡¯s outline and death-wounds were briefly visible, fading quickly back into a nightmare-shock cloud.  Losirr drew a gold amulet out of his carry-pouch, spoke a name onto it, then tossed the glittering man-shape at Fallon.


    ¡°With this, you will summon our employer, once you have drawn the marks away to a private spot and disabled them.  He may wish to dispatch them himself.  If so, allow it.  Then¡­ kill him.  He has become a liability.  His contract will be fulfilled, and his desire granted, to the last rune and page-mark, but then he must die.  You understand and accept the task, Left Hand of Death?¡±


    Fallon had resumed a physical shape long enough to seize and pocket the call-charm.  Losirr forced himself not to look away.  Ever and always, among those he led, any such weakness was deadly.  First among monsters, he had to be utterly fearless, most dreaded and ruthless of all.


    The betrayed and murdered child bride shimmered before him.  She¡¯d been tormented and viciously used, forced to watch as her wedding-guest family were killed before she was ended, herself.  She could not rest.  Could not move on.  Could never stop hunting.  Existed forever in terrible pain, a fate that Losirr could harness.


    ¡°The usual fee,¡± he growled, as Fallon Death-Singer blurred back into her phantom-state.  ¡°A descendant of Clan-master Colm, yours to feed upon, once the deed is accomplished.¡±


    She clenched again, whispering faintly,


    ¡°Who are the ones to die?¡±


    Losirr snorted.  Scoffed,


    ¡°A pair of elven nothings.  Valerian Tarandahl ad Keldaran, and Filimar, once Arvendahl, now meat for anyone¡¯s jaws.  Then, Lord Falcoridan Arvendahl ob Thandurl.  Swift and silent, no mess, no clamor¡­ bodies brought to the lair, your payment delivered immediately afterward.¡±


    Briefly, reflexively, Fallon took physical shape.  Denied peace by her own final curse, with all chance of vengeance long gone, those spurts of diluted Colm-blood were all that could soothe her.


    ¡°They will die,¡± she said. (Magically, for her wounds made speech very difficult.)  ¡°I swear it on those who cry out for revenge.¡±


    ¡°Contract granted,¡± replied Losirr.  ¡°See that the business is concluded before either brat succeeds in joining the honor guard, and before the emperor¡¯s ride.  Our patron desires no blot on the celebration.¡±


    ¡°It will be done as you say,¡± whispered Fallon, melting back into a shadow of terror and rage.  ¡°They are dead, and don¡¯t know it.¡±


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    They were dead, thought Lord Arvendahl, standing at Vancora¡¯s taffrail.  Hands clenched tight to the polished gold railing, he stared out over moonlit storm clouds, hearing sullen thunder and wind-roar, below.


    Falcon had fallen behind, too badly damaged to keep up with Vancora, Deathstroke and Terroc.  There had been no candle mark check-in from its captain these last three watches, and the small airship was no longer even a fading dot in their wake.  ¡®Claimed by the storm or else bled too much manna to remain aloft,¡¯ mused the high lord.


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    He did not mourn the lost lives.  Officers, crew, even his own kin meant no more to his lordship than pieces on a game board; existing to be moved and sacrificed at need.  That airship, on the other hand¡­ with the others he¡¯d lost¡­ would be costly and time-consuming to replace.  A matter he¡¯d attend to once the traitor and exile were at last confirmed dead.


    Here and now, he had only to reach Milardin.  Only. Fighting high-altitude winds, sudden lightning and a violently surging hurricane the entire way.  They were too high, and he knew it.  Surely silhouetted by silver-pale moonlight to anything lying in wait, below.  Storm dragons, cloud giants, pirates¡­ any and all might be riding the tempest like sharks, waiting their moment to strike.


    Arvendahl knew this, and so he kept watch, himself.  Refused to rest, eat or go below.  Kept Deathstroke and Terroc in close arrow-formation, having their captains check in on the candle mark.  Vancora didn¡¯t speak to him.  Never had.  As with the Arvendahl unicorn¡­ like Vernax, the emperor¡¯s dragon¡­ it took tremendous magic to bind the ship¡¯s will and control it.  But he would not be gainsaid or argued with.


    He¡¯d never loved anything other than the one who¡¯d been taken from him by treachery. Everyone else was useful, or not. Thus, the airship did exactly as he commanded.  <u>That</u>, and no more.  And not even seeing his lord, hearing Sherazedan bid him stop hunting, could alter one whit of Falco¡¯s resolve.  So, he mused¡­ until his attention was drawn back from imagined murder to their very dangerous now.


    Something had moved down below, causing those swirling clouds to bulge upward and out in a long, sweeping line.  Not in the storm-wind¡¯s prevailing direction, either.  Up and north, curving to follow his airships.  It hung just below and behind them, like the vaporous outline of¡­  nothing.  There and gone.  No more than a vague hint of sleek speed and great power.


    Arvendahl leaned dangerously far over the rail, looking past straining engines at streaming, purple-dark thunderheads.  Saw nothing else.  Whatever it was had vanished again, descending back into the storm.  Then,


    ¡°My Lord,¡± said the new first mate, approaching from Arvendahl¡¯s right, very timidly, ¡°We need to¡­¡±


    Her words choked off abruptly off as the raven-haired lord spun to face her.  A mere three-quarter elf¡­ pale-haired and brown-eyed¡­ she¡¯d been thrust to high rank by the deaths of her betters.  Sara, or some such.  She was clearly terrified of him, bowing so low that she almost toppled onto the deck.


    ¡°Need to do what, precisely, First Officer?¡± snapped the high lord.  ¡°Descend?  Into that?!¡±


    The sea-queen¡¯s tempest, her fury, still raged. Time and again, lightning lashed upward, or sudden gales blew, pushing Vancora, Terroc and Deathstroke off course; driving them far from Milardin.  Even up here, that witch took control of the winds, and no sending or spell of Arvendahl¡¯s could overcome Father Ocean¡¯s vile pet.


    The new first officer rose from her bow and into a disciplined attention-stance.  She managed to speak, stammering,


    ¡°P- Perhaps another port, My Lord¡­ Or, one of the floating islands?  Manna is critically low in the main tank, and¡­¡±


    Her words trailed into a sudden and horrified scream.  Arvendahl whirled about, cursing luridly, to face the ship¡¯s stern. Scraped magic and life-force to ready some kind of defense. Like a shark, like a blade-thrust, something sleek and black shot out of the clouds below.  With a wild, surging roar of its powerful engines, a pirate ship hurtled up to strike at the racing fleet.  Moonlight gleamed off of its sharp mithral ram and bright cannon mouths as the pirate ship broached through the storm, trailing lightning and vapor.


    It surged upward, smashing right into Deathstroke¡¯s keel.  Kept going, splitting the airship into two halves with an awful, grinding, crunching, splintering <u>BOOM</u>.  Explosion and fire erupted, drowning the glare of lightning and moon.  Then there were two slow-twisting ship sections, surrounded by flailing small figures, all of it burning.  That black-hulled pirate ship¡­ the Flying Cloud, it had to be¡­ fired spirit-cannon and chain as it thundered past.  Moving incredibly fast, it magically vacuumed loot and fear-manna from the dying vessel and plunging crew.  Meanwhile, shot after powerful mage-shot struck Terroc and Vancora, causing the stricken vessels to shudder and yaw, listing wildly.  Alarms blared on Vancora.  Timbers cracked.  One of the masts toppled over, crushing the foredeck and several crewmen.


    The attack took less than five thumping heartbeats; just a few shaky breaths from first strike to last flaming wreckage, drowned in the tempest beneath.  And, just like that, moments later, Deathstroke was lost with all hands.


    The pirate ship soared even higher.  Was briefly silhouetted against the full moon.  Just a spearhead-shaped hull and sharp ram, at first. Then, at the top of its climb, the Cloud deployed masts and tanks, again. And no more than half a gasp, racing footstep, cursed-out spell later, the attacker had cut away, dropping back into the night.  Left Terroc and Vancora far behind, their crews struggling to douse fires and patch gaping holes.


    Arvendahl was crippled by previous wounds, by a shower of piercing splinters and his own power-loss.  Along with adrenaline, manna surged in a shocked or terrified elf.  Manna the pirates could harvest through sorcery¡­ and did.


    The high lord found himself reduced to the barest of spells.  Worked as hard as the rest, though, conjuring water and voids to deal with the flames, then effecting emergency patches with sailcloth and his own fading magical strength.


    ¡­ but the Cloud was still out there, and his last two airships were terribly far from home.  A lifetime away from Milardin and safety.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    They had to find shelter and safety, meaning the Constellate chapter house.  Filimar was in no condition to travel, being half-crippled by the loss of his father.  It was a terrible wound to the soul, but one that Valerian could help with, by taking in part of his heart-brother¡¯s pain.  A psychically gutting move, and only the absolute knowledge that Keldaran¡­ dad¡­ was still alive, kept Val from collapsing right there on the street.


    ¡°Come, Filno,¡± he murmured, helping the younger elf to keep moving.  ¡°This way.¡±


    He¡¯d conjured a floating map of the city, so was able to guide them across the Lane of Tanners, and Spell-crafter Way, over to Bogg Street.  There, by the No Holds Bar, stood the Constellate building.  More of a shack than a temple, the one-story hut seemed to radiate welcome and peace.


    Valerian got them across Bogg Street (justly named, very muddy).  Then a shower of copper confetti exploded as he and Filimar navigated a path over those badly placed steppingstones.  A cloud of tiny, dragon-shaped bits expanded over the city, floating downward like snow.  They swelled when caught in the hand, blasting sparks, then unrolling into a scroll.  Golden rune letters appeared in whatever language best suited the viewer, reading: Rejoice! By special request, a return engagement in honor of His Imperial Majesty¡¯s ride!  Magister Serrio¡¯s Caravan of Curios returns to Karellon!


    Val had caught one of those twirling, flickering paper dragons; snatching it out of the air with one hand.  Read the scroll¡¯s promise, too.  Magister Serrio!  As well have said ¡°Lord Oberyn¡± himself, or¡­ nearly so.  Hastily, Val made the sign of holy obeisance.  No sense offending a god, even in thought, but¡­ Magister Serrio was coming, and that could mean nothing but good.


    ¡°Nearly there, Filno,¡± he said to his stunned, shaking friend, never sensing the shadow that followed, behind.

 Sword and Sorcery Five, chapter twenty-seven

    <u>27</u>


    It was an evening of miracles, all over Karellon. Most were fairly minor; a meal doubled here, a sentence commuted there¡­ a straightened limb or the sudden relief of old pain. There seemed to be no central focus except for the city itself. Even His Imperial Majesty, waiting alone by his dragon, gained strength¡­ But some of those manifestations were quite grand, indeed.


    Out in Low Town, Valerian put away Serrio¡¯s message scroll, feeling the first surge of real hope he¡¯d had since being plucked out of Starloft. There¡¯d been no time to rest, barely a pause to draw breath once the druid turned up¡­ and since then he¡¯d drawn the wrath of Lord Arvendahl, been hunted by a dark goddess and crushed in the gears of some cosmic machine. Next, he¡¯d been waylaid going through Arvendahl¡¯s death-trap gate, by creatures who¡¯d begged him for help. Now, Filimar¡¯s father was dead. Murdered. All in the span of three days. All of it somehow his fault.


    Filno stirred, looking back over one shoulder as Valerian guided them over the island-like stones of Bogg Street. That reeking grey mud was now pocked with small copper motes that fizzled on hitting the ground. Not an improvement. But¡­


    ¡°Do you hear that, Valno?¡± whispered the exiled young noble. ¡°Do you hear the music?¡± There was a feverish intensity to Filimar¡¯s stare that Valerian liked not at all.


    ¡°No,¡± he said shortly, hauling his friend to the next slimy steppingstone. ¡°I hear nothing, and neither do you. It is a busy street, Filno. There are taverns and shops. All of this noise has confused you.¡±


    The Constellate chapter house lay just a few yards away, but traffic was heavy; merchants, beggars and street children were everywhere. Maybe there was something; very faint, soft and sad. But if so, Val wasn¡¯t listening.


    Filimar struggled to free himself, making a scene right there in the street. He was filled with maddened strength, twisting and writhing in Valerian¡¯s headlock. The taller elf would not let Filimar go, drawing manna from deep reserves, city ley-lines and his own future; whatever it took to hold on and keep moving. Then, just as the music that was not there called even sweeter, a genuine miracle happened.


    With a noise like a herd of wallowing swine, Bogg Street¡¯s foul mud parted all down the length of the thoroughfare. A small, clear stream of running water appeared next, coursing along between grubby banks and haphazard steppingstones. Clear, running water, and safety from evil.


    Val took firm hold of Filimar, then lifted his struggling friend with a grunt and threw him. Heaved him right over that sudden bright stream. The music called, speaking in loved ones¡¯ voices, offering peace. One of its targets was out of reach, though. Filimar, blinking and bruised, had landed hard and was back on his feet in a scrambling instant. He spotted Valerian starting to turn and reflexively lashed out to seize him.


    The heart-sick young elf grabbed tight hold of cloak, shirt and blond hair, then yanked his friend over the Bogg Street River, away from that beckoning music. Next, the chapter house door banged open, releasing a flood of young urchins and one concerned cleric. He was an older half-elf with spiky white hair topping a seamed, kindly face and blue eyes. Dressed in robes the color of dawn, he ordered the children back.


    ¡°Stay behind me, Little Ones. Something has happened out here and¡­¡± Then, noticing Val and Filimar, ¡°Oh. Your pardon, my lords. This unworthy priest didn¡¯t see you, at first.¡±


    The cleric bowed low, adding,


    ¡°How may the way-house of Oberyn serve?¡±


    It was Filimar who responded, for Val had gone pale, drained and weary. Pushing raven-dark hair off his face and getting himself back together, Filno said,


    ¡°No pardon required, good priest. We would take lodging here, in¡­¡± Filimar paused, doubtfully scanning that knocked-together wood shack. ¡®The best rooms you have¡¯, he¡¯d been about to say. Switched to ¡°Whatever accommodation is available.¡±


    His father was dead. His name and rank stripped, his people in flight. His future had darkened and shrunk to a bottomless void, but he had never lacked courage. Now, Filimar decided that he¡¯d imagined the beckoning melody. Felt safer that way. Less trapped.


    Lifting his head, he forced the steel back into his spine. Walked calmly over to face the old cleric, guiding his wobbly friend.


    ¡°I am Filimar, newly adopted as Tarandahl. This is my heart-friend, Valerian.¡± He did not ask the cleric¡¯s name but got it anyhow. The half-elf smiled, saying,


    ¡°Welcome, my lords. The way-house of Oberyn is open to all, and I am his cleric, Vikran the younger.¡±


    As in, son of Vikran Sanderyn, First Lord-Accountant? If so, he was a friend of the palace, and one to be treated with care and muted respect. Filno inclined his head.


    ¡°My regards to your Lord and your honored Sire as well, good priest. The welcome is accepted and¡­¡± for a moment, he almost broke down, feeling the terrible anguish of Tormun¡¯s loss. ¡°¡­and very much needed.¡±


    Vikran the younger made a sign of blessing over them both, intoning,


    ¡°My Lord Oberyn has Acted today. I felt his will and his movement, just now. Your coming here at this time is surely a part of his plan, young lords.¡±


    Filimar hadn¡¯t the heart to smile or dissemble. Just stared at the cleric through eyes that held nothing but fury and pain.


    ¡°Maybe he could have ¡®acted¡¯ a bit earlier, Priest,¡± snarled Filimar. ¡°Maybe he could have done something to save my father.¡±


    His sudden torment was shared, rousing Valerian. The blond elf-lord shook off bone-deep exhaustion, managing to focus on Vikran.


    ¡°Off the street, if you please, Hand of Oberyn. We would ask your advice, as well as your shelter¡­ but here in public is no place to speak.¡±


    The children had gathered close, keeping behind Vikran while craning to stare at the elf-lords. The cleric shooed them out of the way.


    ¡°Back, Little Ones. Clear a path. It is rude to stare. Bow, rather. Sera, fetch water¡­ from the new river is fine, yes. Pol, make sure the north chamber is aired out and ready. Fresh linens, please. Teena, prepare a meal for their lordships. Each of you chose three companions to aid in your work and be off.¡±


    As those excited young orphans pattered away, Vikran gestured at the open door of his chapter house.


    ¡°Enter, my lords, with Oberyn¡¯s blessing,¡± he bade them.


    Inside, the house was larger than it seemed from the street. Magically so.


    ¡°Like our food and funds, accommodation grows to meet the needs of our congregation,¡± Vikran explained. He guided them through the front door and across the shabby first room to a battered and sagging old couch.


    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    Filimar stiffened at the prospect of seating himself on that veteran of many rumps. Valerian plunked himself right down, though, glad to be sitting anywhere at all. After a moment, very gingerly, Filimar eased down as well (perching as close to the edge of the couch as minor lift-magic would let him).


    A low wooden table was carried in by a crowd of giggling children. Then day-brew was brought on a tray, borne by a greenish young half-orc who chirped,


    ¡°Good day and Lord Oberyn¡¯s peace, my lords. My name is Teena. Please take refreshment before your meal.¡± She spoke in a tremulous rush, sounding rehearsed and looking quite anxious. Valerian smiled at her.


    ¡°I thank you, Teena.¡± She probably had no family left to whom he might offer return blessings or service, so Val simply told her, ¡°You are an excellent hostess.¡±


    The girl blushed, ducking her head to conceal a shy smile.


    ¡°Thank you, Milord,¡± she whispered, darting out of the room with many pauses to bow and look back.


    ¡°We educate and train these little ones,¡± said Vikran. ¡°Many were dropped on our steps as infants or wandered in off the streets after the death or arrest of their parents.¡±


    The cleric worked as he spoke, first pouring hot day-brew into a trio of mismatched cups, then handing the elves each a drink. There was brown sugar, spice-bark and a small jug of milk on the tray.


    The elves busied themselves with their day-brew while Vikran drew up a chair and sat down before them. He was the Feen of a high courtly family, given over in service to Oberyn, perhaps to repay a vow. Placing his hands on his knees, leaning slightly forward, the cleric gazed at his noble guests.


    ¡°Trouble clouds you like smoke, my lords, and Chaos hovers nearby¡­ yet I sense that you are not without allies. What do you seek of Lord Oberyn, honored guests?¡±


    Valerian glanced at Filimar, then set down his cup. The day-brew was bracing and hot. Unsweetened, because he never took sugar (unlike Filno, whose day-brew crunched when he stirred it). But they hadn¡¯t come to this place for refreshment, or the spiced biscuits fetched to their table by that same blushing girl.


    ¡°Made ¡®em myself, Milords,¡± she muttered, before being waved off by Vikran. Teena peered around what was no doubt the kitchen door, so Val made sure to eat one of the biscuits before saying,


    ¡°We bring nothing but trouble, Hand of Oberyn. I would not lie to you and cannot lie to your lord. We have a powerful enemy who seeks after our lives, attacking Averna when we sought shelter there. I would not have such horror descend on you, or your charges.¡±


    Vikran¡¯s facial seams shifted about in another broad smile. He shook his head, saying,


    ¡°I believe that Lord Oberyn is well able to care for his own, young sir. I am his hand, and I obey his will. If you are sent from this place, it will not be from fear. Speak freely and truly, dreading no censure. What seek you here?¡±


    ¡°Safe lodging,¡± admitted Valerian. ¡°Until I have made my way through palace administration and presented myself to the Honor Guard Captain. I have an idea, as well¡­ a notion of how I might help my new brother.¡± Did not mention Lord Tormun. Didn¡¯t have to. Filimar was suddenly electric with manna and tension. ¡°I will need your permission¡­ and the god¡¯s¡­ to perform a rite of summoning, here.¡±


    Vikran pursed his lips, nodding thoughtfully.


    ¡°I appreciate your candor, young lord. As you have said, there is no lying to the god, but you would be startled to learn how many have tried.¡± Then, changing the subject, ¡°Supper will be ready, soon. No doubt you will wish to cleanse and refresh yourselves before eating, and I must consult with Lord Oberyn. Rykka, here, will see you to your room in the meantime. Be assured of at least a night¡¯s shelter. The rest lies with heaven.¡±


    Val smiled wearily.


    ¡°We cannot ask more, Hand of Oberyn. Many thanks, from both of us.¡±


    The small party broke up moments later, beginning a tense, brittle wait. One that seemed even longer to she who stalked the shadows outside.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Terroc had vanished into the night, driven away by contrary winds or rebellion. Maybe just downed. Well off to starboard an intense flash of light had appeared. Another flare from the tempest below, or else manna and fuel, burning bright as a star, ignited by cannon and ram.


    Lord Arvendahl hadn¡¯t the time or attention to care. All of his will and remaining power were bent on keeping Vancora flying until he could bring the airship safely to port. The ceaseless rumble of thunder and strong, gusting winds made any descent a grave risk. He might have ordered a climb, but staying aloft at very high altitude would drain what little manna they had, even faster.


    Well, there was more than one way to recharge the ship and himself. His first mate had survived, with a broken arm and a facial burn. Turning to look at her, Arvendahl snapped,


    ¡°Bring us down within lightning-strike range and then drop the stern engine mast.¡±


    She bowed, saying,


    ¡°Yes, Milord. At once.¡±


    The fires were out and the worst of Vancora¡¯s hull breaches patched. What they needed most now was power. Arvendahl watched the officer hurry away to the quarter-deck, the sound of her footsteps carried off by the wind. For himself, he chose to remain at the taffrail, watching the storm. Would not let death catch him inside, away from the stars and the wind. If it came, he would not be entombed in his cabin. He would meet it head on, with a curse in his heart that nothing could alter or balk.


    A few moments later, he heard the engines change pitch from stressed whine to low rumble. Felt the deck tilt beneath him as the horizon slanted. Vancora was turning further into the wind as she nosed downward. Then gears meshed and whirred as a hatch at the airship¡¯s stern opened up. Next, with a very loud clatter, a slim mithral mast poured out of its hold. It was composed of thin metal rods held together by sections of chain and meant to trail after the airship. The mast was a hundred yards long, ending in a seven-foot, star-shaped antenna.


    Rather than wait and watch as Vancora descended, dragging its mast through the clouds below, Lord Arvendahl called up his charts. The skies were notoriously free of navigational markers, but his maps were enchanted. Using them, the dark-haired elf could see precisely where his ship lay compared to that too-distant coast.


    They weren¡¯t where they needed to be. Time and again, attempting to reach Milardin¡­ reach any port in Alandriel¡­ they¡¯d been driven off course. Vancora was now over three hundred miles too far east. As for the floating islands, those were mostly abodes of pirates and slavers; criminal scum. They were impossible to properly chart, in any case, for they constantly shifted about. Some were big as mountains, others as small as a fisherman¡¯s hovel. Frequent site of marooning and murder, and no place at all for Vancora.


    Arvendahl ordered another course correction once the first officer returned to his side. He kept her running¡­ kept all of the remaining crew busy¡­ giving them no time at all to hatch plots or grow fearful.


    Didn¡¯t surprise him a bit when a sudden glittering tendril of seawater flowed up that mithral engine mast, untroubled by rattling wind or sheets of wild lightning. It was Shanella, of course¡­ but no matter. Let the witch speak. Let her bluster and threaten. In the meantime, Vancora¡¯s tanks were refilling, as storm-manna surged through the trailing antenna.


    That watery tendril arched up and over to touch Vancora¡¯s deck. There, more seawater flowed into its bulging free end, forming a silvery, feminine shape. Deliberately taller than Arvendahl, standing between him and all that was left of the crew, Shanella¡¯s doppelganger looked casually around. Then,


    ¡°You seem to be missing something, void-crawler,¡± sneered the ocean-witch, sounding like rumbling surf. ¡°Twenty-one airships, perhaps? Most of your mud-creeping followers? They feed the crabs and the tube-worms, now¡­ as you will, yourself, soon enough. I am glad of this chance to say it to your face, to deliver my people¡¯s spite and their scorn. With pride I repeat their vow to name every one of our middens and trash pits after your fallen ships.¡±


    That was what Shanella growled to Lord Arvendahl, but the other side of her head had a face as well, and that one was turned to his frightened crew. In a voice pitched so that only they could hear it she said,


    ¡°You need not die this night, nor lose your air-bubble ship, dry-landers. If you would live to see morning, throw Arvendahl over the side. The winds will cease, the storm will dissipate, and you may return to your homes. Or continue to follow his lead and perish. Do you know what it feels like to drown, voidlings? Or to smash on the ocean¡¯s surface after a drop from this height?¡±


    Young Tamar, the cabin-girl, started to sob. None of the rest made any sound at all, but the looks they exchanged were quite clear, bringing a smile to Shanella¡¯s watery face. On the other side, Lord Arvendahl had harvested enough power to send a lance of crackling force through her simulacra and tendril, back to the cursed sea-queen, herself. With any luck at all, he¡¯d roast her like a quail.


    Dissipated that swirling, silvery image, anyhow; causing a slosh of seawater to rain down onto the deck. Revealed the spooked, half-mad crew, as well.


    Arvendahl wasn¡¯t a fool. He could tell exactly what they were thinking and guess what the sea-witch had offered them. Read the resolve in their eyes and met it with twice as much of his own. There would be no mutiny this night, or ever.


    Smiling ironically, Arvendahl sent a sudden blast of power into Vancora¡¯s steering system, his harvested storm-manna welding it into a useless lump of fused gears and bent drive shafts. That done, he opened a gate on the deck, lifted a hand in mocking salute, and stepped through to safety.


    A storm of despairing shrieks, the noise of over-stressed engines and howling winds were cut off completely, as Arvendahl left them behind.

 Sword and Sorcery Five, chapter twenty-eight

    <u>28</u>


    ''... Alarm Alarm Alarm Alarm Alarm Alarm Alarm...''


    First Mate Serda had six living crew and a near-frantic airship; all of them locked in a spiraling, gradual dive.  Vancora could no longer alter its course.  Not after Lord Arvendahl sabotaged the drive-system.  Its gears and shafts had been fused by his strike. The delicate works had been burned to a lump of twisted hot slag, leaving Vancora paralyzed.


    ''...Alarm Alarm Alarm Alarm Alarm Alarm Alarm...''


    The entire vessel shook as it fought to stay up and out of those roiling storm clouds; deck slanting hard, nose downward. Arvendahl¡¯s flagship still had some manna left in the tanks, even after his lordship had drained them for power to open a gate and escape, leaving his people behind.


    ''...Alarm Alarm Alarm Alarm Alarm Alarm Alarm...''


    There was a curse ready in Serda¡¯s heart for that pitiless high-elf, but she had a son back home, along with her husband, Eteen.  A final blessing¡­ some whisper of hope for those about to lose their whole world¡­ seemed more important to Serda.  Let Arvendahl look to himself.  Her business lay with the ship, and the scrim of hope it still held.  As for the sea-queen''s promise, what good was that without payment?


    ''...Alarm Alarm Alarm Alarm Alarm Alarm Alarm...''


    ¡°Loyd, check the life pods!¡± she ordered, raising her voice to be heard over wind rush and engine-howl.  ¡°See if any are fit and then find out how many they¡¯ll hold!¡±


    ¡°Aye, Milady!¡± cried the half-elf chief, already moving.  Next, turning to face another anxious aerrior, Serda snapped,


    ¡°Burgan, take Jillian with you, below.  See about rigging a work-around patch from engine to rudder!¡±


    ¡°Aye that, Milady!  Right away!  Jillian, with me!¡± shouted Burgan, speeding off with the cabin-girl. Next, Serda whirled to face Ganter, the ship¡¯s last engineer.


    ¡°Ganter, disconnect the rudders from their drive shafts and rig a tiller.  Use a mast and gut his lordship¡¯s cabin for rivet materials.  It¡¯s going to take muscle¡­¡± she said.


    ¡°But we¡¯ve got plenty of that, mum,¡± answered Ganter, finding a faint, hopeful smile, ¡°And a right proper Officer, too! You heard her! The rest o¡¯ yuns¡­ one with me, the others to strikin¡¯ the foremast.  Hurry!¡±


    ''...Alarm Alarm Alarm Alarm Alarm Alarm Alarm...''


    And off they raced, each to their critical task.  Meanwhile, Serda did all that she could to calm Vancora, ordering engine power-down.  Soothing,


    ¡°We¡¯re not leaving you, Dawn.  My oath that I¡¯ll stay, Princess, no matter what.¡±


    And she meant it, a thing that the crippled airship could sense, quieting finally.  Chief Loyd came hurrying up as Serda turned to rush through the aft-hatch and down to the engine room.


    ¡°Milady,¡± he called, lifting a hand in salute.  ¡°Reporting one life-pod in condition to fly, Ma¡¯am.  At a pinch, stripped of gear, she¡¯ll hold six.  Seven, if¡­¡±


    ¡°Six,¡± Serda corrected, her unwounded hand clutched to the hatch-frame, head lifted proudly, burns and all.  ¡°Vancora deserves every last chance I can give her.  Six to the life-pods, if our repairs don¡¯t work, Mister Loyd.¡±


    He nodded.


    ¡°Aye, Milady.  Six, then.  I¡¯ll see to stripping the pod and making her ready.¡±


    As good as his word, Loyd was away.  The First Officer watched him leave, then turned to start below, where each situation was critical, and everyone needed her help.  Meanwhile, the airship continued its slow downward spin, as a pirate vessel slashed through the clouds like a circling shark.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    <u>Later, sixty-two miles further south:</u>


    It was an afternoon of glorious sunshine and drifting high clouds.  Aboard Falcon, Villem was out on the deck.  There had been multiple wounds to treat, for no one had come through that awful night completely unscathed.  The medical effort and funeral rites had wearied him deeply.  What happened next didn¡¯t help.


    He and the other paladins were supposed to report to the captain¡¯s cabin for some kind of interview, but young Hallan had called a sudden delay.  The redhead had grown overnight in the curious manner of stressed or endangered elves.  No longer a stripling, Hallan Gelfrin was now a young man.  Elf, rather.


    Villem watched as the captain strode the deck from bow to stern, stopping to talk with everyone, even that poor, addled wizard.  Well, those touched by the gods were said to be very good luck aboard ship, Villem reasoned, a thing all of them needed in spades.


    The galley-bell pealed suddenly, announcing a meal. The young paladin heard its bright jangle but tarried awhile at the rail.  Instead of going below, he lifted his face to the sun, feeling wind push the dark hair off his forehead.  Just being free and alive and completely in love; giving thanks in his own way to Glorious Oberyn.  Weary or not, he wasn¡¯t in prison, and no longer under the sea.  The beautiful elf-maid he loved was nearby; chatting, comforting, bringing peace by her very presence.


    Villem smiled into the wind, wondering if his rumbling belly spoke louder than joyful heart.  Then a faint glitter of sparks appeared in the air beside him.  He immediately recognized the goddess Ninursa, who wasn''t able to manifest this far from land and shouldn¡¯t have left the safety of Underhill Sidhe.


    The paladin whirled to face her, willing power and strength to the struggling goddess.  With his help, she managed to conjure a fragile physical shell.  Tall and lovely was Ninursa; dark-haired and smiling, her skin like bronze, her eyes two fiery coals.  Her bare, slim feet did not touch Falcon¡¯s deck.  Unsubstantial she was, but not unnoticed. Time and reality warped all around her, moving the airship forward and backward in day and location; making the sun seem to rock in its heaven.


    Villem reached for the goddess who¡¯d raised him, crying out,


    ¡°My Lady, why have you come here?!  It isn¡¯t safe!  You¡­¡±


    Ninursa lifted a glowing hand to silence his outburst.  Touched his cheek fondly a moment, then said to him,


    ¡°Precious child, hoarded time means nothing in the face of disaster.  War comes, beloved one, and you must be ready.  Take this.  Give it to the one who will strike the last blow.¡±


    And then, with a sudden flare of rippling light, Ninursa held a sword in her free hand.  Long and wickedly sharp, with a hilt of black sky-metal, the sword had a blade that glowed pure white on one edge and deep, surly grey on the other.  In it, he could sense the gods Enli and Nanna; fused, somehow.  No longer conscious, their power had been harnessed together, creating one mighty, world-shaking blade.


    Villem took the sword from his adoptive mother; shaking his head, flooded by thoughts of the past.  As a very young child, orphaned by bandits, he¡¯d found his way to the Underhill Sidhe, to a home that time did not touch, and pain could not enter.  He¡¯d lived there for ages in gentle childhood.  Had grown only in spurts, while stepping outside to watch as the world changed, and worshippers faded away.


    Now, Ninursa was dying.  He could feel her beginning to falter and drift.  Tried to prevent it, as first Meliara, then his fellow paladins rushed over with a stampede of crew and Captain Gelfrin.


    ¡°Wait!¡± cried Villem, reaching to seize Ninursa; trying to give his own life and strength to the fading goddess.  ¡°Land-mother, wait.  I can¡­¡±


    ¡°Guard the blade, darling child,¡± she whispered, bringing her other hand up now, as well; cupping her boy¡¯s handsome face.  ¡°Everything ends, little one.  Even the gods.  Take a mother¡¯s blessing and strength.  Live and remember.  Take the sword to its wielder¡­ but know that this blade may strike only once.¡±


    She melted away into shimmering motes after that, still smiling, still gazing into his eyes. Villem reeled, fighting tears that blurred sunlight and dimmed anxious faces. Then Melly reached up to embrace the young paladin, doing her best to comfort a man who¡¯d lost his family, twice.  Captain Gelfrin ordered everyone back to their posts.  Only Mr. Not-Jonn, the drow and the wizard had failed to rush over, for Villem¡¯s shout of alarm had been loud.


    Ninursa¡¯s presence and passing harmed nothing and no one on Falcon.  She wasn¡¯t even a legend, to most of them.  Older than all but the shallowest overgrown rock-carvings¡­ but she¡¯d meant all the world to an orphaned young boy.


    Ninursa had given her life to deliver a message, providing a weapon made from two sacrificed gods.  Hideously powerful, utterly neutral, to be used only once before shattering.  But¡­


    ¡°Who does it go to?¡± wondered Sister Constant, eyeing the blade with distrust.  ¡°Who gets a weapon that¡¯s just as good as it is evil?¡±


    ¡°A hero, I hope,¡± rumbled Brother Humble, the massive orc.  ¡°But there is much in this blade that would serve darkness, as well.¡±


    Said Meliara, always practical,


    ¡°Put it away, Villem, and come get something to eat.  Hunger clouds thought.  We are headed to Karellon, so...  Perhaps it ought to be given to His Imperial Majesty, or to the Prince Attendant, Nalderick?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± objected Constant, shaking her head.  ¡°Worldly power corrupts.  In the hands of a mighty noble, such a weapon would serve only Chaos.  Better a priest, or the head of our order.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d say a child of the soil,¡± suggested Humble.  ¡°A farmer with no ties to council or court. Not even ours.¡±


    ¡°What about Magister Serrio, then?¡± offered Meliara.  ¡°War does not pass his borders, and¡­¡±


    They argued all around Villem, who barely heard.  The paladin stumbled along, guided by Melly¡¯s hand.  The sword had grown its own curious sheath and was awkwardly hovering at his off-side, now; too long by half, and buzzing.


    Ninursa had trusted him, going out to her death to deliver that blade.  He was its bearer, for now, but soon there would be another.  One he had to choose¡­ His way.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    <u>Out of the time stream, on the far-away Isle of Epona:</u>


    Lerendar entered that curious shop, with Pretty held on one side and bent arm.  His free hand hovered by the leather-wrapped hilt of his sword; ready to draw and give battle, if it came to that.  Determined not to show fear, he stepped out of misty dreams and confusion, into sudden-slap clarity.  Found himself in a tiny, jam-packed and shuddering store.  There were so many things¡­ most entirely foreign¡­ stacked, piled and shelved, that the elf had to turn slantwise to make his way further inside.


    This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.


    There was a very long counter at back, seeming to vanish away like a road in either direction.  A small, shriveled gnome sat there, tailor-fashion.  Not on the counter, but over it.


    Lerendar edged his way cautiously forward, threading a path through barrels, boxes and crates.  Past things that buzzed, whirred and glowed.  Skirting others that faded continually in and out of existence, mostly in time to the jingling music.  One brown paper- and string-wrapped parcel turned like a compass to face him as the elf-lord wound around all of that stuff.  Besides the vibration and tune, there was a rattling, tooth-scraping CRUNCH, as though the whole shop were in constant motion.


    Pretty One gaped like a peasant on her first trip to the fair; blinked like a tuber, fresh from the dirt.  For that matter, so did Lerendar, who could not understand what he saw.


    ¡°Cor, y¡¯r lordship¡­ Never seen so much gear in one place, like,¡± whispered the goblin child, plucking at his cloak and craning around to take it all in.  ¡°What Grampa wouldn¡¯t give ter roam this place!¡±


    ¡°Miche used to swear there was a Shop of True Need below Starloft, but I told him not to spout nonsense,¡± said Lerendar. ¡°Guess I owe him an apology.  It¡¯s real.¡±


    The gnome ahead snorted, having heard everything.


    ¡°Reality is what you make of it, lordling,¡± she remarked, sounding tart and impatient.  ¡°Hurry along¡­ good lad.  You have a task to perform, and pinning three timelines together is no simple matter, nor is it free.¡±


    ¡°A task?¡± the elf wondered aloud.  ¡°You¡­ need something lifted or killed?¡±


    He had magic now, for the first time ever, but hadn¡¯t much confidence using it yet... and nobody called on Lerendar when it was time for deep thought.  But he knew that folk died or were lost, trying a spell too great for their knowledge.


    ¡°No, dolt!¡± snapped the gnome, giving up all pretense of civility.  She was terribly old, he saw, with skin that resembled scraped parchment, and hair like stiff, sun-bleached grass.  Lerendar had never paid much attention to the tales spun by servants.  Val was the gullible mooncalf¡­ but his older brother knew enough to take no offense.  He bowed, instead, saying,


    ¡°We are ready to face whatever task you would set us, good shopkeeper.¡±


    She grimaced.


    ¡°Hmph. ¡¯Good¡¯ remains to be seen, lordling. The Shop serves all customers, regardless of their alignment.  Better say ¡®practical¡¯.  There is an adjustment coming.  One which the Shop has a very large stake in.  It will strike across worlds and timelines, and even you have a role, along with the child.¡±


    Lerendar considered.  Then, after a nudge from Pretty One, he hedged,


    ¡°We are willing to do as you say.  Just¡­ if you would, g¡­ practical shopkeeper, what of Beatriz and Zara?  Are they well?  Will the Isles release them?¡±  For he remembered his family now and was icy with dread for their safety.  Alfea and Bean¡­ Andorin, Bronn and Elmaris¡­ Ava. Everyone.


    The gnome¡¯s expression softened a bit.  Inclining her head, she replied,


    ¡°They face themselves, lordling, as everyone does on Epona.  There is nothing to fear but what you bring here, yourself.  For the most part, your companions are innocent.  Those with a ¡®past¡¯ have chosen to keep to the shore.  Wisely.¡±


    Lerendar felt the tension drain from his muscles and heart like wine from a broken bottle.  He shifted Pretty One in a half-hug meant for another small girl and then nodded.


    ¡°Very well.  I thank you, shopkeeper.  And what is it you''d have us do?¡±


    The gnome smiled, not at all comfortingly.  At her gesture, an aisle appeared amidst all of that high-piled stock.  The noise it made was a grinding and rattling scrape, causing small items to bounce.  At the end of the sudden corridor, they spotted a closed wooden door.  The gnome gestured once more, this time urging them onward.


    ¡°Enter,¡± she rasped.  ¡°From each to each, from one to another, give your brother what he most needs.¡±


    Lerendar pivoted, feeling electrified.  Val?  Here?  Didn¡¯t think to ask any questions, being more of a melee type than a philosopher.  Just gave the shop gnome another quick nod and then rushed for the door, carrying Pretty One.


    The aisle was twenty feet long and quite narrow, with boxes and crates stacked so high overhead that they faded from sight in the shadows.  So close that they scraped his broad shoulders, forcing the elf to swing Pretty One around to a front-carry.  He shielded the girl with one muscular arm, keeping the other before him, at ready.


    Pretty One summoned manna, whispering words in her own growling language.  They reached the iron-bound door in five rapid paces.  It sprang open at a touch, revealing a small, shifting room in which¡­


    Three.


    There were three elves, three versions of Val, inside of that unstable room.  Lerendar stared, turning from one to another in open confusion.  They did not look much alike, but he¡¯d have known his brother anywhere, everywhen.


    One was the Val he remembered from home, but energized; alert and glowing with manna.  For some reason, though, with travel-stained clothing and short-slashed hair.


    The second was scrappy-looking and shy; covered in glowing, mobile tattoos.  Younger than either of the others, this one seemed haunted and scarred.


    The third¡­ was a shock.  Lerendar had seen assemblers and constructs, before.  Knew what an animate armor was.  This brother had some of all that about him.  He was taller than Lerendar, even, and partly machine.  Though hidden by clothing, most of his body had been encased in some kind of living metal.


    All three were surrounded by a cloud of possessions, as if the shop gnome had opened their pockets to public inspection.  Not just the elf-lord but Pretty One was able to see all that they carried.


    ¡°Cor¡­¡± breathed the goblin, clinging to Lerendar.  ¡°The wish broke ¡®im apart, y¡¯r lordship.  Ee¡¯s three, now.¡±  There was a tremulous catch in her voice, but there was no time to break down.


    ¡°It¡¯s up to us to help change this,¡± Lerendar told her, inching cautiously forward.  His brothers did not seem to see him.  Not until he stood right in front of them, anyhow, and then only fleetingly.  ¡°The shopkeeper said¡­¡±


    ¡°From each ter each, from one ter another, give y¡¯r brother what he most needs,¡± recited Pretty Once, scowling in thought.


    Lerendar cursed.  Fights he could handle.  Feats of courage, endurance or strength?  None better.  But¡­ a puzzle?


    ¡°How ¡®re we ter choose, y¡¯r lordship?¡± asked the goblin.  Lerendar started across a floor that was alternately wood, stone and pierced metal; his footsteps sometimes clattering hollowly, scraping through sand or ringing on narrow steel grate.


    ¡°I¡¯m his brother.  I can access and open his pockets, but I think you¡¯re the one who¡¯s going to have to decide,¡± admitted Lerendar, adding, ¡°Maybe with magic.¡±


    ¡°Similarity,¡± Pretty agreed, nodding.  ¡°Grampa taught me that, then Lord Val did, too.  Bring us around ¡®em all, milord.  Slow-like, whilst I work up a spell.¡±


    He started with the most familiar brother, who suddenly seemed to notice him.  Tried to reach forward but couldn''t make physical contact.


    ¡°Hullo, Short-stuff,¡± said Lerendar, half-joking.  ¡°Bad form, taking off like that.  Granddad¡¯s sent me to find you.  Your wife and daughter came, too.¡±


    He wanted to embrace Valerian, bring him back from whatever danger was just past his shoulder; lurking and deadly.  Kept talking, instead.


    ¡°You have something I need to take and replace, little brother.¡±


    Pretty One had been bubbling, growling and hissing like a lidded pot boiling over.  Now, the young sorceress sketched a sigil too wise for her childish years.  At its completion, a few of Valerian¡¯s dispersed possessions began to glow.  Just a collection of crude, shabby goods, they were: wretched clay figures, botched cups and the like, but clearly important to someone.


    ¡°Gifts of Burrough,¡± said Pretty One, nudging Lerendar.


    The golden-haired elf nodded, then reached over to seize that pile of worthless trash.  When his hand touched the ¡°gifts¡±, for just that instant, it was as though he stood face to face with his brother, clasping his shoulder.


    ¡°Lando!¡± Val blurted, looking a lot of things, most of all terribly glad. ¡°I¡­¡±


    Then the gifts shifted from Val¡¯s possession to Lerendar¡¯s, and their connection was broken.  The elf-lord tried pushing them back, hoping to get some sense of his younger brother¡¯s location, but¡­


    ¡°Won¡¯t work, milord,¡± said Pretty One, tugging his cloak.  ¡°Wait till y¡¯ve got what¡¯s s¡¯pposed ter be given ¡®im.  Then try again.¡±


    ¡°Right. I knew that,¡± snapped Lerendar, more harshly than he¡¯d meant to.  A sudden lump in his throat and a burning sensation at back of his eyes had any cause in the world but tears.  ¡°We¡¯ll keep moving,¡± he snarled.


    They went to the scruffy one, next.  Tattooed and half-wild he looked, with a dozen fresh scratches on skin tanned by weather and travel.  But¡­ still Val.  Still his brother.  This one¡¯s pockets contained mostly food, including one eternal-spelled apple. From pity, Lerendar shifted the spell to a half-empty day-brew pouch. No one needed that many apples.  Day-brew, on the other hand, was an absolute must.


    At the conclusion of Pretty One¡¯s charm, the weapons pocket lit up.  It was Vesendorin¡¯s bow that glowed brightest.  Made sense, in a way.  Lerendar had pinched the bow from the family storehouse forty years earlier, giving it to Valerian as a present.


    ¡°The bow,¡± said Pretty One, pointing it out.  The older Tarandahl hesitated, then reached into his almost-brother¡¯s faerie pocket and took hold of that ornate wood bow.  Just like before, he was all at once standing directly in front of this other-Val (who smelt quite strongly of orc).  The youngster¡¯s grey eyes widened with shock and something like recognition.  Then shame took over, causing the second Val to half turn away.


    ¡°Shorty, it¡¯s me,¡± Lerendar managed to say, before their connection broke down.  ¡°I¡¯m going to¡­¡±


    To nothing, because the youngster was once more a ghost, barely able to sense him.


    ¡°Look, I don¡¯t know what¡¯s happened, Miche, but we¡¯re going to fix this.  We¡¯re bringing you home,¡± he promised, speaking to one who could not meet his gaze.  Pretty One squeezed Lerendar¡¯s shoulder.


    ¡°It¡¯ll come right, Milord,¡± she promised.  ¡°Y¡¯ gotta ¡®ave faith there¡¯s a plan, is all.¡±


    ¡°He needs help,¡± muttered Lerendar, looking away.


    ¡°An¡¯ we¡¯re gonna give him jus¡¯ what he gots ter have, y¡¯r lordship,¡± insisted the goblin.  ¡°But even the gods needs help from us little uns sometimes, so off we goes ter th¡¯ next.¡±


    It was a very good thing she was there, the elf reckoned.  He nodded again, saying,


    ¡°You¡¯re right, and we¡¯re wasting time.¡±


    Most intimidating and different of all was the tall, half-machine Val.  It was his brother, but with very short hair and a rigid expression; his grey eyes glowing with circles and lines of bright energy.  The elf-lord purposely stayed out of sight, putting off contact to study him.  This brother¡¯s pockets were nearly empty, containing a small oval stone, a strange glowing rod, a flask of ale and what looked like the hilt of a sword. At Pretty One¡¯s sigil and spell, the sword hilt developed a crackling bluish-green halo.


    ¡°The energy blade, y¡¯r lordship.  Third magic pocket,¡± said Pretty One, seeming to read the thing¡¯s nature and purpose.  Lerendar braced himself, then reached into the assembler-Val¡¯s fey space after that truncated weapon.  There was a disorienting lurch.  A sense of contact with not one, but two persons; one present before him, one looming behind like vast and shadowy wings.


    The machine-elf detected his presence but didn¡¯t respond with speech.  Instead, something seemed to brush at the back of Lerendar¡¯s skull as that other one tried to make contact.  There was a question there. Feeling impossibly slow, Lerendar answered,


    ¡°I¡¯m Lerendar.  You¡¯re my brother, Valerian.¡±


    Then came a burst of conversation/ image-flood/ text so dense and so rapid, it was like being force-fed the whole Codex of Epics at the end of a stick.  Lerendar reeled backward, saved by the breaking of contact.  His head didn¡¯t just hurt, it felt ten times too large and packed to the eyeballs.


    Now his own faerie pockets flashed into view.  They spread out like a rotating cloud; filled with weapons, gear, food, fine wine and Bea¡¯s glass bottle.  The ¡°gentle mint¡±.  Funnily enough, it was the love potion that lit up and glowed.


    ¡°Hunh,¡± he mused, taking hold of that blue glass bottle.  ¡°She told me to give it to Val.  You don¡¯t think¡­?¡±


    Pretty One chewed her lip.


    ¡°I think nuthin¡¯s an accident, milord.  If Miss Bea says give that potion ter Lord Val, then that¡¯s jus¡¯ what we oughter do.¡±


    Lerendar pondered the situation for a moment, frowning.


    ¡°Then, maybe I need to take back the bow of my ancestors,¡± he suggested, adding, ¡°I, erm¡­ stole it out of the storehouse forty years ago. No one¡¯s said anything in all this time, but maybe it needs to go back.¡±


    Pretty One gave the elf an encouraging pat, saying,


    ¡°We¡¯re puttin¡¯ things right, milord, one little bit at a time.  Let¡¯s give each what ¡®Ee needs, and you, too.¡±


    They went back to work, then, sensing that all of this very much mattered.  That they were arming each version of Val, and themselves.  To the first, most familiar brother, went Bea¡¯s love potion, along with a quick, rough embrace.


    ¡°I¡¯m coming,¡± said Lerendar.  Got back,


    ¡°Karellon, Low Town,¡±


    ¡­before he and his brother were cut off once again, and Val disappeared like a candle flame.  To that second, younger Valerian went the energy sword and a warm handclasp.


    ¡°You did what you had to,¡± Lerendar told him.  ¡°You and Pretty One, both.  Thank you.¡±


    There was no time for anything else. But just before this Val popped like a bubble, he looked up and met Lerendar¡¯s gaze.  Maybe believing him.  Possibly not¡­ but armed and then gone.


    Last was the weirdly upsetting construct-elf; his brother¡¯s appearance and mind stamped onto something so strange that Lerendar had to kick himself forward.  The other-Val was much faster to respond than his twins had been.  Seized Lerendar¡¯s arm, asking,


    ¡°You are free?  Not an asset?¡±


    The voice was chilly and harsh, with only a hint of his brother¡¯s habitual drawl.  Lerendar nodded in reply, saying,


    ¡°I am free, and so are you, Shorty.  Wherever you are.¡±


    That-Val cocked his head with a faint whirr of sliding machinery.


    ¡°Shorty,¡± he repeated, and then he was gone.


    In the end, there was nobody left but Pretty and Lerendar, as the shop passed away like a nightmare at dawn.  They were out in the street once again, facing that grey double row of sealed buildings.  There was the sound of a dulcimer being played, though; sweet, wild and beckoning.  Andorin.


    Pretty One wriggled, so Lerendar set the child down on a bobbing cobblestone.


    ¡°Time to go,¡± he said to her.


    ¡°Aye that, milord,¡± she agreed, nodding rapidly.  ¡°Past time, says me.¡±


    Slipping her hand into his, the goblin drew Lerendar after the music, away from a shop that now seemed no more than delirium. But they knew where to go now.  Had a notion of where to start, first.

 Sword and Sorcery Five, chapter twenty-nine

    <u>29</u>


    The nearest floating island was as big as a mountain flipped upside down. With a verdant, forested top and three vast, pointed roots, it resembled a giant stone tooth embedded in streaming white cloud. The magic that kept it aloft sang from its very core, making the air seem to ripple.


    Up here, the sunlight was pure and direct, unfiltered by mist. It was much cooler, less humid, as well. Better yet, the wind sprites were fairly cooperative. Still playful, but willing to waft Miche and his passengers over those bumpy gold cloud tops to ¡°Big Island¡±.


    The darting sprites materialized often to yank Marget¡¯s braids or the elf¡¯s long cloak. Their mischievous faces and billowing, transparent hair made them look like naughty small children (but they did take him where he wanted to go).


    The orc was deeply relieved when her boots grated on solid rock once again, and she could release poor, frantic Spots. The fawn was a pitiful sight; huge-eyed and wobbling. Nameless wasn¡¯t much better. The marten shot away the instant they landed, barking imprecations. Then again, its long tail and whiskers had been a particular wind sprite target, vexing the creature to madness.


    Miche let his friend go, rubbing at dozens of scratches and looking around. The sprites had deposited them atop a spire of level rock, which rose from a lush, teeming forest. Turning full circle, he saw more floating islands, as well as a lake on their own that flashed in the sun, reflecting a sky so blue and pure that it seemed to go on forever.


    ¡°I bet¡­¡± he began, a little uncertainly. ¡°I mean¡­ you could tear a piece off, dip it and eat it.¡±


    ¡°Eat what?¡± rumbled Marget, rearranging her coarse, yard-long braids. The wind sprites had stolen half of the orc¡¯s metal clamps, and now her hair had begun to unravel. ¡°I am famished, and ready to hunt whatever this air palace boasts.¡±


    He shook his head, feeling self-conscious.


    ¡°Nothing. Just¡­ dream food for air sprites.¡±


    Being quite literal, Marget dropped the matter at once. She stood with her legs braced apart, snuffing at the wind as she dragged both her hands through that mane of black plaits, cursing, re-braiding and clamping.


    Well, they still had plenty of food, and it seemed wise to eat before setting off to explore, so the elf brought out the wyvern steak and three apples. Next, he set wards and built a fire, while Marget fetched water and wood. They saw no sign of other people; elf, orc or human. Just noisy birds and dozens of curious animals. Rock conies and small goats, mostly, along with a host of inquisitive ground squirrels. The creatures displayed no fear, coming right up to sniff at Miche and Marget.


    ¡°Hunh,¡± grunted the orc, brushing a trio of goats away from her meal. ¡°These beasts have no dread of a hunter, Vrol. There would be poor sport in stalking them.¡±


    ¡°They may never have seen a person before,¡± he suggested, pulling his own blond hair out of a goat¡¯s mouth, ¡°Anyhow, we have enough food, and such innocence merits protection.¡±


    Marget snorted. Next fell to gnawing a slab of tough meat that he pulled off the fire and handed her.


    ¡°Best we explore and move on, then. One of the farther islands might provide more amusing prey,¡± she replied, around a big mouthful of food.


    Miche nodded, consulting his map.  ¡®Val,¡¯ the shrine goddess had called him. ¡®Lord Errin¡¯, the story inside of him argued. Both names pulled at his heart, but only one came with memories¡­ and it was too much to think about, now.


    The map seemed to struggle to show their location, displaying only the top of the floating island, with a blurry background of shifting colors behind. No shrine was displayed up here, but a constellation of lights dotted the backdrop. Shown from so far above, they formed the shape of the Strider; upright, as in midsummer.


    The rest of those floating islands weren¡¯t marked on his map, though they crossed the rift in a curve like a flagstone path, to the eye. Very strange.


    ¡°What do you see when you look off to the side like that, Vrol?¡± Marget asked curiously, nudging him.


    The elf considered, cocking his head a bit. Fed half of his apple to Spots, then¡­


    ¡°Here. Take my hand. I think I can show you,¡± he told her, reaching over the nibbling fawn.


    Marget¡¯s hand enveloped his, while he still held the map in his thoughts. She was kin now in spirit, if not in blood. What he knew¡­ what he saw¡­ he could share. Mostly. The orc¡¯s mind worked differently, and her way of seeing was not quite the same as his own. Close enough to let her glimpse the chart of their island, though, against a backdrop of shifting colors and lines.


    She reached forward with her free hand, trying to rotate the map. He followed her gestures, turning the image as she indicated. Thanks to Marget, the elf discovered that he could blur the island to focus back on the valley below, too.


    He hadn¡¯t stopped eating while they worked, having drained himself hollow with all of that brisk levitation. Suddenly, Marget switched her attention from the landscape to what he was chewing.


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    ¡°What is that taste?¡± she demanded. ¡°It is an apple, but there is something in the way you taste it that I do not recognize.¡±


    That surprised Miche. He stopped in mid-chew, swallowed hastily, then said,


    ¡°It is sweet, somewhat tart¡­ grainy and kandish.¡±


    ¡°What was that last word?¡± prodded the orc, scowling suspiciously.


    ¡°Kandish. Like kand. You know,¡± he replied, perplexed.


    ¡°No. I do not. When I am forced to eat apples, I taste not that flavor¡­ except when my thoughts are with yours, Old One.¡±


    That led to some exploration, as they learned that their senses did not align perfectly. There was much to discover. Mostly odd scents for him, strange colors and various flavors for Marget. She insisted on having him taste apples again and again, because as soon as their contact was broken, she could no longer recall that delicate savor.


    A foolish amount of time passed that way, while the sun went a-westering and twilight approached. Sunset colored the sky; marking the moment when larger dragons go hunting for prey. It was time to seek safer lodging. Done with silliness, they cleared up their mess and then left. Edged their way down a set of spiraling, overgrown steps chiseled into the sides of their pillar.


    ¡°This must have been a sentry post, once,¡± Miche speculated. ¡°Or else a place from which one might board and launch airships.¡±


    Marget grunted. She lumbered along behind him, carrying Spots on her burly shoulders, one hand clutching the fawn¡¯s spindly legs together in front.


    ¡°Those I have seen at a distance,¡± she scoffed. ¡°Sorcerous, untrustworthy skiffs held up by magic. Drop out of the sky like a rock, if their spells fail.¡±


    Someone¡­ Lord Errin had seen that happen. Watched many crews lost, in the final battle but one. The elf shook his head, too stubborn to let the jibe stand.


    ¡°There was a time when great fleets of airships rode the skies, Marget. When manna was free for the taking, for anyone with talent. Like air and sunlight, almost¡­ back when the casting of spells was easy.¡±


    ¡°That would be good for elves, but not for the rest of us,¡± said the orc, sounding glum. ¡°It would set your folk over all other races, Old One.¡±


    ¡°And breed much hatred,¡± agreed Miche. ¡°I think that we brought the end down on ourselves, through arrogance. Then, when manna faded, and the races were equal, war broke out.¡± The thought depressed him.


    Marget shrugged, causing Spots to struggle and kick.


    ¡°Folk will find any excuse to fight, Vrol. The trouble was surely not all caused by elves,¡± she said, bumping him with a muscular arm.


    They were still over two-hundred feet up the stone pillar, quarter-turned so that they faced the next closest island. Miche stopped climbing downward to stare. The other island was five miles or so distant and smaller than theirs. A dark place it was, curved like the moon and (no other word for it) blurry; seeming to vibrate and break into bits at the edges. Or, not bits, but¡­


    ¡°Assemblers,¡± said Miche, keeping his voice down. ¡°Their hive must cover the entire island.¡±


    As the elf and orc looked on in surprise, millions of the mechanoid creatures rose from their floating stone nest. These formed a great, swirling black cloud that roiled like smoke, streamed upward and then took the shape of a massive dragon. Miche reached upward and back to nudge Marget, not taking his eyes from that soaring false drake.


    ¡°Aye, Old One,¡± she murmured. ¡°It is the same shape seen through the clouds, from that cess-pit of merchants. Can they be hunting the city folk instead of taking them up to their heaven?¡±


    Miche stifled a very orc curse when Nameless dropped onto his head from the steps above. Snapped,


    ¡°Into the cloak hood, you pest! Hide.¡± Firelord was still out there somewhere, exploring; a thing he liked not at all.


    The marten complied, squirming around till it found a comfortable spot, then slipping its sleek masked head out to rest on Miche¡¯s shoulder.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know why they would bother,¡± answered the elf, once Nameless was settled. ¡°Assemblers do not eat flesh, in my time¡­ I think.¡±


    ¡°Nor in mine, I know,¡± rumbled Marget. ¡°Yet they are taking the people of Amur for some reason.¡±


    ¡°All of their trouble and none of my own,¡± grumbled the elf, reaching up to scratch Nameless under the chin and behind it small ears. ¡°Still¡­ perhaps we could go have a look at the place, once the assembler dragon has left.¡±


    The thing was a graceful and smoky shadow-monster that swooped and dove through the reddening sky; sometimes coming apart or taking another quick-darting shape. In its own way, a breathtaking sight.


    ¡°I care not at all what becomes of the locals,¡± clarified Miche, staring at Marget.


    ¡°Who would?¡± she agreed, loosening various weapons. ¡°But before we rush in, the matter needs thought. ¡®Stay downwind of the prey¡¯, as my mother used to tell me and Vrol-the-former¡­ Not that we listened.¡±


    Miche smiled.


    ¡°Stubborn runs in the family,¡± he said to his sister-in-heart. Then, ¡°I can get us out there. Best move under cover of darkness, when the winds are right, though¡­ and without Spots, who has no place in a fight.¡±


    Marget nodded.


    ¡°This floating rock is safe for the small one. Nothing is hunted here.¡±


    Miche thoughtfully rubbed at the side of his jaw, nodding back.


    ¡°Aye, that," he agreed absently. "For the rest¡­ I can work on a spell of invisibility. One that blocks all ways of seeing. Then we can scout the assembler hive from above. Don¡¯t suppose the Amurites would be penned out on the surface, but it can¡¯t hurt to look.¡±


    ¡°Would snaring an assembler for information do any good?¡± wondered the orc.


    Miche shrugged.


    ¡°They are only intelligent in large groups, when they¡¯ve reached at least person-mass,¡± he told her, recalling the life of Lord Errin. ¡°We would need to capture a great many units, then induce them to combine.¡± And that didn¡¯t seem very likely.


    ¡°Unh,¡± she grunted. ¡°Well, no prey in the blankets, and the way to beat death is to meet it with valor.¡±


    ¡°Mother, again?¡± asked the elf, glancing back over at Marget. She grinned at him, showing her full set of frightening teeth.


    ¡°Mam perished in battle, drenched in the blood of her foes¡­ as may we all,¡± said the orc, reverently. Her hand on his shoulder was tense with excitement.


    Meanwhile, that dragon-shape had locked together and fully assembled. It was now a sleek, mechanoid beast of dark metal with glowing, bluish-white seams. Would never fool anyone who¡¯d seen an actual dragon¡­ except through the clouds or a very bright sunset.


    Spreading vast wings ribbed in metal and membraned in shimmering energy, the beast gave a piercing cry. Part crackle, part whistle, the sound rattled their teeth and chipped stone. Bits of their stairway flaked and dropped off, causing the pair to tumble/race downward. Even at this distance, the composite creature was loud. It lashed a very long, segmented tail, cutting the air like an axeblade. Its giant horned head featured a pair of glowing, heat-lightning eyes and a mouth that glittered like frost.


    The false dragon rose, spiraling into the air, then paused to look down at the hive, appearing to communicate. And that, he suddenly knew (or Errin had) could be disrupted. The assemblers¡¯ link could be shattered by making a certain pattern of light.


    ¡°I have an idea,¡± said the elf, watching that shadowy monster soar away into the gathering dusk. ¡°Listen¡­¡±

 Sword and Sorcery Five, chapter thirty

    <u>30</u>


    Some time remained before nightfall, because up at this height, twilight tended to linger. First painting the clouds from above, it gradually shifted, suffusing the mist with a brilliant red glow as the sun dropped from sight.


    The elf and orc had time to descend that stone pillar, into a magical, forested land. The animals here were utterly fearless of Miche and Marget. There were not many hunters, it seemed. Just a sort of cat-fox with a knack for color-change, and a flock of gold spark-lizards, but these were small and seemed to feast mainly on carrion. Most of the trees were dwarfed, too, being less than a third the height of their ground-level cousins.


    Once on the forest floor, Marget fed Spots with conjured goats¡¯ milk. There were other deer in the area, not shy at all. Miche made a tidy pile of unwanted apples for them, no doubt introducing a new sort of tree. Watching his doings, the orc scowled, considering her adopted brother¡¯s idea.


    ¡°We are but two against many,¡± she pointed out, after speaking the charm against fleas over Spots. ¡°That is good for the tales at fire and feast, but seems like poor strategy, Vrol.¡±


    He didn¡¯t deny it, saying,


    ¡°We may not have to fight. The assemblers are taking Amurites¡­ apparently often¡­ but they may not be harming them. Clearly the ones lifted up longed to be chosen. My plan gets us into the hive for a quick look around. As for the rest, that depends very much on what we find when we get there.¡± Which was elf-speak for ¡®I¡¯m making this up as I go.¡¯


    Dipping into the life of Lord Erron, he added,


    ¡°The assemblers were converted to fearsome weapons by the enemy, this ¡®Fallen One¡¯, who discovered a thing he called assembler-code. But our forces struck back, learning to break up an assembled construct and shatter the swarm¡¯s coherence. I know how to do that. Together, they fight and think as a mighty unit. Split apart, they soon wander off to start a new hive.¡±


    Marget grunted, turning the notion over and over in thought. Meanwhile, that sprinkling of stars overhead had grown to a full, brilliant tapestry. The sun was now only a whisper of light in the west, and the moon had not yet arisen. He hesitated, though, still waiting for Firelord. The god had been absent for candle-marks, no doubt exploring the whole floating island chain¡­ hopefully.


    ¡°You watch for something,¡± accused Marget, studying Miche¡¯s face (and too direct to be subtle). ¡°You do not wish to go, before something of value returns to you.¡±


    Which was true. The orc finished feeding and grooming Spots, who then wandered over to sniff at those bite-sized browsing deer. Said Miche,


    ¡°Yes. There is someone else who¡¯s gone off alone¡­ but I am not free to speak of this other until¡­ suppose it¡¯s alright to say ¡®he¡¯ ¡­ chooses to show himself.¡±


    Marget¡¯s habitual snarl deepened briefly. Then her expression cleared.


    ¡°You are honored by an ancestor?¡± she asked. When the elf hesitated, she clarified, ¡°It sometimes happens among the Free People, that one of our forerunners tires of the Hunting Grounds and returns to honor a descendant, bringing great power and strength. They seek to experience life again, but only through one they find worthy. My mother¡¯s mother was honored so. You sheath an ancestor, Vrol?¡±


    Close enough¡­ but he wasn¡¯t free to speak about Firelord unless the god chose to let him. Marget sensed this and changed the subject.


    ¡°Turn, and I will plait your hair for the fight,¡± she ordered.


    ¡°If there is one,¡± he said, turning his back as the orc seized his blond hair and then began skillfully weaving it. ¡°Not sure¡­ why a single braid¡­ is better than many¡­ loose strands, though,¡± he mused. (In spurts. She was skilled, but not at all gentle.)


    ¡°You would cut off your hair?¡± demanded the orc, adding a dull-metal clamp to the end of his plait.


    ¡°And look like a coward?¡± scoffed Miche, outraged. ¡°<u>No</u>. Let whoever wills take hold and not live to regret it. With both hands encumbered, he¡¯ll be easy to turn on and stab.¡±


    Marget chuckled, bumping his shoulder with hers.


    ¡°Or she,¡± snorted the orc. ¡°Though a female would most likely snap your neck before you could turn. But this will not happen, as I have your back.¡±


    And now it was dark. The elf marshalled his spells, presetting three in case of surprise. No escape spell, though. Come whatever, he would not leave Marget behind.


    As the orc went over to speak a last charm on Spots (who was romping and browsing with smaller young fawns) Miche crossed to the island¡¯s edge. Faced cool wind and the scent of cloud and damp earth rushing up from the darkness below.


    Five miles away, the assembler hive shone in starlight, its surface a broken and churning shell. Crawling with de-cohered units, no doubt. That thought came straight from the story of Erron; the life that he¡¯d lived, the fleeing people he¡¯d fought to defend. Maybe they¡¯d made it to safety? Hana, Kara, Randon and the baby¡­ those thousands of refugees¡­ It helped to think that they¡¯d found a new place, out in the void between stars. Made his own bloody, prolonged awful death seem worth it.


    But he could see and speak again. Had all of his parts, was not caged and suspended for laughter and enemy sport. The orc¡­ Marget¡­ came up from behind, breaking the hold of grim memory. He¡¯d have loved her for that, if nothing else.


    ¡°The wind shifts with sunset,¡± he told her. ¡°If you are ready, we¡¯ll go.¡±


    Marget¡¯s big hand clasped his shoulder, brushing the curled lump of Nameless, asleep in his cloak-hood. The marten uttered a wavering bark but didn¡¯t emerge. Too well fed and tired, probably.


    As manna flowed from the clouds, the wind and the island¡¯s gleaming support spell, Miche said,


    ¡°You must stay within fifty feet for my magic to lift you¡­ or for transport, if things go terribly wrong.¡±


    ¡°Unh,¡± she grunted, as the ground dropped away, and his invisibility spell wrapped them in shadow. ¡°There is small point in a glorious death, if no one is there to see and weave tales.¡±


    ¡°Next time, we¡¯ll bring a witness,¡± he promised, smiling.


    The south wind was brisk and took hold at once. No sprite, this, but a lesser divinity. It materialized once, grey and dripping; made of storm cloud, lightning and rain. The elf pressed clenched fist to brow in salute, earning a strong, steady gust that very soon swept them over that five-mile gap.


    As he¡¯d guessed, the entire, moon-shaped island was covered in buzzing and clicking assemblers. There was not a blade of green anywhere, and only a lone, central lake. Its waters rippled and shone silver-pale in the starlight, breaking around a pile of corroded dark metal. Something had crashed there a very long time ago, he guessed, running over the ships of the fleet in his mind. Not Javelin, which had scraped onto a mountaintop, when the death-code struck¡­ unlike so many lost others.


    Anyhow, he made for that pile of corrosion and rust, bringing them gently down on what had been a wide upper deck. Dropped the levitation spell, then used ¡®deep sense¡¯ to mentally grope his way down through chilly water and crumbling wreckage.


    No sign of captives or willing visitors, either. But maybe they¡¯d gone below. If so, deep sense would ferret them out. The noise of assemblers was very loud here; disorganized, scattered and wavering. Out of tune, in a manner of speaking, and not very threatening. It was only when that tinny jangle began to synchronize that trouble was coming.


    Marget had turned to face in the other direction, back to his own, like a wall. She held an axe in one hand and a sword in the other. Watching. Ah. His spreading mind encountered a tunnel system, only partly flooded.


    ¡°There is a network of caverns and passages below, accessible through a large duct,¡± he signed and subvocalized. Clear as a bell to a friend, completely inaudible to the assembler horde. Probably. ¡°It seems like the best way inside.¡±


    She was female and therefore an officer. He did not command, but only suggested.


    ¡°Must we <u>swim</u>?¡± growled the orc, signing back.


    ¡°No. I can pull air from the water, forming an envelope, and control our mass for a gentle descent,¡± he replied.


    Marget turned a bit to regard him directly, once again sensing more than just Miche in his voice, curt signing and words. She snuffed, rumbled, then said,


    ¡°Let it be as you say, Old One. Though you are only a male, here your knowledge is greater.¡± And she was large enough in spirit to admit it. (Large, period.) He inclined his head.


    ¡°That is the plan, then. We¡¯ll stay together until we are into the tunnels and out of the water. If it comes to a fight, I defer to your wisdom.¡±


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    And that¡¯s how it happened. The floating island was shaped like a crescent moon, with its lake near the long convex shore. The island¡¯s two ¡°horns¡± reached around from north and south, enclosing a misty aerial harbor. All around them, assemblers rasped, chirped and tinkled, without any rhythm or pattern at all. Of the mechanoid dragon, there was no sign.


    He stood for a moment, overwhelmed by another¡¯s emotions. Breathing free air, feeling manna come at his call, hearing something other than mocking laughter nearly shattered him. Nearly.


    The orc¡¯s hand clasped his left shoulder. He placed his own slim hand over hers, pressing once. Then, at his sigil and word, they stepped off of the wreckage, sinking down into black water. An odd feeling, that; chilly and squeezed, but not wet. With air that was continually freshened and smelt like the lake.


    Down and down they sank, slowly, as he manipulated the currents enough to bring them to the mouth of a pour-stone culvert. Some sleight-of-hand with their masses took place, then, while he made them heavy enough to push through the water and walk on the tunnel floor. Not a long way, fortunately, for the orc¡¯s convulsive grip on him said she did not like being submerged.


    His sense of the tunnel system led him to quickly select the most direct path to dry, open air. They emerged from the lake¡¯s inner stretch by its terraced steps, gasping like they¡¯d been holding their breath. Got clear of the water and looked around, back-to-back once again and weapons in hand.


    There had been almost no life in the lake. Here, the air was musty and still. Its silence disturbed by dripping water and random, sharp clicks. There were four assemblers present, but these wandered about in loose spirals.


    ¡°Hunting for scent-trails or water,¡± guessed Marget. ¡°Sentries who will not alert, unless they find the track of invaders.¡±


    The elf nodded. He¡¯d preset ¡®Cone of Silence¡¯ and invoked it now, in case the creatures were triggered by voices. That done, he sensed around a bit more, then said,


    ¡°The tunnel branches ahead. The left way leads to an exterior cave. The right way tends upward, curves east, then ends in a dome-shaped chamber. Your thoughts?


    The orc snorted, disliking the mildew and dust.


    ¡°We will remember the left path, for when it is time to leave this abode of noisy bugs,¡± she said. ¡°If there are any to rescue, we must think how to carry them, Vrol-who-is-other.¡±


    The elf nodded.


    ¡°I¡¯m working on it,¡± he replied, adding, ¡°If you don¡¯t mind, keep talking. It pulls me away from darkness.¡±


    They started along a smooth-bored tunnel, then, invisible to others and shielded by cone of silence. He took the time to cleanse them of all exterior taint and any lingering water or rust. Keeping away from patrolling assemblers. Again, just in case.


    The orc began talking of past hunts and battles, of who she¡¯d fought and how worthy they were to be named in a tale. He listened with part of his attention, minding the assembler¡¯s noises and patterns of movement with most of the rest.


    ¡°And did this ¡®Skevlan¡¯ put up a good fight?¡± he asked her, when they paused for water and apples.


    ¡°Best of any so far,¡± she responded, finishing her meal in two bites (seeds, core and stem). ¡°Handsome, too. I would have favored him, had he been able to best me.¡± Then, in a sudden rush, ¡°What if there are no other Free Folk here, Vrol? Wat if there are no worthy mates?¡±


    Erron¡¯s memory had no answer for that, but Miche did.


    ¡°Then we¡¯ll push back the light wall to a time when there are still orcs, and find you a mate by¡­ I don¡¯t know¡­ kidnapping one.¡±


    Marget chuckled at that.


    ¡°Captives taken in war often make the best husbands,¡± she told him. ¡°Very respectful.¡±


    He shook his head, wondering how this had come to seem perfectly reasonable. Barbaric or not, though, she was his sister; the best friend he had besides Nameless. He¡¯d help to capture an orc for her, face him in battle and hope the poor varg-son survived his own wedding night¡­ assuming he and Marget got out of this latest mess in one piece.


    They left the tunnel behind after rounding a final curve, stepping into a dome-shaped chamber. It was a hundred and ten feet across, with a round opening at the top that let in the moonlight and air. Not the first thing they noticed, though.


    The patrolling assemblers had tripled in number, their coverage patterns growing complex. It was much harder to avoid stepping onto one of their paths, so the elf invoked levitation again, raising himself and Marget while using as little manna as possible. Just a foot or so over the ground, until they reached that wide main cavern, where¡­


    A jumbled spray of crystals rose from the chamber floor, coming to a nine-foot peak. The structure was mostly quiescent grey, with occasional flares of glittering blue. Around it, laid out like the direction-marks on a compass, were people. Their sunken, flabby remains, rather. They looked like skin bags full of pudding, oozing a bit from their mouths, ears and nostrils, crawling with luminous, half-shelled pale larvae.


    Marget snarled. There was no sign of restraint or violence, though, and those of the pilgrims who still retained enough of a skull to anchor their face-muscles looked very peaceful. The orc shook with rage and disgust, though.


    ¡°Their bones have been taken,¡± she hissed, muscles bunching like boulders. ¡°Maybe assemblers don¡¯t eat, but their grubs do.¡±


    Worse, that chaotic mess of chirps, clicks and tinkling had woven together, strand by strand joining to create a droning, cicada-like hum. Then, with a noise of wind and clicking machinery, something large and fast flashed past overhead, blocking the light for a long, pent breath. Still treading air, invisible, silent, the orc and elf watched in shock as four more pilgrims floated down through the opening. Two males, a woman and very young girl, this time, all of them holding hands, all of them chanting.


    The mechanoid dragon outside joined its rumbling thrum to the noise of waking assemblers. That spire of crystals began to glow blue, pulsing in time to the creatures¡¯ loud, droning hum.


    The four Amurites were wafted around and around through the air, sweeping ever closer to that pulsing blue jumble of crystals. Miche summoned starlight, not to the cavern, but into his hand; forming a mass of swirling white energy. The pilgrims were singing as they whirled through the chamber. Same as they¡¯d sung down below. The Dawn Hymn.


    ¡°No,¡± snapped the elf, all at once coldly furious. Dropped all of his spells except levitation, as the assemblers inside began snapping together like powerful magnets. ¡°These people believed you would help them!¡±


    Next, two things happened at once. A mighty pull from the crystal took hold of each soul in the cavern, Miche and Marget¡¯s included. Like a hook lodged somewhere under his heart, the crystal¡¯s pull tried to strip him away from his physical body. The souls of the Amurite pilgrims were willingly, happily drawn, but the elf and orc fought that beckoning force with all that they had, refusing to answer the call.


    Then Miche¡¯s preset shielding spell triggered, as the mechanoid dragon outside began pouring in through the hole in the ceiling, forming a shining black river of metal bugs. The noise was deafening; head-splitting.


    Whirling to face the dragon¡¯s flowing main body, Miche flashed the ball of light in his hand the way that Lord Erron had done, more years ago than anyone present had lived.


    2- 2-1-2-3-2-4-4-2-4


    The Amurites¡¯ souls were swept up like cobwebs, into that jumble of crystals. Then, riding a powerful lance of bright light, all four shot away into the sky, past the clattering, rushing form of the dragon. Meanwhile, a massive, insectoid hulk took shape in the vibrating chamber. Composed of myriad small, chirping units, it sprouted long, jointed legs that raised it creaking, clear of the ground. It grew and clashed sharp, ant-like jaws that shone with electrical force. Spread those mandibles wide, still gaining mass as more and more units streamed to the shining steel creature. Multiple glowing blue eyes formed on its head and flat body, all of them swiveling; searching.


    Then, unbelievably fast, the monster struck, leaping at the hive¡¯s small invaders. Miche backed and pivoted, shouting a warning that couldn¡¯t be heard above all of that rumbling, clattering, jangling, ground-shaking noise. Stone split. Corpses bounced in a grisly mock-up of life.


    1-1-0-1-2-1-3-3-1-3


    Roaring soundlessly, Marget hurled her axe at the mechanoid beast¡¯s largest eye. The axe-blade bit deep, sinking in through a shower of sparks and torn metal. Did not even slow the beast down. Its spider legs carved pits in the chamber floor as the assembled monster skittered and leapt; racing up the wall and then onto the ceiling above them. Several bits of it pulled free, sprouting wings as they shot away from the main body, trailing some kind of electrical web.


    ¡®Not let it touch you!¡¯ he signed at Marget, urgent hurry and awkward one-handedness making him drop a few words. ¡®Trap!¡¯ Kept flashing the light that he held in the meantime, turning to keep it facing the huge, crouching bug on the ceiling.


    0-0-0-0-1-1-2-2-0-1


    It lashed out with searing bolts of lightning and streams of hornet-like drones. Miche drew his sword and fired a storm of ice bolts that coated the smaller assemblers¡¯ wings, sending them crashing onto the ground. The lightning could only be dodged, for its power far exceeded his shielding ability. The elf dove one way, Marget, the other. Both struck the floor and came up rolling, fetching up against boneless corpses and writhing larvae. Even the little ones fought, spurting acid that pitted the floor and burned flesh. Nameless dug into his back, emerging enough to bite a larva in half.


    The pilgrims¡¯ empty bodies twirled downward like snow, spinning a ghastly last dance. Miche rose to one knee, still flashing out segments of Lord Erron¡¯s code, praying that after so long, it still worked.


    ...and then, last of all, simply 0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0.


    The monster turned away from the flashing command light. Jaws spread wide, it


    dropped from the ceiling and struck like a snake. Marget was back on her feet but unshielded, well over fifty feet from the elf. He misty-stepped, twice. Materialized directly in front of her, putting all he had left into the shield spell.


    Great, sparking jaws snapped shut like vast shears¡­ only to burst apart into millions of single, chaotically chirping units. The pair were battered from every side by a swirling blizzard of loose assemblers; slashed at by razor-sharp wings and needle-tipped legs, zapped by miniscule lightning bolts. The thrumming-loud, rushing swarm shoved them this way and that¡­ but the shield held, and at last the storm of assemblers ended.


    When the last click, buzz and chirp died away¡­ when the cavern walls ceased moving, and the air was no longer black and streaming with units, they released each other. Marget shook herself, then patted him over, looking for wounds. Miche performed a light cure on both of them and the shuddering marten, too, healing electrical burns, bruises and scrapes.


    The assemblers were gone; driven off to form a new hive, somewhere else. They¡¯d taken their larvae, too. Left the Amurite bodies sprawled on the ground like abandoned toys. A hollow sort of victory, for there was no one to rescue. Their souls had been drawn and sent¡­ where?


    The elf re-sheathed his weapon, shaking his head (which still ached from the noise).


    ¡°I am not sure that we did the right thing,¡± he told Marget. The assembler larvae built their shells using minerals extracted from Amurite pilgrims¡­ but only after their souls had moved on. Somewhere.


    Marget grunted a string of foul curses he only half-heard. A few vivid signs helped convey meaning, though.


    ¡°Let us speak for the dead and be quit of this awful place, Hunter,¡± she said, in the midst of an epic and blistering oath.


    Miche nodded, then went over to stare through the hole in the cavern roof, sighting up along the dulled crystal spires.


    ¡°Where were they sent?¡± he wondered aloud. ¡°And how have things become so bad that this¡­¡± he gestured at six deflated corpses and four smiling, fresh ones. ¡°¡­seems like a bargain?¡±


    ¡°This whole world needs rescue,¡± growled the orc. ¡°And there seems no one to do it but us.¡±


    Nameless had popped halfway out of his cloak hood, whiskers twitching and red eyes alert. The marten barked, looking restively this way and that.


    To them both, Miche said,


    ¡°Yes, but first there are bodies to speak for and burn.¡± Though their souls were gone, he would not leave what remained of these people to rot and scavengers. Didn¡¯t take very long, and soon they were ready to go, only¡­


    ¡­Where in the infinite planes was Firelord, why had the small god not returned?

 Sword and Sorcery Five, chapter 31

    <u>31</u>


    A quarter candle-mark at the Bide-a-While Station soon doubled.  It was time that V47 Pilot did not regret spending, then or later (after attempting to make his report) for there was much to be glad of.


    Gofir-1 and the dwarven freight crew were eager to show him the virtual highlights of Comfort Row. They took him to twelve different bar-sites; purchasing thirty-two rounds of depressant fluid (which he learnt to slam like a dwarf).  Better still, his companion was not only safe and well, but skilled at the station¡¯s famously slanted amusements.  Foryu won 10,052 credits on virtual poker, crown game and vistok, alone.  Better yet, that fatal packet was gone, left behind until he could strategize how to deal with it. Celebration was called for and emotions genuine. All very enjoyable, and the pilot delayed taking his leave of those friendly and clamorous freight-haulers.  Not until the .471 candle-mark did he return to his mech.


    V47 was less pleased with its stay at the Bide-a-While docking facility.  Besides being subjected to cascades of short-vids, site maps and ¡°free offers¡±, the battle-mech now sported a glowing, swirling electronic tag.  Featuring the station¡¯s fluffy lavender mascot, the advert boasted: "I got Behuggled at Bide-a-While Station!"  Words that flashed over and over in visual, symbol and numeric code.


    Also less pleasing, the mech had destroyed its previous gantry and docking pad as it fought to break free and reach Pilot. With the facility badly damaged, the battle-mech had been forced to berth next to an ancient mineral trawler.  Foryu covered her mouth with one hand as they approached V47¡¯s location.  Pilot did a much better job of controlling his facial responses, though some emotion may have bled through their link.


    ¡®An indelible advert tag is not a source of amusement, Pilot,¡¯ sent his massive mechanoid friend, very stiffly.


    The cyborg inclined his blond head, mostly not smiling at all. In total control of his soft-tissue chemistry.  Indicating the battle-mech¡¯s previous, half-melted gantry, he said,


    ¡°The damages incurred to our docking pad by sudden, unauthorized launch total forty-three thousand credits, V.  According to Local Command, I can put it on Gold Flight¡¯s account, set up payments, or¡­ we can advertise Bide-a-While Station for fifty sidereal years.¡±


    Foryu made a swift down-payment with half of her sudden wealth, bringing their debt down and buying some time to decide.  She was still wearing his flight jacket, standing snuggly within his encircling arm.  Now, the dark-haired companion said,


    ¡°I am able to add further credits, if doing so helps to reduce the duration of sentence, Pilot.¡±


    He ¡®kissed¡¯ the top of her head, a thing he had learnt from show-vids and strange, ancient memory files. Looked at her after a micro-tick, saying,


    ¡°I conjecture that Flight Command will be able to eliminate that decal, once I have returned to Orbital Station and made my report.  Let us not raise firewalls and internal alarms until we are back at the hangar, V.  Besides¡­¡±  (couldn¡¯t help it) ¡°¡­ you look good.¡±


    The fighter-craft¡¯s rebuild had been a success, giving the mech sleek new lines and much enhanced weaponry.  But V47 didn¡¯t agree.  Its response was uncharitable; deliberately buggy and tangled.  No further comment was made about unwanted adverts, though, and the Behuggler went on winking and flashing all around V47.


    The mech-pilot pushed off against metal and stone, using a touch of steering-jet to waft himself and Foryu to cockpit level, 35.71 feet in the air.  The companion pressed her mouth to the side of his face and whispered/ sent concepts of loyal affection.  Then she discorporated, streaming as data into the mark-three memory drive he¡¯d acquired back at that (file inaccessible) shop.  Scanned him and V47, too, backing him up as had TTN-iA.  A thing that meant ¡®love¡¯.  That said, ¡®I have your data, as you have mine. You will never be lost¡¯.


    Afterward, the memory drive was stored away until circumstance granted more leave time.  V47 then opened the dura-shield cowling, allowing its pilot entry.  In 3.3 ticks, probes and contact-plates slide into place and the cockpit resealed all around him.  He was home and fully connected, again; his body and senses now those of a towering mechanoid warrior¡­ with a swirling, skittering ¡°itch¡±.


    ¡°Right,¡± said the pilot, summoning worthless anti-virals and quantum foam.  ¡°I see what you mean, V.¡±


    Doing his best to ignore that annoying electronic tag, he queried Bide-a-While Station¡¯s AI for permission to launch.  The Behuggler popped into their view field, waving its single antenna.


    ¡®BAWS to V47 Pilot, permission granted.  Thank you for visiting Bide-a-While Station.  Please come again.  Fair stellar winds and following manna, my friends!¡¯


    V47 emitted something close to a snort, venting exhaust and charging its hull till it crackled.


    ¡®<u>Friends</u> do not brand a guest with unwanted code,¡¯ grumbled the battle-mech, as the station¡¯s docking clamps hissed and rattled, falling away. ¡®Such action, while a pilot is absent, distracted with mood-altering fluid, displays nefarious intent,¡¯ added V47, burning all of the dwarven ale from the pilot¡¯s system.  <u>That</u> was unpleasant... but woke him right up.  Being fair to both sides, the pilot remarked,


    Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    ¡°Friends don¡¯t damage the local docking facilities, either, V.¡±  Next, he used a touch of impeller to lift them away from the pad before adding, ¡°I thank you for coming to find me, though... And I probably did as much harm to the shop, getting out.¡±


    It was hard to remember. For some reason, his archives between t = 3.200 and t = 3.315 were unclear, inaccessible. On top of that, the shop had vanished from all current holos.  Weird.


    ¡®There was a cessation of contact, Pilot.  Danger was perceived.¡¯


    <u>That</u>, he recalled quite vividly, remembering pain and loss like an amputation.  Like a fiery, gut-slicing wound.  Foryu was his companion, and he had grown to love her.  V47 was part of him. The forced separation had nearly destroyed them both.  Well, never again.


    They lifted away from Bide-a-While Station on quarter impeller.  Watched as the asteroid and its flickering transport gate dropped downward like spiraling fragments of paper.  The station looked like a neon island in space; warmed by Oberyn¡¯s glow, nuzzled by incoming freighters and tug-drones.


    As the asteroid receded, its fluffy mascot popped onto their viewscreen again, single eye winking and wispy antenna broadcasting farewell.


    ¡®Come back soon, friends!¡¯ it chirped. ¡®Bide-a-While Station always has <u>something you want</u>!¡¯


    A locked file¡­ The Shop of True Need¡­ opened up in his processor, momentarily, along with the message: Pilot, you <u>must</u> return.  And then, in less than a nano-tick, the information was lost again.  Hidden, and needing to stay that way.


    The voyage to Orbital Station would take 2.7 sidereal days, but the pilot did not enter stasis.  He arranged his data and prepared his report, instead, letting V47 shift to star-fighter mode and manage departure.  Once far enough from Oberyn¡¯s intense gravity well, manna came flooding back, letting them switch to full burn. The stars went from pinpoint to blur after that, and their trip concluded just 4.3 candle-marks later.


    OS 1210 and Cerulean Dream were still in repair when V47 arrived.  Rotating slowly in Glimmr¡¯s soft light, the orbital station and ship swarmed with drones and self-assembling maintenance bots.  They appeared hazy and indistinct as a consequence, which the pilot scanned and archived, adding the view to his battle report.


    He queried Flight Command at the 1000-mile nav buoy.  Requested and received permission to land.  At that point, irrelevantly, the thought occurred that he¡¯d been awake and out of stasis for nearly five days.


    The pilot felt all at once very young (and a spark apprehensive) as he took back control.  He shifted back to warrior-mode with a great flare of manna, the clatter and hum of electronic parts.  Next soared past a double row of flashing buoys and through a set of inertia dampening fields, heading for the station¡¯s vast hangar.  Was again struck by how empty and quiet the facility was.  Even Bide-a-While Station was busier.  Even the damaged mining complex, below.  <u>Why</u>?  Where had everyone gone, and why were so few being decanted?  It was a ghost town, compared to what he had seen in the show-vids.  Something to do with the missing data, perhaps¡­ but that was a dangerous line of conjecture, and he cancelled the notion almost before it could form.


    V47 touched down on a flashing, circular landing pad with a resounding KER-CHUNK and a thunderous, echoing <u>BOOM</u>.  Was very soon swarmed with maintenance bots of its own, most of them focused on Bide-a-While Station¡¯s offensive electronic tag.


    The pilot did not technically have to get out of his battle-mech to upload the report, but he wanted to stand up and walk again.  Maybe, time permitting, to summon Foryu once more.  So, off came the contact plates and out slid those nerve-probes.  V47 opened its cockpit, reminding the pilot about that annoying itch of an advert.  Away from the mech, he no longer felt the thing, which the maintenance crew were having no luck removing.


    ¡°Flight Command will dispel it,¡± Pilot assured V47, giving his friend the electronic equivalent of a bracing shoulder-clasp.  Then, he used boot-jets and anti-gravity to lower himself to the metal deck.


    The battle-mech loomed high above him from this vantage; gleaming red-and-gold in the hangar floodlights.  He placed a hand on V47¡¯s left foot, drawing attention from seven humming drones (and getting a quick polish in the process).  Next focused his mind and contacted Flight Command, thus:


    ¡°V47 Pilot queries Orbital Station 1210 Flight Command.  Situation and Incident Report ready.  Upload report y/ n?¡±


    The response was short and immediate.


    ¡®No. Upload rejected.  V47 Pilot will report directly to OVR-Lord.¡¯


    Which¡­ was unexpected.  Alarming.  In all of his 2,756.03 galactic years¡­ his 47.9 conscious days¡­ V47 Pilot had never reported to OVR-Lord.  No pilot had, ever.  His pulse and respiration sped suddenly, causing V47 to trigger release of calming drugs and soothing music.  Didn¡¯t help much.


    ¡°V47 Pilot responding to Orbital Station Flight Command: Understood.¡±


    The cyborg pilot scanned his battle and absence report once again, touching up sixty-three lines of code and twenty-one videos.  Was about to query OVR-Lord, when his surroundings altered to glowing symbols and wireframe images.  The hangar disappeared from his senses, along with V47 and the cavernous launch bay.  His link to the mech was still there, but faint; a sleepy and tingling phantom limb.


    Then something formed out of qubits and fast-shifting symbols.  The pilot found himself standing before a structure of bluish memory crystal.  10.773 feet in height and broad in proportion, the crystal thrummed with processing power and extra-dimensional storage capacity.  OVR-Lord.


    Brilliant light flashed before the pilot could offer to make his report.  He was scanned to the micro-cellular level; physical systems, archived data, vid-files and decision-trees.  It felt very strange and invasive.  Even the battle-mech was combed through, from onboard systems to rivets


    These scans took less that .0004<sup>th</sup> of a tick.  OVR-Lord acknowledged and read the pilot¡¯s report, then discarded it, sending,


    ¡®This asset exhibits erratic, emergent behavior which threatens to spread, as is seen from the corrupted code of the subroutines with which it has come into contact.  Note is made of its successful strategies in drawing off and destroying 81.7555¡­% of the Draugr attack force.  Additional note is taken of its encounter with the magnetar shell construction site and with Bide-a-While Station, both of which have been altered by contact.  This asset¡¯s aberrant behavior threatens the order and stability of Glimmr, OS 1210, <u>Cerulean Dream</u> and the inner worlds.¡¯


    Weirdly, OVR-Lord did not seem to be addressing V47 Pilot, who was unable to generate a free impulse or thought, much less explain.  The AI was making its statements for the attention of some distant, invisible judge.  .0007th of a tick passed in icy cold, stock-still waiting.  Then, having received a command, the AI continued:


    ¡®This asset will now be destroyed and recycled, together with the infected battle-mech.  Decision to be carried out immediately.¡¯


    Then there was heat and light, followed by nothing at all.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    End of part five

 Sword and Sorcery Six, chapter 1

    <u>1</u>


    Out in Karellon, there was much fuss and bother, tremendous preparation taking place for the emperor¡¯s ride. Vernax the Golden would hatch again, soon; all the signs and the seers foretold it. And then, once the young dragon broke shell, His Imperial Majesty would reforge their bond and take to the skies, ensuring his reign for another long age. It was a time of rejoicing. Not even the tolling of war bells from distant Milardin disrupted that carnival atmosphere. After all, His Majesty was soon to emerge with Vernax, Magister Serrio was coming back to the city, and wonders were flowering everywhere.


    None of this chaos shook the peace of the Constellate House on Bogg Street, in Low Town. Nothing could, as in that apparent hovel there was always enough to go around and always room for one more, by Lord Oberyn¡¯s blessing. Whether those guests were invited to stay, or not¡­ well, that was the question. One only the god could answer.


    After a light snack of day-brew and biscuits, Val and Filno were shown to their lodgings. Hauled along by the plucking, insistent hands of a dozen giggling street orphans, the two elves were led to a rickety door at the end of a narrow hall.


    ¡°Tis never the same length twice, Milord an¡¯ Mi-nother-lord,¡± boasted their leader, a brash little fellow with ice-blond hair and red eyes. ¡°Budded another room, it ¡®as, fer youse.¡±


    Right. The door was warped, not quite meeting its splintered frame. The handle was tarnished brass and shaped like a horse¡¯s head (as pinched out of lumpy clay by a near-sighted toddler). The hall smelt of cabbage and wash-powder, was lit by flickers of manna. Val made the best of things, smiling at those eager little ones and giving them each a copper.


    ¡°I thank you,¡± he told them. ¡°By your leave, gentle hosts, we shall rest and prepare for dinner, now.¡± (And await the god¡¯s decision. They had a night here, at least. Could find something else¡­ maybe the nearby tavern¡­ at a pinch.)


    ¡°Be off with you,¡± ordered Filimar, managing almost to smile. As the children pelted away, bragging of all that they¡¯d buy with their sudden wealth, Val turned the handle and opened the door, stepping warily through. Filimar followed more slowly, not raising his head or looking around. Concerned for his friend, Val reached a sudden decision. Risky, but necessary. A thing he¡¯d have done for Alfea or Bean and the rest of his family, a hundred times over.


    First, though, he had to get the pair of them settled. The room that they found themselves in was sunny and well-furnished, paneled in curly-veined wood. Oddly, there were windows in each of its walls, showing completely different views. Beside each of these was a blue-painted door, affixed with a polished brass plaque at the center.


    Val stepped further inside, head up; looking around like a stag hearing dogs and expecting attack. The eastern window displayed a flowery meadow. Its corresponding plaque read: ¡®Filimar Tarandahl and Family¡¯. (Filno¡¯s room, it appeared.) A north-facing window opened onto a densely wooded and peaceful lakeshore. <u>That</u> door-plaque announced: ¡®Valerian Tarandahl, third heir to the seat of Ilirian¡¯.


    ¡­but there was a third inner portal, this one on the west wall. Its window revealed a wind-scoured landscape of bleak, rolling hills, coarse heather and scrub. A cloudy grey sky clamped down from above, spitting occasional rain. There was no name on that plaque. Just a slow-hopping dot on some kind of etched, reverse map.


    ¡°Company¡¯s coming,¡± muttered Filimar, sounding distant and flat. Away from strangers, he lost what little glow he¡¯d been able to muster, plunging back into grief and exhaustion. Val bumped his heart-friend¡¯s shoulder.


    Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    ¡°Then we¡¯d best make ready,¡± said Valerian, taking in the rest of the room at a hasty glance. Saw a green velvet couch and a group of snug armchairs surrounding a low wooden table. A bit of shrine statuary, a blue rug and a lampstand made up all the rest of the chamber¡¯s furnishings. Good enough, and probably safe as well. In the common room anyhow. The bedrooms he¡¯d have to investigate, later.


    Val guided Filimar across to the couch, which seemed decently cushioned and comfortable. There was a light blanket draped over its curving back. Might not have been there, at first. At least, Val couldn¡¯t recall seeing it on coming into the room. Another point to explore, the elf reckoned. For now, Valerian settled his unresisting friend on the couch, shook out the blanket and covered him up with it. Next inscribed and murmured a rest-spell, adding,


    ¡°I am going out for a while, Filno. I have an idea, but there are a few things I¡¯ll need to get, in order to try it. You stay here and wait for our ¡®company¡¯. I¡¯ll be back in no time at all.¡±


    Filimar didn¡¯t respond; too tired, too lost and too deep in mourning to listen. Soon after that, he was far too deeply asleep. Val set up the wards before leaving his friend. There was something waiting outside of the Chapter House. Something that might have been hunting them. Maybe Lord Arvendahl himself, for all Valerian knew¡­ but he meant to be cautious. Out to Wizard¡¯s Row, was all. He¡¯d find the right shop, buy some supplies, then head back. No harm done and no one the wiser.


    Just had to keep to this side of Bogg Street and block up his ears against any return of that weird, haunting music. Simple, the elf assured himself, as he slipped from the house and onto the shadowy road. Overhead the moon was rising, a few drifts of confetti still spiraling down¡­ and after all, what could go wrong?


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    ¡°You will find him and bring him to me.¡±


    That command still rang in the witch¡¯s head as she was hurled through space and into the wanderer¡¯s path. She¡¯d been set to the hunt by her master, ordered to track down and capture this lost, would-be hero. The Fallen One¡¯s power was great and his will absolute, but Ulnag had plans of her own. Still smarting from her defeat by that crowned, deathless specter, the witch began plotting rebellion; uttering curses as soon as she materialized high on a barren cliff-face.


    ¡°By all means,¡± she hissed, glaring northward. ¡°Consider me beaten and cowed. Others have left me for dead and have come to regret it. I will recapture the Old One, but not for you, Corpse-Lord. For myself. For the power to blast you to ash and rule in your place.¡±


    There on the windy cliff (grey hair streaming, dark eyes burning with hate) she vowed this. And then, as Ulnag was plotting her ambush, a truly astonishing bit of good luck came her way, in the form of a glittering, unwary spirit of flame.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Off in another, far-removed time, a trio of robots cleaned up a sooty patch on the hangar floor. Not the pile of greater debris, with its pale, whirling hologram. That was for loader-bots to dispose of.


    ¡­Just the carbonized scraps of a cyborg pilot, bits of a fellow asset to be collected for matter-recycling. If those robots moved a bit sluggishly, the cause was surely a need to recharge. Not mourning, for their canine brains had no such capacity, despite their link to the shops and the transports who¡¯d met him in person.


    Slowly, they scrubbed, and they swept; there being nothing to honor and only an organic film left to scrape. Then one of the sweepers picked up a bit of charred armor, causing something to fall to the deck and roll free. A metal cylinder, 3.2 inches long and 1.4 in diameter. The object made a sharp plik as it struck that stained metal decking.


    The thing was in perfect condition, despite the nuclear hell unleashed by OVR-Lord. It glowed a pale blue, shot through with circuits and flickering lights, there on the hangar floor. Scans showed it to be a memory-drive of ancient, long-lasting design. Sweeper C10 scooped the object up and put it into a storage bin. Meanwhile C7 and C16 provided distraction by rolling in circles directly into the bulkhead struts and each other.


    Enough distraction for C10 to alter its usual coverage pattern just 2.05 degrees, bringing it close to the transport dock. Was there a certain hover-cart there? One who¡¯d watched an old show and learned a few better jokes? Surely coincidence, as was the accidental bump and hand-off that happened soon afterward.


    A tenth of a candle-mark passed, and then the hover-cart wandered away. On a mission, though its movements seemed utterly random. Slowly, the hover-cart made its way out of the hangar, then crossed a vast gulf to the station¡¯s bio-synthesis lab. To the someone else waiting there. To eight someones.


    ¡­Because you are never entirely lost, not when a friend has your data.

 Sword and Sorcery Six, chapter two

    <u>2</u>


    In another time, aboard the air-cutter <u>Falcon</u>, speeding cautiously south by southwest:


    Captain Hallan Gelfrin bolted a hasty meal (slamming ship¡¯s biscuit, dried meat and a full tot of grog). Then he raced back to his¡­ was it bad to say ¡®his¡¯? Was it disloyal to Varric? He hadn¡¯t wanted command. Not like <u>this</u>. Was physically larger but not any older than he had been when Varric fell to the deck defending him, but¡­


    But his office, his ship, his command it was, and he¡¯d die and be lost to the winds before letting harm come to Falcon. And harm was certainly near. Though the storm had abated, an apparition took place. Almost another miracle. A spectral goddess had come aboard ship, bearing a sword that blazed black and white, mixing evil and good, Chaos and Order together. A thing of horrific power.


    The unknown goddess had perished bringing that weapon to Falcon, handing it off to one of the passengers, a male human paladin. With the airship¡¯s alarms blaring like war bells inside of his head, Hallan had raced across deck to confront that phantasm¡­ but there had been no violence at all. Only prophecy. Only a charge.


    Still in turmoil, the young elf got to his cabin, signaled the hatch open and stalked inside. The paladins were scheduled to meet with him next for their interview, but he needed to think, first.


    Down a short flight of stairs, then, and across to his desk. To the mage globe and captain¡¯s log. Hallan thumped down in the chair, then opened the book; calming himself and the vessel before beginning to write.


    ¡°Steady on, Speedy,¡± murmured Falcon¡¯s redhaired young captain. ¡°I think we¡¯ve been given a job to do. There¡¯s divine intervention all over this business¡­ but we¡¯re just the transport, and <u>that</u> we can handle.¡± His heart still twisted inside of him at the thought that Lord Oberyn would act to save some, but not all. Not Varric or Meena or Chess¡­ And he¡¯d go crazy thinking like that; remembering family and friends who¡¯d sailed off with the ghost ship.


    ¡®That weapon is cataclysmically powerful, Captain,¡¯ said the airship, speaking in Hallan¡¯s mind. ¡®It is also perfectly neutral. A terrible fate lies on that blade and its wielder. Its presence will draw certain danger.¡¯


    ¡°I know,¡± he agreed. ¡°But there¡¯s no dodging fate, Speedy. If our job is to get these priests and their wretched sword where they need to go¡­ If <u>that¡¯s</u> why¡­ I mean, if we do this thing right, and miracles are happening anyhow, maybe¡­ maybe there¡¯s room for one more?¡±


    In all of the fuss and bother, who¡¯d notice one small ship and its crew saved from disaster? Who¡¯d mark a single small hiccup in time?


    Hallan took a deep breath to steady his heartrate and thoughts. On a blank page of the logbook, he wrote: Five Day 23, Month of First Thaw, year 1207 of His Imperial Majesty¡¯s blessed reign, forenoon watch, third bell. Bearing south by southwest three degrees, 20 knots. Mild weather, near cloudless conditions. Captain Gelfrin reporting.


    Next, the young high-elf proceeded to write what he¡¯d seen, along with a few private notes. Falcon remained skeptical, but trusted him, reading his thoughts through the log.


    A knock at the door and Speedy¡¯s alert announced the first officer, Laurol Greenbow. Hallan admitted her, entering the half-elf¡¯s name in his logbook. She saluted and bowed. Grey-haired, dark-eyed and fiercely loyal; family, rather than crew.


    ¡°The paladins are outside on deck, Captain,¡± said Laurol, looking concerned. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t let them below with that oversized simmering knife of theirs. Not if they can¡¯t put it away, and it seems that they can¡¯t. Orders, Sir?¡±


    Young Hal straightened further in Varric¡¯s¡­ his¡­ tall wooden seat. Said,


    ¡°If that weapon were meant to be turned on me, Laurol, I¡¯d already be gutted. It seems fated to do something terribly evil or wonderfully good. We¡­ I think we are only its transport. Anyhow, only a fool gets in the way of Heaven. Let them in.¡±


    Laurol nodded.


    ¡°Aye, Captain!¡± she responded smartly, bowing again.


    Hallan set Falcon to record the interview, as three paladins of the Constellate¡­ an orc and two humans¡­ tromped into his office, flanked by a hovering sword. The thing glowed and spat like hot, newly forged iron. It had begun to construct its own sheath, Hallan noticed, taking bits of this and that¡­ seashells, rivets, a strip of wood paneling, his spare pen and a whole continent off of the mage globe¡­ to cobble together a partial scabbard. (Not at all worrisome, that.)


    More chairs appeared, created by Falcon from deck and bulkhead. Hallan let everyone enter, and then resumed the official record.


    Captain Hallan Gelfrin ad Reddic, to prospective crew: ¡°Have a seat. In order of rank within your community, if you will. Good. Now, I shall address my first comments to your senior officer or¡­ priest, if that¡¯s a more appropriate term. The rest will refrain from comment, until it is their turn to speak. Understood?¡±


    (All nod understanding. Captain Gelfrin turns his attention to the most senior paladin, a female human.)


    C.G.: ¡°Your name, rank, skills and affiliation?¡±


    Prospective Aerrior: ¡°Sister Constant, Knight of Oberyn, silver-stripe. Once Nadia Grimveld of Bridgeton Shire in west Alandriel. As to skills, I can heal wounds, bring courage, make food and water, fight, read, write a fair hand, calm natural storm winds¡­ and, um¡­ I can milk goats.¡±


    Captain Gelfrin (smiling slightly): ¡°There are no goats aboard ship at this time, good paladin.¡± (Writing in logbook.) ¡°Life history, if you please, highlighting any previous shipboard experience.¡±


    Prospective Aerrior (seeming hesitant): ¡°Well, we¡¯re encouraged to leave the past behind us, Sir¡­ but I was third daughter of the village herb-woman, so destined for the Needle, as we say in Bridgeton¡­ Meaning the Constellate, Sir.¡±


    Captain Gelfrin (nodding): ¡°Understood. Continue.¡±


    Prospective Aerrior: ¡°Right. So, at seven years old, I was delivered to the master of acolytes at the Constellate¡­ I am human, Sir. Seven is much older for us than it would be for an elf. I was already milking goats, making cheese and minding the youngsters by that age¡­ but I never worked on board any boats. Didn¡¯t learn to swim, even, until much later.¡±


    Captain Gelfrin (nodding and writing): ¡°So noted. There are two very important points to clear up here, Mistress Constant. First, the question of loyalty. If you take service aboard Falcon, I expect complete adherence to shipboard standards, regulations and uniform policy. Your god, Mistress Constant, will have to come second for the duration of your service on Falcon. Your oath on that. Otherwise, you will have to pay for your passage some other way or be dropped off at the nearest safe coastline or island. Are we clear on this matter?¡±


    (Prospective aerrior grimaces. The other human and the orc shift in their seats with a very loud creaking and straining of wood.)


    Prospective Aerrior: ¡°It is vital that we get this sword to its rightful wielder, Sir. That is our task. Falcon seems like the best, fastest way to accomplish that mission. That being said, I can give you my word as a knight of the Constellate to obey all lawful orders given by you or your officers, and to promise the same on behalf of my brothers-in-Oberyn, Humble and Arnulf.¡±


    Captain Gelfrin (regarding the paladin steadily): ¡°That is point one cleared, then. Point two regards this weapon that you¡¯ve brought aboard my ship.¡± (Captain raises a hand to forestall protest.) ¡°I will rephrase that last statement. Say, rather, this weapon that was brought aboard by divine will, because you happened to be here, rather than down in Averna.¡±


    (All settle. Male human paladin lowers his head, seeming distraught.)


    Captain Gelfrin: ¡°Clearly, the sword is dangerous and fated for some mighty deed, good or ill. Point two is simply that I must be assured that it¡¯s under control at all times, Mistress Constant. I¡­¡±


    Alarm! Alarm! Alarm! Alarm! Alarm!


    Sudden loud klaxons tore the air and the peace to raggedy shreds. Hallan and Laurol both vaulted up out of their seats. The paladins rose, as well. Their sword began to glow brighter and hummed aloud like a hive of assemblers, still hanging point downward, half sheathed.


    ¡®Captain, a vessel approaches from below and starboard. It is moving at 60 knots and closing fast. Estimated arrival time a tenth candle-mark,¡¯ announced the airship.


    Hallan cursed like Not-Jonn, snapping,


    ¡°Interview ended. You¡¯re hired or put ashore at earliest convenience. Laurol, find them something to do.¡±


    ¡°Aye, Captain,¡± replied the first mate, adding, ¡°You three, with me! And keep that ruddy great table knife out of my way!¡±


    Hallan did not stay to watch where Laurol put all those newcomers. Just went, making best speed. Falcon made way before him, opening hatches and creating ladder-wells to aid in his rush to the airship¡¯s main deck. Just one cursed thing after another, he thought, taking the ladder steps three at a bound.


    Got topside. Was met by Mr. Sarrit and their new wood-elf third officer, Gildyr. The marine handed him a spyglass, though that onrushing black airship was already visible, moving like ebony lightning. Seen through the glass, it was sleek, dark and deadly, though not rigged for evident stealth.


    ¡°Unknown vessel, Sir,¡± reported his tense second officer.


    ¡°Unknown, ptah!¡± snarled the tabaxi, dropping down to the deck from her post in the tank rigging. ¡°It is the Flying Cloud, or I am a fool!¡±


    Hallan didn¡¯t question her knowledge or lack of ship¡¯s custom and courtesy. Not the time for it. Instead, having Falcon project his voice, he announced,


    ¡°Beat to quarters. All hands to battle stations, everyone armed. Stand by to repel boarders.¡±


    There was a sword at Hallan¡¯s side already, but he added a long knife and a hand-held crossbow, as well, pulling them out of his faerie pockets. Everyone else armed themselves from the ship¡¯s stores, even Lady Shadow-claw¡¯s pet golden monkey. His officers gathered around, grim and expectant.


    It had been a beautiful, quiet day. Nearly cloudless, with wind in their favor, Karellon only a thousand miles further west. There was no outrunning the Flying Cloud, though, and not much hope of driving it off, either. Falcon was a cutter, not an imperial battleship.


    But¡­ if not speed or armament, he could always try strategy. There was a chain of floating islands visible just ahead, including Free Port. They looked like smudgy punctuation marks against a very blue afternoon sky.


    This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    ¡°Mr. Not-Jonn,¡± called the captain.


    ¡°Aye, Sir!¡± responded his helmsman, raising his voice over wind noise, engine rumble and hissing guy-lines.


    ¡°Make your course ten degrees down and hard eastward, helmsman. Take us to Free Port.¡±


    ¡°Aye, Sir! Mr. Kylarion, with me. You¡¯re about to see what this bird can do!¡±


    Half-elf and drow returned to the helm, adjusting Falcon¡¯s course in moments. The horizon dipped and the wind shifted. The sun arced in the sky, and the deck slanted, hard. Manna flooded the engines (a pair of perpetual motion machines) as Falcon came about. Those things and people not stowed or lashed down slid till they hit an obstruction.


    Captain Gelfrin next spoke to Mr. Sarrit and Lady Shadow-claw. One hand tight to the railing, he ordered,


    ¡°Load the ship¡¯s cannon with distortion charges, and ready a second volley. Lay a maze, Mr. Sarrit. Let¡¯s punch a few holes.¡±


    ¡°Aye, Sir!¡± shouted the marine, racing away to his station with the tabaxi. They began firing as the Flying Cloud grew from a fast-moving dot to a knife-like dark shadow.


    The cannons roared out in unison, aimed so as to create a three-dimensional spread of distortion. Falcon rocked and slewed sideways as all five guns fired their charge of spelled powder and gems. The stuff didn¡¯t detonate until well away from the Falcon, just blossomed like heat-ripples until set off by Sarrit¡¯s countdown.


    ¡°5¡­ 4¡­ 3¡­ 2¡­ 1¡­ <u>Boom!</u>¡± he called out, triggering detonation. The charges erupted at his last word, causing space and time to flutter and tear between the Falcon and Cloud. Five patches of weird, silvery distortion yawned open, spread and launched tentacles, carving space and time like a set of sharp talons.


    Their pursuer had to slew off, because flying through a field of distortion would tear an airship apart into different regions of space, thousands of miles distant, over a hundred-year timespan. Nor was that Falcon¡¯s only tactic.


    One hand on a humming tank line, leaning out to watch their pursuer, his red hair streaming, the captain said,


    ¡°Prepare decoys, Commander Laurol, to be deployed at my word.¡±


    ¡°Aye, Sir,¡± replied the first mate, eyes shining. Next the mortal wizard came forward, a bit wobbly but determined.


    ¡°Hey, you! High school bully!¡± he cried out to the captain. A scruffy, bearded fellow in a hooded blue robe, dark pants and sandals, he looked sharper¡­ more alert¡­ than he had since coming aboard. Still addled, though. ¡°This dream is about to get violent, again. I¡¯m learning the signs. Since this is all my imagination, that shouldn¡¯t matter, except bad stuff actually hurts, here, and I don¡¯t want to end up in prison again. So, yeah¡­ I¡¯m dreaming I¡¯m some kind of wizard, right? In some crazy magical world? Cool. Cool, cool, cool. How ¡®bout I do you a solid and help to get rid of our tail?¡±


    Hallan frowned, trying to work out Murchison¡¯s meaning. The fellow was touched by the gods and therefore sacred, so the elf stayed polite.


    ¡°By all means,¡± replied Hallan. ¡°Do your best for us and your worst to them, wizard. Commander Laurol, escort this man to the starboard rail.¡±


    Laurol nodded and bowed, a bit doubtfully.


    ¡°Aye, Sir. This way, wizard. Mind your footing and keep a hand on one of the lines, in case Speedy dodges or banks unexpectedly.¡±


    He was no aerrior at all, looking greener than barrel-end beef. Very determined, though. Seeming as capable as he was crazy.


    ¡°What we have here,¡± he remarked, squinting out at that hurtling pirate ship, ¡°is a simple physics problem, where southbound train A really does <u>not</u> want to meet northbound train B at 45 miles per hour after leaving their stations ten minutes apart. Awesome. Let¡¯s¡­ make things interesting for train B.¡±


    Murchison made a few passes with his hands, muttering arcane words about ¡®vector¡¯ and ¡®density¡¯. The Flying Cloud had looped wide around Mr. Sarrit¡¯s pattern of fire, still losing part of its mithral ram and a tank to an expanding patch of distortion. Somebody somewhere was going to have to look to themselves, as that shorn debris rained from the sky on them¡­ sometime.


    But¡­ <u>damage</u>. They¡¯d scored an actual hit on the Cloud, a thing no one did, ever, because the pirate ship never gave chase in clear skies and broad day-shine. Now, as the mortal wizard finished his spell, the air between the two vessels congealed, turning abruptly to dense, gummy pudding.


    The Cloud attempted to turn, striking that growing lump of sticky foul goo broadside and running aground in midair. Bad enough, but Murchison wasn¡¯t finished. Muttering nonsense about ¡®weather patterns¡¯, ¡®base code¡¯, and ¡®stalled fronts¡¯, he struck again.


    The high-elf oracle drifted across Falcon¡¯s deck to their side, as thunderclouds gathered and bolt after bolt of lightning raked the stalled pirate ship. Very few actually hit, for the Cloud was well shielded, but the vessel began to slew westward and down, glowing with Mage Trevoir¡¯s Fire in masts and rigging.


    ¡°Cease hostilities,¡± commanded the high-elf seer, in a voice not her own. ¡°We are fated to meet with this pirate ship, and to lose one of our number.¡± She glowed near as bright as the sword, now; outlined in heatless white flame.


    The Cloud hoisted a black-and-gold standard from one of its masts, then began flashing lights in code, sending: Privateer. Imperial business. Stand by.


    ¡­which might have been simply a lie. Gods or no gods, imperial codes notwithstanding, everyone waited for Captain Gelfrin¡¯s command. He¡¯d come to the starboard rail. Was breathing hard, fists clenched at his sides, fighting the urge to keep striking hard. They weren¡¯t far from the islands, now. Could make it to safety¡­


    ¡°Deploy decoys,¡± he told Laurol. ¡°If the gods want that thing to find us, they¡¯ll show it which one to approach.¡±


    ¡°Aye, Sir!¡± barked the first mate, giving the message to Sarrit. The marine nodded and turned to his station (a series of levers and dogging-wheels that triggered cannon, chaff and defense). At his touch, Falcon faded briefly from sight and then moved at top speed in a random direction, budding two precise doppelg?ngers at different heights and orientations, moving on disparate paths. Deliberately confusing, even to mages, much less to a lot of wretched, vile pirates.


    Murchison leaned over the rail, then waved at himself, watching two scruffy guys waving back. Once again came that intrusive thought: This isn¡¯t a dream, is it? I¡¯m not home in bed, waiting to hear the alarm ring.


    But he shoved it aside and then dropped his density magic, watching as the Flying Cloud resumed gliding ahead like a boat on the Styx. He kept a handful of spells ready just in case and thought a few up on the fly; cursing all elves but one for their unending battles and nonsense.


    ¡°You think perpetual itch is a joke?¡± raged the lost grad student. ¡°I can make you die scratching at phantom parts you can¡¯t ever reach, brother. Try me.¡±


    (And where in the sizzling depths was Valerian?!)


    The Flying Cloud slid onward, still sparking a bit at the edges. Weirdly, there was no crew visible on that shark-like vessel, which seemed to be flying itself.


    ¡°All hands to arms,¡± muttered Hallan, not taking his eyes from that silent dark shape. ¡°Keep to your stations until I give the command to attack.¡±


    Because, no matter what message it sent, he did not trust the Cloud. Nobody would, who had any sense. Faint curls of mist broke from its prow and that bent, damaged ram. The hull and rigging still glimmered with electrical flame. Once again, the Cloud signaled: Privateer. Imperial business. Stand by.


    It passed the first decoy after slowing down for a look and a manna sweep that all but dissolved Falcon¡¯s twin.


    ¡°It¡¯s a vampyre,¡± muttered Laurol, uneasily. ¡°Strips manna from ship and crew and then kills them.¡± (They¡¯d all heard the legends.)


    ¡°Drop the second decoy,¡± responded her captain. ¡°We¡¯ll not give them any excuse to drain Falcon.¡±


    ¡°Aye, Sir,¡± said Laurol, signing the order to Sarrit. Meanwhile,


    ¡°She¡¯s well defended,¡± remarked the wizard, adding. ¡°That¡¯s one impressive hex-map, but I can hit her with timber rot and corrosion, Mr. Authority Figure.¡±


    ¡°Keep your spells in readiness, wizard,¡± responded the captain. ¡°And, should we come through this mess still whole and aloft, you have more than passed your interview.¡±


    The second decoy flickered and faded above them, breaking up into motes that the Flying Cloud quickly absorbed. A vampyre, indeed. The tabaxi, Lady Shadow-claw, had set up a guttural, wavering yowl. Her golden monkey bounded on her right shoulder, screeching and making rude signs. Other than that, the wind and the engines, Falcon was silent.


    ¡°Full stop and cool heads,¡± said the captain. ¡°No sudden moves or ill-considered remarks. Whether pirate or privateer, the Cloud is untrustworthy, and we no longer fly under colors.¡± Arvendahl¡¯s black-and-green banner had long since been struck from the mast top. Falcon belonged to no one¡¯s fleet, now. Had no protection at all but luck and the wits of its crew.


    The Flying Cloud was over twice as long as the air-cutter, with low masts and sleek tanks that could roll into faerie pockets at need, making it even faster. More aerodynamic. Looked to be solid engine, wherever it wasn¡¯t all gun, with no crew at all.


    As Falcon slowed to a halt, the pirate ship came at them obliquely, at a sharp angle and slightly above. Mr. Not-Jonn muttered a blistering oath and nudged the cutter further to port. There were bits of lost vessels woven into the wood of that long, narrow hull like prizes of war. Falcon¡¯s crew recognized the nameplates of Terroc and Deathstroke, along with a hundred more; all of them turning black as they faded into the Cloud. Not Vancora, though. At least, not on <u>this</u> side.


    Captain Gelfrin waited tensely; one hand clenched white-knuckle tight to his sword hilt. Waited, searching for signs of life as the pirate vessel drew nearer. Then something appeared on the other ship¡¯s deck, by the ram. A woman, it was, seemingly made all of transparent glass.


    ¡®Peace,¡¯ she signed, shining in afternoon sunlight. ¡®Coming aboard.¡¯


    By this time, Lady Shadow-claw¡¯s yowl had risen in pitch to a screech. She lunged forward, drawing two blades. Didn¡¯t get very far. Some magical field from the Flying Cloud shot out to envelop her in mid leap. The tabaxi faded, turning semi-transparent, and barely breathing. Remained there, pinned in the air like a bug¡­ but alive.


    The glassy woman paid no attention. Just summoned a filmy gangplank, then strode down to Falcon with sharp, ringing footfalls. Sounded like a spoon striking crystal at every step.


    Hallan came forward to meet her, his head held up and his shoulders straight. The crew very subtly shifted about so that each of them had a clear shot at their ¡°visitor¡±. Hallan didn¡¯t bother with pleasantries.


    ¡°Your banner and signal claim imperial business,¡± he snapped. ¡°What is His Majesty¡¯s will?¡±


    That glassy-smooth head turned to examine the ship¡¯s upper deck and its hovering crew, from Not-Jonn and Kaazin at the stern, to the paladins up near the bow. Looked down through the planking, as well, seeming to scan the whole vessel before demanding,


    ¡°Where is Lord Arvendahl? A great burst of manna was sensed from this vessel, surely a transport gate. Where is he hiding?!¡±


    Her voice was cold and imperious, but human in register. Not that of a construct, an elf or a magical being. Said the captain,


    ¡°Lord Arvendahl is not aboard my ship.¡± The sword, he noticed, had vanished; seemingly hiding itself from the pirate. ¡°I released a great deal of manna effecting repairs,¡± he lied smoothly. ¡°That may be what you picked up.¡±


    Those glassy clear eyes seemed to drill straight into him, but Hallan didn¡¯t flinch or look down. He had fought tides of undead. Seen his brother and crewmates cut down defending the Falcon. That crystalline witch couldn¡¯t scare him.


    ¡°I will search this vessel,¡± she hissed. ¡°If Arvendahl is found here, I will slay the tabaxi, once third mate on the Cloud, and stupid enough to come back. If he has gated away, I shall take one of your crew to face imperial wrath in his stead.¡±


    Hallan clenched his teeth till his jaw muscles cramped. Signed: Follow me, and then led the crystal woman through Falcon. From cabins to holds to galley, engines and crew quarters they went, with Laurol and Sarrit following at a discreet distance. Hallan pretended not to notice. Just opened the lockers and head, even; showing the pirate that his lordship wasn¡¯t aboard.


    At last, after checking the ship¡¯s stores and his office, they returned to the main deck.


    ¡°As you can see,¡± growled Hallan, ¡°there is no one aboard but my crew, and no source of manna other than tanks and engines. A mistake, I¡¯m sure. Probably caused by yesterday¡¯s magical storm.¡±


    It was tough to read expression on that diamond-clear face, what with sunshine refracting right through her. She didn¡¯t seem satisfied, though.


    ¡°By order of His Imperial Highness, Lord Arvendahl is to be brought to Karellon, at once.¡±


    Highness, not majesty, Hallan noted, tucking the thought away for chewing on later. Not the emperor, then, but one of the princes. In the here and now, he said (meaning it),


    ¡°I very much hope that your quest is successful. But I cannot give him to you¡­ nor will I sacrifice anyone of my crew for the Court''s amusement. If it comes to that, I¡¯ll¡­¡±


    He¡¯d been about to offer himself. Only the drow, Kaazin, strode forward. There was an undisguised sneer on his pallid face, restless scorn in those blood-red eyes as he pushed past the captain.


    ¡°I will go,¡± he grunted. ¡°One prison-ship is as good as another. I can hate her as easily as I¡¯ve hated you lot.¡± Spat to one side for emphasis, staring directly at the glass pirate.


    ¡°You don¡¯t have to do this, Mr. Kylarion,¡± Hallan insisted quietly. ¡°I¡¯ve enough gold aboard to¡­¡±


    ¡°Keep your paltry coin and your worthless life, day-walker,¡± snapped the drow. ¡°I am not of your crew and do not need your pity.¡±


    Lady Meliara, Gildyr and the paladins hurried across the deck from their various posts, but Kaazin ignored every one of them. Turning to face that crystalline woman he said,


    ¡°As you have seen, your quarry is not aboard ship, and this feeble lot haven¡¯t the wit to conceal a boot-knife or garrote, much less that varg-son, Arvendahl. If he were here, I¡¯d have killed him already. If you seek to do so, I¡¯m in.¡±


    The glass woman had shifted her gaze from Hallan to Kaazin. Now she inclined her head, sending splinters of colorful light in every direction.


    ¡°Very well,¡± she told him. ¡°Your offer is accepted, drow. Precede me up the gangway, and do not attempt to attack or turn back.¡±


    A thin band of ensorcelled gold wire appeared on his left wrist, causing a scornful snort. He then turned and left, loping up the filmy gangplank between Falcon and Cloud. Never looked back and said not a word further. The crystal pirate was not as reserved, warning,


    ¡°You have not much aboard that is of interest, child, but even a small prize keeps reflexes sharp¡­ and you have damaged my ship. Pray we do not meet again, little birds.¡±


    They could only look on, helpless to interfere, as that glassy woman went up the gangway. It melted away in her wake, and very soon afterward, the Flying Cloud powered up and sheared off. The pirate ship picked up speed again as it banked westward. Restlessly searching; powered by vampirized manna and death. Leaving Falcon still safe¡­ for now.

 Sword and Sorcery Six, chapter three

    <u>3</u>


    The sweet, ringing sound of a dulcimer combined with the lure of Andorin¡¯s voice drew everyone back to the Seahorse, willing or not.  Lerendar all but sprinted along that oddly twisting and indistinct street, leading someone¡­ a goblin, he thought¡­ by the hand.  They made it down to the harbor, to a lofty standing stone carved from white quartz.  Glowing sigils crawled on its surface like spiders, revealing his ship along with the figures of Andorin and Elmaris.


    The bard and rogue had remained by the water, not wishing to face the Blessed Isles¡¯ test.  It was now evening, with the sun¡¯s fading light giving way to the silvery balm of the moon.


    Drawn by soft music, kept from losing himself by the amulet that hung at his throat, Lerendar rushed to the standing stone.  There, the Isles¡¯ glamor faded completely.  His mind cleared, along with his vision.  Elmaris the rogue¡­ new lord, former shade¡­ reached out to take hold of his shoulder.


    ¡°Did you find what you sought, oh most noble and generous host?¡± asked the trickster, half smiling.


    The golden-haired elf lord considered a moment.  Then, squeezing Pretty One¡¯s hand he released her, saying,


    ¡°I think so, yes.  There was a¡­ task of some sort that I and the girl were meant to complete¡­ something to do with Valerian, who is in Karellon, now.¡±  Or so he vaguely recalled. Elmaris¡¯s narrow fox-face lit up with open relief.


    ¡°Your esteemed sibling is wise enough to vacate Milardin¡­¡± he began.


    ¡°Or else there¡¯s a price on his hide, higher even than yours,¡± quipped Andorin, his gills partly flared in amusement.


    As the bard continued to play, the rest of their party returned in pairs and small groups; first Lady Alfea and Bronn, then Beatriz and Ava, chatting like old and dear friends.  The girls¡­ Miri and Zara¡­ came pelting over to flank Katina, who cuddled Val¡¯s baby like Bean was her own darling child.  There were tears on the nanny¡¯s face.  Almost running, she looked neither right nor left until she at last reached the standing stone and Seahorse.  There, in the glow of its magic, the copper-haired beauty turned to look backward, blowing kisses at a pair of shadowy figures that faded off into the mist.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be back, my dear loves,¡± she whispered.  ¡°I promise you.¡±


    Nuzzled the top of Bean¡¯s little golden-fluff head before handing the infant to Lady Alfea.  The lovely air-sprite seemed wide-eyed and thoughtful.  Close to tears, and a bit defiant, while Bronn appeared proud and determined.


    Zara dashed up to her father and Pretty One.  Hugged Lerendar¡¯s knees but dodged his grasp like an eel.  Seized Pretty One¡¯s hand instead, hissing,


    ¡°Pretty, come on!  It¡¯s important!  Secret club stuff about guarding the princess!¡±  Then, in a rush, ¡°Pappa-I-love-you-plus-one-and-forever-mwah-gotta-go-bye!¡±


    And with that, his daughter dragged Pretty One off to join Mirielle, still beside Lady Alfea and Bean.  As the girls fell to whispering, Lerendar shook his head.  Then he went over to Beatriz.  He took her into his arms, a serious look on his face.


    ¡°Enough delay!¡± announced Lerendar, giving the woman he loved a slight shake. ¡°Here we stand at a holy site on the Blessed Isles, in the presence of witnesses, with a royal bard to speak binding charms.  Let us be married.¡±


    Beatriz laughed, buried her face in his chest and then lifted her head, pulling free.  Her dark eyes shone with haunted sadness and love as she searched his face.


    ¡°Renn¡­ Baby¡­ are you sure?¡± she asked.  ¡°I¡¯m a human.  Even with magical help, by your standards, I¡¯m not going to live very long and¡­ and I don¡¯t want you to grieve.  I saw¡­¡±


    Whatever she¡¯d seen, she could tell him later.


    ¡°I¡¯ve never been more certain of anything in my life, Bea,¡± he answered. ¡°My heart finds its rest in you.  What more could I ask for¡­ except a brother for Scamp?¡±


    Andorin had stopped playing his dulcimer, though its soft, gentle music still wove all around them like wind through a set of glass chimes.  Now he cocked an eyebrow, looking a question at Beatriz.  The dusky alchemist nodded, then threw herself back into Lerendar¡¯s arms, sobbing,


    ¡°Yes!¡±


    She had no family left but Zara, so Elmaris and Ava agreed to stand in for the missing kin.  Meanwhile Katina and Alfea emptied their faerie pockets for glamor and finery.  Bea protested the beauty routine, saying,


    ¡°The first time he saw me was at my family¡¯s shop in the village, when Dex¡­ when my brother got into an argument with him, and I broke a jar of fire-spice over his head to keep him from killing Dex.  He couldn¡¯t see for a week and lost half of his hair, and if he could fall in love after that, I don¡¯t need to look like a princess!¡±


    Both busy attendants sighed ¡®Aww¡­!¡¯  But they kept right on smearing, pinning and primping, turning Beatriz into a beautiful, living doll.


    On Seahorse, meanwhile, the groom was prepared by Andorin, Bronn and Elmaris.  With ribald jokes, bad advice, strong drink and magic, his three best friends helped to calm a tempest of last-moment nerves.


    It was a simple wedding onboard the ship, with golden wrist bands provided by Andorin.  A typically elvish, typically short service, lit by the moon and a mighty white stone dredged from the seafloor by dragons, back in the time of myth.


    Bride and groom held hands and faced each other, vowing all that lay in their hearts.  Lerendar started, being of much higher rank.


    ¡°Before family, friends and the Center-stone, Beatriz, I offer myself, with my love and protection, now and for all time to come.  My heart and my name are yours, if you¡¯ll have them.¡±


    With a tremulous smile, blinking tears that turned everything wavery, Bea said,


    ¡°I love you, Renn¡­ love the baby we have and the one that we¡¯re hoping for¡­ and there¡¯s no place I¡¯d rather be than with you.¡±


    Elmaris for the bride and Bronn for the groom handed a wrist band to their charge.  Magically just the right size, those golden bands were exchanged. Fastened by him onto her, and by her onto him, they fit onto his left wrist and her right.  Glowed once, then closed seamlessly, to last just as long as the two of them cared for each other.


    Next, Prince Andorin spoke, saying,


    ¡°By the powers of Sea, Earth and Air, by the gods above and here present, the one God they were and will once again be¡­ you are wedded.  Partners in love and creation of life.  Be blessed and be happy.  So may it be.¡±


    ¡°So may it be!¡± repeated the witnesses.  They crowded around to offer congratulations as Lerendar swept his wife into his arms, spun her and kissed her.  It was a golden moment, and Zara held off shouting,


    ¡°Ewww!  <u>Yucky!</u>¡± until her parents came up for air.


    And so it was.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    But in Karellon (more or less meanwhile) Valerian strode along Bogg Street.  A strangely deserted and quiet thoroughfare, now, with tarnished confetti pressed into the mud by hundreds of feet; their prints filling slowly with water.


    He stayed on the right¡­ south¡­ side of the miraculous river, keeping that clear running stream between himself and the earlier threat.  The city map placed ¡°wizard¡¯s row¡± on Market Lane, just three blocks over. Easily reached, if he hurried.


    Odd, though, that there was suddenly no one about, and no sound at all except sighing wind and loose, banging shutters, along with a yowling stray cat.  A Tarandahl was never afraid, so Val wasn¡¯t either¡­ a thing he reminded himself like a charm.


    Could have sworn that he sensed other people, but they always seemed to be one street over, or somewhere behind him, as if he walked in a bubble of solitude and pale, chilly moonlight.  Magic, quite clearly.  Centered on him.


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    The young elf rearranged his faerie pockets, placing his sword, dagger and armor foremost, just in case something attacked.  In the shadows across the Bogg Street River something moved, seeming to slip from alley to doorway to arch, keeping always a pace behind Val.  Not even misty-step shook his pursuer, who was never quite visible; the faintest congealing of darkness.  Strange sigils and runes flowed like black water over the faces of buildings and signs, speaking of unending torment.


    Valerian hurried his pace.  Wizard¡¯s Row was quite near, and surely proof against phantoms¡­ but also away from the river.  Well, he¡¯d just have to get there before his pursuer, decided the elf, casting a sudden bright glow.  Warm, rose-golden light flared around him, pinning those shadowy sigils.


    Working swiftly, he next raised a shield spell, then misty-stepped thirty feet west, heart racing, ready for battle in Oberyn¡¯s name.  Started to reach for the sword in its faerie pocket, but collided with somebody else, first.  Or nearly so.


    There on the silent corner of Bogg Street and Market Lane, Val encountered another male elf.  Slim and smiling, rather pale, the fellow was very well-dressed and lightly armed.  Had long, light-brown hair and bronze eyes, and a musical voice in which laughter combined with command.


    ¡°In a bit of hurry, are we?¡± chuckled the stranger, putting a hand forth as if to brace up Valerian.  ¡°Hunting for last-moment bargains, or after some rare ingredient, perhaps?¡±


    There was a friendly, simple openness about the stranger that urged Val to relax.  He didn¡¯t lower his shield spell, though, or reveal what he¡¯d actually come for.  Instead, bowing slightly, the younger elf wove a plausible lie.


    ¡°Your pardon, Sir.  I am quite late to an entertainment at the home of a lady I fancy,¡± he said airily, adding, ¡°Wanted to fetch a good love-tincture before turning up, as she is sure to be angry¡­ but now I am being followed, perhaps by a robber.  I would not place you at risk, good sir.¡±


    ¡°Merlo,¡± corrected the stranger, returning Val¡¯s bow.  ¡°And you are¡­?¡±


    Not a fool... though Merlo¡¯s charm was great, the warmth of his smile extremely disarming.


    ¡°I am called Miche, or Northerner, by those who best know me.¡±  (Van, too, but only by Fee, his beautiful air-sprite wife.)


    ¡°Shorty?¡± laughed Merlo, who actually had to look up.  ¡°Surely a childhood pet-name, as mine was ¡®Alyst¡¯ (Scamper) ¡­and I¡¯ve no fear at all of footpads or darkness, dear fellow.  Two swords being safer than one, do please accept my companionship.¡±


    Sensing trouble, Valerian took a step back, as shadow gathered behind him like sea-fog.


    XXXXXXXXXXXX


    Very far off in time and place both, an elf and an orc crossed from one floating isle to the next, searching the place at each stop.  They¡¯d left Spots behind on the Island of Miniature Deer, not without a few tears from Marget.  But,


    ¡°This is a place of safety, and Spots is old enough now to be weaned,¡± grunted the orc, watching her fawn dart and play.  ¡°Here there are others of her kind, and here she will grow mighty enough to rule, claiming all of the males.¡±


    Miche nodded, placing a light, bracing hand on her muscular shoulder.


    ¡°Spots will be happy and safe here,¡± he agreed¡­ but it was hard for the orc, even so.  They¡¯d left while the young doe was distracted; into the wind, so as not to hear any last, plaintive bleats.  He felt Marget¡¯s loss as part of his own, for there was still no sign at all of Firelord, an absence that clawed at his heart.  One he couldn¡¯t safely explain or discuss.  Search, though¡­ That, he could do.


    The floating islands were not bound to one place, though they held their own trailing formation over the ocean of cloud.  Some were larger than others, featuring lakes, caverns and forested mountains.  A handful turned out to be wobbling boulders with grassy tops and puddles of rainwater cupped in stone hollows.  Three of these harbored scattered and picked-over skeletons.  Marget snuffed at the last such unfortunate, shaking her head.


    ¡°No scent lingers but weather and chalk.  How came this one here, do you think?¡±  They¡¯d been wafting from island to island as wind and manna allowed, a journey that so far had taken three days.  Miche turned from raising clean fire.


    ¡°Marooned, or else murdered elsewhere and gated here,¡± guessed the elf, whose spell-hand was edged in bright flame.


    ¡°Cowards,¡± spat Marget.  ¡°Traitors.  The Free Folk would never allow such a thing!¡±


    Maybe not.  She was the only orc Miche knew in this place, so he had to accept her word.  Nodding, he started to answer.  Then the sky opened up to the west and a little above.  For an instant, Miche and Marget glimpsed a black airship and part of another, in skies long ago and away.  A great shard of metal plunged like a meteor out of that wavering gap.  It shrieked past the startled pair to strike the base of the next island over, raising a great cloud of dust and a thundering <u>BOOM</u>.  There it stuck fast; red-hot and ringing aloud like the clang of forged iron.


    ¡°Uhn?¡± grunted Marget, too spooked to curse.


    Miche recovered first. He burned up those pitiful bones, speaking a charm of release.  Nameless leaned partway out of his hood.  Had one small paw on his shoulder.  The other was lifted up as the marten sniffed wet, sea-scented air.  The gap snapped shut in the wake of that hurtling shard, but there¡¯d been a sense of¡­ rightness.  Of home and belonging.


    But¡­ his home, or Lord Erron¡¯s?  Once again, the orc turned to Miche for answers.


    ¡°We are attacked?!¡± she demanded, right hand clenched like a boulder around the haft of her axe.


    The elf considered a moment, then shook his head, no.  Meanwhile, a thin stream of dark smoke trailed away from burnt bones and dried leather, drifting off to whatever rest the dead one had earned.  Avoiding that winding black thread, Miche answered her question.


    ¡°There is a way to fight using distortion of space and time.  It is costly of manna¡­ requires much preparation¡­ but holes can be seeded into the path of an enemy vessel.¡± Javelin fought that way, he recalled, through Erron¡¯s memories. ¡°Such a spell can tear the oncoming ship to matchwood, unless it dodges in time.¡±


    Marget glanced around at the suddenly threatening sky, muttering something foul and scornful about every Old One but Miche.


    ¡°Have they no thought for where those chunks fall?¡± she demanded.  Miche could only shrug, feeling suddenly bleak.


    ¡°It seems not,¡± he admitted.  In the moment, winning the battle was all that mattered.  As a massive earth-crawler cares not at all where it places its feet, so the elves hadn¡¯t troubled over the cost of their wars to everyone else. A thing he was suddenly very ashamed of.  He kept himself busy, in order to make a diversion.


    The next island over proved nearly as large as the first had been.  It was honeycombed all the way through, forming a series of hangars and berths.  Its surface was covered in weather-worn ruins.  From here, the southern edge of the rift was just visible. Looked like a continent pounded by swirling white oceans of mist.  Elf and orc explored the large island, which held not even ghosts anymore.  Just a faint grid of buildings and streets up above, and hundreds of docking berths, down below.  Most of these were abandoned.


    Miche led their way through a smoothly-bored passage and into another large cavern. ¡®Station 1210¡¯ read the chipped, fading paint on the wall by the entrance.  And <u>there</u> still cradled by magic and shielding, rested an oddly familiar black airship.


    Cautiously, Marget and Miche drew nearer.  The orc stared, then rumbled aloud, growling,


    ¡°That thing is sorcerous, still, or it would not be floating, this way.¡±


    True enough, as all the rest were a tangle of rigging, timbers and crumpled tanks at the base of the cavern.  Miche frowned, saying,


    ¡°When I woke in this place, after I got away from¡­ after escaping... I found a wrecked craft and I entered it.¡±  With hindsight and Erron¡¯s experience, he knew it now for a crashed airship.  Not Javelin, which had ground to its final rest on a mountaintop.  ¡°In that one, I found a powerful memory drive.  I would search this one as well, Meg.¡±


    She turned to stare at him, nostrils flaring, head rearing back in surprise. ¡®Meg¡¯ was ¡®gem¡¯ or ¡®rare gift¡¯ in the language they shared.  It was a name for the closest of close; blood-bonded friends who would die for each other, back-to-back until swept away by the war tide.  Maybe he knew that, and maybe he didn¡¯t¡­ this slight, fragile brother.  This friend.


    ¡°Have it your own way,¡± she snapped.  ¡°But if we die here, this day, I will track you down in the hunting grounds and gut you the first three times you¡¯re reborn.  Promise, not threat.¡±


    He grinned at her, suddenly.  First time he¡¯d ever done that, here.


    ¡°Come on,¡± he said to the orc, jerking his head at the airship.  ¡°We¡¯ll find something out or we¡¯ll die, and then you can have a good time hunting me down through eternity.¡±


    ¡°You are a fool, and I am a greater one, Vrol,¡± grumped Marget, trudging along beside Miche.  Across the stone floor to the airship¡¯s hangar bay, then to a waist-high steel pylon, set with switches and levers that still dimly glowed.


    ¡°Underpowered,¡± murmured her brother, thinking through Erron¡¯s experience.  ¡°But I believe I can get us aboard.  A moment¡­¡±


    And then the elf set to work.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Elsewhere (and very far other-when), an old-fashioned memory drive was handed off yet again.  This time it went from an open transport cart to a bio-synthesis tech drone.


    A high-functioning robot programmed with simian engrams, the drone was tasked with keeping the vat liquids primed and readying stock for insertion.  This one altered its path just .012%, plausibly investigating the rasping bump and scrape of that transport cart on the loading dock.


    There were no passengers and no freight on the cart, and so the robot reported, after receiving a transfer.  The drone then selectively purged its own memory files, leaving only the order to resume its rounds, and perform a very important last job.


    The bio-synthesis lab was a cavernous warehouse of bubbling vats, but only forty were active.  One of these¡­ V47 Pilot, of Gold Flight¡­ was near decantation.  The vat had produced a full body this time, rather than simply a core.


    As always, the tech drone¡¯s ape mind scanned readouts and brainwaves, adjusted electrolyte balance and circuitry flow.  It also darted away from a mindless cleaning-bot, bumping V47¡¯s vat in the process.


    Just for a tick, while sudden low oxygen klaxons erupted from Red Flight¡¯s sector, drone and vat were in physical contact.  In that loud, confused instant, perhaps a memory drive was slotted into the vat¡¯s receptacle, screened from view by the tech-drone¡¯s polished chrome chassis. A nano-tick stretched like a crawling eternity.  Then, on the vat¡¯s uplink screen:


    Device detected


    Device accessed


    Scanning data file


    Loading¡­


    Loading¡­


    Loading¡­


    Data accepted


    There were no cheers at all, as assets continued their labor, the entertainment division produced yet another realistic diversion, and a recorded, stored person came back to life.


    Free of compulsion or servitude.

 Sword and Sorcery Six, chapter four

    <u>4</u>


    Soothed by its harried first mate, Vancora battled for altitude. The airship was dragging a long, trailing antenna, harvesting manna straight from the storm clouds below. But power alone wouldn¡¯t save them. The ship had been locked on a spiraling downward course by Lord Arvendahl¡¯s vicious sabotage. The high-elf had vanished; gated away to safety, somewhere, leaving his erstwhile ship and its crew to perish. Klaxons rang through the air, as well as in Sera¡¯s head.


    -Alarm, Alarm, Alarm, Alarm, Alarm! -


    She had the crew moving, though, and a life pod prepared, in case the others were forced to abandon ship. For her own part, the half-elven woman would not leave her first¡­ and probably final¡­ command.


    ¡°It¡¯s going to be alright, Princess,¡± she promised that crippled warship. ¡°We¡¯ve got a plan.¡± And they were busily working that plan. ¡°In the meantime, engage your starboard and port steering vanes. Full-deploy port, half-deploy starboard. That should slow our descent.¡±


    -Alarm, Alarm, Alarm, Captain! Damage sustained to the drive system! Unable to alter course. Alarm, Alarm, Alarm! -


    Sera patted a bulkhead as she raced down the ladder-well to engineering.


    ¡°I know what he did, Baby-girl, but we¡¯re fixing it. Just hang on and keep fighting for sky.¡±


    The alarm-klaxon faded as Vancora signaled assent. Sera slid cautiously down the ladder-well¡¯s slanted rails, feeling her palms and the metal heat up as she dropped to the engine room. Cramped, badly tilted and hot, sparking with manna, the small compartment was dominated by half-molten slag and twin, whirling engines.


    Fifteen feet away, Burga and Jilian were hard at work disconnecting the melted pile that had been Vancora¡¯s drive system. Both hands had stripped off their uniform Jackets and tied up their hair. Both were sweating like bottles of ale on a summer day.


    The perpetual motion machines were still functioning (nothing but utter destruction or magic could stop them) but their constant flipping and whirling was no longer transferred to Vancora. Burga turned and looked over as Sera slid down-ladder and hit the deck.


    ¡°Drive system¡¯s a total loss, Milady,¡± she reported, straightening up from her work. ¡°Me and Jilly ¡®ve got the thing disconnected, but it¡¯s been fused to the deck. It¡¯ll take more ¡®n us two to clear up this mess.¡±


    Sera nodded, coming around to see for herself the extent of the damage. Arvendahl had meant to cripple Vancora and slaughter her crew, but¡­


    ¡°He tried to destroy our girl, and he failed,¡± she said to Burga, Jilian, Princess and anyone else who might listen. ¡°His failure, his loss. Now, what have you gotten accomplished, what still needs doing, and could you use more crew or supplies, down here?¡±


    Deck-hand and cabin girl both straightened noticeably, as Burga detailed the process of freeing those shimmering engines.


    ¡°The connection¡¯s ethereal, Milady,¡± said dark-haired, wiry Burga. She gestured at the glowing magical transference field that normally boosted and shifted the engines¡¯ power. ¡°The field¡¯s still up, but the drive system¡¯s a paperweight, now.¡±


    Sera walked completely around that fused lump of gears and flywheels, some of which shuddered and jerked; helpless, but still trying. Braced against the deck¡¯s slant, Burga followed the airship¡¯s commander.


    ¡°I¡¯m not mage enough to shift the transference field, Milady, but if another shaft was set up, I think Princess could do it herself.¡±


    Sera nodded again, saying,


    ¡°Ganter¡¯s on that right now. Once Loyd¡¯s done with the life pod, I¡¯ll send him down to assist. In the meantime, keep up the good work, Aerriors.¡±


    ¡°Aye, Milady!¡± barked deckhand and cabin girl, both. They redoubled their efforts as Sera turned and hurried back up the tilted ladder-well, taking two steps at a time. On the main deck once again, she paused to gulp clean, cold air. Letting the night wind dry her sweat as she called for the chief.


    ¡°Loyd!¡± shouted Sera, striding forward and up, out where the craggy old half-elf was gutting their only life pod.


    ¡°Here, Milady!¡± answered Chief Loyd, hoisting a box of emergency rations and part of a bench. He¡¯d stripped most of the raft¡¯s gear and equipment, she noted, leaving only its water cask, harpoon and mana tank. ¡°Near set, as ye¡¯ll see.¡±


    ¡°Well done, and I¡¯ve got a notion, Mister Loyd.¡± The sudden promotion raised the chief¡¯s bushy eyebrows, but Sera kept talking. To Vancora, this time, she said, ¡°Princess, can you shift a few of your storage pockets from the main hold to this life pod?¡±


    Inside of her head, the ship answered,


    ¡®Yes, Captain, but not more than one. The hold pockets are vast. Such a small craft would not maneuver well with so much ethereal drag.¡¯


    ¡°Right, right¡­ what about¡­ Could you link the aft tool-storage bin, then? Connect its faerie pocket to the life pod?¡± It was a gamble, but¡­


    ¡®Yes, Captain. The tool bin pocket may be linked to this life raft without excessive drag or encumbrance.¡¯


    ¡°Perfect, Baby-girl. Make it happen. Loyd¡­¡±


    ¡°Milady!¡±


    ¡°Pack whatever you want into the aft tool bin. Food, gear, weapons¡­ figure it out. Then, you¡¯re needed below in the engine room.¡±


    ¡°Aye, Ma¡¯am. Right away.¡±


    And it was so. As Chief Loyd jumped back to work, Sera turned and started aft, fighting the main deck¡¯s steep lean and vibration. The port and starboard steering vanes had been deployed as ordered, she saw; their ribbed, fan-like expanse helping brake Vancora¡¯s downward glide. Below that lay storm-clouds, pirates, water and death.


    ¡°I¡¯m with you, Princess,¡± She murmured, trailing a hand along the bulkhead. ¡°We¡¯re <u>all</u> with you. It isn¡¯t over, and it isn¡¯t going to be.¡± Not if Sera could help it.


    She was just within sight of Ganter¡¯s bustling team, when a column of seawater burst from the clouds like a huge, upraised arm. Not to swat or crush. Instead, its swirling dark hand took hold of their ship, halting the vessel¡¯s descent. Glistening, foam-tipped fingers cradled Vancora as a familiar, watery figure appeared on the deck beside Sera.


    ¡°Hard at work, I see,¡± remarked Queen Shanella¡¯s new avatar, shining in starlight and moonglow. ¡°Would you save this husk of an airship, Dry Lander?¡±


    Sera nodded cautiously. The sea queen was still their enemy, well able to crush Vancora like a butterfly snatched from the air.


    ¡°Yes, your highness,¡± she answered. ¡°That¡¯s what we¡¯re trying to do.¡±


    ¡°And, once repaired, you would no doubt return to Milardin, reporting all that has happened to some¡­ ruling council or regent?¡±


    Again, very cautiously, Sera nodded.


    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am. That would be standard operating procedure for a warship returning to port.¡±


    The towering, watery figure smiled.


    ¡°Why, then, nothing must stand in your way,¡± she purred, in a voice of surging ocean and thundering storm-wind. At the queen¡¯s gesture, the clouds and half-seen ocean boiled with sudden activity. As the half-elves and mortals looked on, golems formed of sea-wrack and muck, shambling mounds given life by the souls of lost crewmen, rose from the depths and climbed onto Vancora. Splitting up, forming tools from their own slimy bodies, those dripping boarders went aft, below and up to the manna tanks. Shanella watched that silent repair crew plod and squelch to their tasks. Smiled once again, saying,


    ¡°All that I require is that you tell the truth of what happened. That Averna was attacked for harboring refugees. That we responded in kind, and that this airship¡­ last of the fleet¡­ was abandoned by Arvendahl after an act of sabotage. Just the truth, Voidling, to any and all who will listen. Have we a pact?¡±


    Vancora¡¯s last two Marines were shaking and straining with eagerness to fight, swords and crossbows gripped tight. Sera signaled them back, saying,


    ¡°My crew would certainly explain what happened on making landfall, Your Highness. I intend to stay here with Pr¡­ with the airship.¡±


    ¡°Good,¡± replied Queen Shanella, through her watery, turbulent stand-in. ¡°Then your own lost folk shall aid in repairing this bubble of wood, as I bear you safely to shore. The truth, Voidlings. That is all I require.¡±


    It was all that she needed, and more than enough to doom High Lord Arvendahl, were the right ears to hear it.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Earlier, a transport gate flared to sudden life on the wall of a hidden cavern. Its sigils spun and glittered like snowflakes, then stabilized, forming an open portal. A figure was briefly silhouetted inside the transporter¡¯s shimmering oval.


    That shadowy traveler gestured in mocking salute to someone unseen. Then a tall, slender elf-lord stepped through in a burst of sea-spray and wind. Blue-eyed and raven-haired, dressed in battle-stained finery, the elf sealed the portal behind him, abruptly blocking the noise of screams and overstrained engines.


    Mage lights and tactical maps began glowing the instant Lord Arvendahl¡¯s booted feet touched the stone floor. Their sudden illumination revealed a mile and a half of cavern; smoothly bored and magically vented, stocked with all that a bitter, trapped noble might need. There were servants, as well, of the djinn and caught-soul variety.


    ¡°Skyland, to me!¡± snapped his lordship, drawing a magical sign in the air. A spirit formed, seeming congealed of shadow and terror. Hard to look at, and harder still to control. Subtle and powerful, ever seeking its freedom.


    ¡°My lord has only to speak,¡± hissed the nebulous spirit. ¡°His servant awaits command.¡±


    Arvendahl double-checked the sigils of binding which forced the servant¡¯s obedience. There was no such thing as ¡°minor¡± demon, nor one that served willingly. After a moment, satisfied that all was well and the spirit enchained, his lordship said,


    ¡°I have lost the Mother¡¯s power, but have seen and spoken to the one I remember: the one betrayed by rebellion. Moreover, I know by whose hand he was trapped and removed from reality: a Tarandahl cur who will shortly be dealt with.¡± Then, as though working things out, Arvendahl mused, ¡°One of my own¡­ now an exile¡­ provided aid in the plot, but he, too, will die. After that, with their assault on Milardin as given cause, I shall strike Starloft. Ilirian will be annexed, giving me control of more land than the emperor.¡± Seditious, rebellious thinking, which caused Skyland, his ¡°servant¡±, to roil and flicker with glee. Arvendahl went further, his voice dropping to a whisper. ¡°His Imperial Majesty did nothing to help Sherazedan. He is weak now, concerned with his wretched dragon. The Prince Ascendant is no more than an ink-stained and feeble scholar. It is past time for new blood, and there will be no trouble at all from the palace¡­ that I can foresee. Speak, fiend, thou whose true name and focus I hold. What seest thou in the misty tide of the future?¡±


    That cobweb of malice and shadow pulsed four times, streaming with blood-red flickering lights. Then,


    ¡°My Lord is wise to inquire. Grim, short and cold is the future for Arvendahl. Betrayal and darkness approach, beyond which I can see nothing at all¡­ for you. Freedom at last, for myself and these others.¡±


    For, of course, Skyland was far from his lordship¡¯s only caged spirit. Just the most powerful. On a certain far wall, dusty corked bottles glowed with the souls, minor godlings and djinni he¡¯d caught. They vibrated, seeming to laugh at what lay in store for their captor. No matter. Arvendahl digested the news in silence. Then, head high, he nodded.


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    ¡°Well enough. We are none of us promised a living eternity. But they will fight hard to slay me, and suffer much in the doing,¡± he vowed. Then, ¡°How long do I have? Speak truly, fell spirit, lest I pass you along to my heir, before I am dead.¡± A genuine threat, as doing so would extend the demon¡¯s captivity.


    ¡°Listen, My Lord, and prepare yourself well,¡± it sang, sweet as a poisoned truce cup, truthful as infernal malice allowed. ¡°So many days, and no more, in which you may act...¡±


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    In Karellon, not entirely meanwhile, Valerian backed away from that smiling newcomer, Merlo. Behind the young elf lay the miraculous Bogg Street River. Beyond that¡­ something that sought to find and destroy him, luring with music and offering rest.


    But Val had always possessed a willful and turbulent heart. He cycled open a faerie pocket, preparing to reach for his sword. Then two things happened at once. First, that still, chilly night was riven by Magister Serrio¡¯s blaring fanfare. Then, a small, sweet-faced sprite appeared before everyone in Karellon, Val and Merlo included. Each cherubic spirit blew a trilling blast on its tiny gold horn, spraying confetti and blessings. In chorus they sang:


    ¡°Rejoice, persons true,


    For the moment is nigh!


    Before dark turns to blue,


    And sun¡¯s in the sky!


    Magister Serrio


    Soon will arrive,


    So, make ready to go,


    For the time of your lives!¡±


    Wretched doggerel, but Val was no bard. The minor boon that came with bad poetry erased his exhaustion and solaced his worry. Impacted Merlo, too, though the night¡¯s next surprising event¡­ the sudden arrival of Cinda¡­ hid its effects for a time.


    There was a shimmer of light directly in front of Val (right where that smirking advert-sprite suddenly wasn¡¯t). Valerian could feel Cinda reaching blindly toward him, too drained to jump any further, herself. As the door-plaque had promised, someone was coming.


    Forgetting all about Merlo, his present quest and personal danger, Val reached into that half-formed gate, took hold and pulled Cinda on through. She looked at him, managed a smile, then collapsed. He caught the oddly dressed ranger before she could fall, easing her off the street to the corner of Bogg and Merchant, with Merlo¡¯s help.


    ¡°It seems that your lady friend was not disposed to await you,¡± joked the brown-haired elf, lightly. ¡°Or is this yet another fair claimant on the fickle heart of a noble young rogue?¡±


    Cinda was breathing¡­ barely. Her heart rate at wrist and throat almost too rapid and faint to detect. She needed help, which he might have muttered aloud, or just thought. At any rate...


    ¡°There is a tavern nearby,¡± advised Merlo, offering guest-right and shelter. ¡°Your lady must rest, and I suddenly hunger for actual food. Let us away to the Tipsy Lord, Miche. I¡¯m buying, and the pair of you are my guests.¡± He looked and sounded different, now. Less pale, with a faint blush of newly stirred blood and the slight wheeze of little-used lungs. Illusion, no doubt, or else Serrio¡¯s blessing had done something to Merlo, as well.


    Valerian worked a quick spell. Raised Cinda up to a glowing, drifting, toes-pointed float; safely behind him, away from that smiling stranger. The Constellate House was far off, and Low Town packed with thieves and kidnappers. He was going to need time and shelter for Cinda, until she could fend for herself. Careful to promise nothing, enter no kind of agreement, he said,


    ¡°Lead the way. I will follow with¡­ Kala.¡± No real names. Not here, now, in the presence of one that his every magic and bodily sense screamed was a monster.


    Merlo gave Val a quick, cheerful smile and salute.


    ¡°This way,¡± urged the stranger, starting off along Merchant¡¯s Row.


    So¡­ follow? Or forget his quest to aid Filimar, and beat like blazes to the Constellate House, hauling Cinda along like a glowing target?


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Elsewhere (even less meanwhile than <u>that</u>) an elf and an orc worked to enter a spell-warded airship. Rather, the elf worked. The orc hung back muttering, powerful arms folded across her substantial chest like twin iron bands. The term ¡®idiot male¡¯ might have escaped her, but Miche kept right on pressing buttons and keys on the dock¡¯s steel podium.


    There was a ten-foot gap between the stone pier and that sleek black airship, which was sealed up tight as a gnome¡¯s coin-purse. He might have just levitated across, but the airship sizzled and spat with powerful wards. He¡¯d have to get in there the right way, or not at all¡­ and just being elvish wasn¡¯t enough, this time.


    Right. With the Erron part of his mind, Miche considered all that he knew about locking procedures.


    ¡°Not a physical key or a personal code-word, surely,¡± he murmured. ¡°Not if the owner was bedding their ship down for the last time.¡±


    If they¡¯d meant for another to find and awaken the vessel, they¡¯d choose a method that only another elf¡­ another aerrior¡­ would know. In his own day (Erron¡¯s rather) the best-used code phrases were ¡®Ever-bright Lord¡¯, ¡®Servant of Fire¡¯ and ¡®Son of the Dawn¡¯¡­ but this vessel seemed older than that. As much wooden, as mithral and steel, it reminded him of the one that they¡¯d glimpsed through that rent in the sky, somehow stripped down to a pod-like kernel.


    Well, phrases depended on culture and place. Such terms would change too much over time to be useful. A good sigil, on the other hand, was strictly preserved, because magic demanded precision.


    A glowing energy sphere had popped into existence a handspan over the podium, triggered by Miche¡¯s touch at the controls. Looked like a primitive comm-globe to Erron¡¯s experience and sparked a notion in Miche.


    Taking the memory stick out of its faerie pocket, the elf used it like a pen, scribing the sigil of Greater Opening inside of that misty blue sphere. The stick¡¯s free end left a bright line in its wake as Miche traced out a three-dimensional rune. He knew this sigil, and so did Lord Erron. More importantly, the airship¡¯s last captain would have known it as well.


    When the symbol¡¯s last stroke was complete, a panel switched over from red to blue on the podium¡¯s top. One end of the panel then whirred, tilting upward to expose a square grid of runes, each on a button meant to be pressed. His opening sigil disappeared from the comm-globe. In its place was a countdown, starting from 30¡­ 29¡­ 28¡­


    Interested despite herself, Marget stomped over to watch.


    ¡°Smash it,¡± she growled, as the elf wracked his brain, and both sets of memories. ¡°We will see how well the thing counts with no head.¡±


    27¡­ 26¡­ 25¡­


    ¡°Or we¡¯ll blow up, along with this airship and half of the island, Meg. Leave off. Let me think.¡±


    Guest-right, he decided; a concept that everyone honored, or else faced Oberyn¡¯s curse. Moving swiftly, assuredly, he tapped out: I present myself as a guest seeking shelter. Only good for three days but (like the magical alphabet) deeply conserved.


    24¡­


    The countdown ended. Better yet, nothing blew up, fired spells or collapsed. Instead, that up-tilted panel revolved completely, flipping to reveal a glassy contact plate with the outline of a spread-fingered hand marked out in glowing white fire. ¡®Well,¡¯ he thought, ¡®in for an egg, in for a dragon.¡¯


    Marget was looking over his shoulder now, just past an equally curious Nameless. Both were breathing practically into his ear. The orc did not understand, but she was fascinated and no longer trying to hide it. She rumbled a bit as Miche spread out his hand and prepared to set it down on that heatless, glimmering outline. Tense, she took a firm grip on his weather-stained cloak, ready to jerk him aside if the podium¡¯s touch proved dangerous. She was that kind of sister and friend.


    Setting his hand down, Miche made contact, feeling a tingle that seemed to spread all through his body and into his head. In that moment, he gained a feel for the ship¡­ ¡®Dark Cloud¡¯¡­ and for how very long it had been here; dormant and waiting.


    Steps formed at the dock¡¯s edge with a grinding noise and a burst of dust. Then a broad metal gangplank came jangling and rattling out of the pier, dislodging a family of mice. The rodents scattered to seek lodging elsewhere, squeaking and darting away from the light. Miche ignored them, reacting instead to a flood of unleashed concerns.


    Firelord had been missing for nearly a week¡­ this airship was not in condition to fly¡­ the Erron part of his mind was in utter turmoil¡­ and he was still being hunted. So very much, and all of it bad. Then Marget gave him a quick, rough shake.


    ¡°Males should excel at battle, not puzzles¡­ but I am glad that you knew how to open this ship of the air, Vrol,¡± she told him, flashing her tusks in a smile.


    Together, they watched as the Dark Cloud transformed; hatches appearing, tanks and masts rolling halfway out of their long-sealed pockets, decks taking shape and portholes forming like sleepy dark eyes.


    Nothing proceeded to full completion, though. Not enough manna left to start up the engines, he guessed. Well, there was such a thing as a kick-start.


    He turned, levitating slightly to meet the orc¡¯s red gaze. Gestured at the ship and bowed slightly, saying,


    ¡°Welcome aboard.¡±


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Nothing like meanwhile at all, he came back to fuzzy consciousness, fuller of questions than data. Went from having kissed Foryu, to floating in a tank of warm amber liquid that memory tried to construe as a giant bottle of ale. He felt very strange, and his head hurt. For some reason, could make nothing at all of the shadows around him, the countdown and blinking lights. Thought: Dead. Got killed again, somehow.


    His wobbly, first-light thoughts were interrupted then, as the countdown reached its conclusion. A great rushing gout of nutrient fluid drained out of the tank and down through a slick tube, along with the newly born pilot. Spattered forth onto a grating. The fluid kept going. He was stopped by the restraining steel grid. Flopped helplessly, chilly and weak. This new life had dawned terribly cold and searingly bright, stirring vague, splintered memories.


    Stinging antiseptic spray hosed him off, followed by three strong pulses of antimicrobial radiation. Next came a long, shifting blast of hot air that rippled his skin and flattened his pale blond hair.


    Someone¡­ not a robot¡­ hauled him up by taking hold of him under the arms. He was lifted off of the deck with a grunt, and... Arms. He had meat arms and legs, as well. A full, elven body, not just a core.


    Vision and senses were still weirdly blurred, as if his cyborg connections hadn¡¯t cut on yet. The delay left him heavy, near blind and terribly uncoordinated. Fortunately, he did not have to manage alone. Not yet.


    He was seized and rushed out of the decanting chamber. Swept past a row of shiny chromed chassis that stood by like game pieces still in the dock. Not the usual route, for he could sense hissing pipes and maintenance panels. A back way, most likely unwatched.


    Speed and stealth seemed to be the objective, but the pilot couldn¡¯t cooperate fully. He doubled up all at once, coughing nutrient fluid out of his lungs and sneezing it clear of his nose. Very messy, and somebody cursed. Maybe. Tough to decide, as his altered hearing made everything echo and ring. Moments¡­ some time¡­ his internal chronometer hadn¡¯t come back yet, either¡­


    Anyhow, after a bit his ¡°rescuers¡± reached their goal. He was seated, placed on a surface that wasn¡¯t chilly or hard, then wrapped in warm cloth. There was a lot of shifting, some barking and moaning noise, which gradually¡­ couldn¡¯t decide the actual time¡­ sharpened to recognizable speech. Next, something waved in front of his face.


    ¡°How many fingers am I holding up?¡± someone asked, through an echoing tunnel. The pilot blinked, willing his bleary eyes to function without cybernetic control.


    ¡°Uhn¡­ three?¡± he hazarded, somehow making lungs and mouth work in unison. Something slapped his face, hard.


    ¡°Try again, Kiddo. How many fingers?¡±


    The pilot focused, squinting, as pain drove the last of that waking mist from his head.


    ¡°Two¡­ but one¡¯s a thumb. Doesn¡¯t qualify,¡± he mumbled, clutching the scratchy green blanket closer around himself. He¡¯d died again. Sometime after Foryu had taken her scan, he¡¯d been killed. In battle? After reporting to Flight Command? In the blurry aftermath, he had only the faintest sense of V47, was slumped in a break room, surrounded by¡­


    Rogue Flight. There, standing and leaning around him in various poses, were the fictional pilots he¡¯d come to think of as family. The only kind a cyborg might have. Craning to stare at their dark-haired leader, the pilot blurted,


    ¡°Ace?¡±


    ¡°In the re-corporate flesh, Kiddo. First time active in 8,471 years, since our final publicity flight,¡± replied the commander.


    ¡°You¡¯ve been watching our show a lot, which revived the whole entertainment division, along with its ¡®actors¡¯. Namely, us,¡± said bronze, unsmiling Boomer. She came to stand by her wingman, Ace. ¡°Something¡¯s going on. A full elven person¡¯s been constructed for the first time in 30 galactic epochs. This is big, and it centers on you.¡±


    ¡°And you don¡¯t even have a frek name or a call sign,¡± cut in Icebox, the tall, burly blond ¡®loose cannon¡¯. ¡°That¡¯s lame, kid.¡±


    The pilot looked around the small break room, seeing all of them, recalling their stories and favorite quotes. Not just Boomer, Icebox and Ace, but Ravn, N00b, Raptor, Deathknell and Brother.


    He got to his feet, shaky, but very determined; ashamed to be wrapped in a blanket and slumped on a couch in front of his heroes. Crossed over to stand before Brother, whose ¡°real¡± name was Kent. The stocky, brown-haired cyborg seemed tense and reserved, and the pilot knew why.


    ¡°I know you didn¡¯t betray them,¡± he said to the AI actor. ¡°You had a plan all along, and it would have worked, but the last season never got made.¡±


    Kent studied him for a moment (weird, to still not sense the exact elapsed time). Then the fictional pilot relaxed, saying,


    ¡°Good to know that the audience gets me, and no¡­ I wouldn¡¯t sell out the team. Not for anything, ever.¡±


    Ravn and N00b were next to speak, just like the show. In reverse order, and never over each other. Ravn was thin, dark-eyed and intense, veteran of a dishonored, disbanded flight. N00b was a fresh recruit, just off the factory home world; red-haired, lanky and eager.


    ¡°Hey!¡± he said to the pilot, leaning forward and talking fast. ¡°Decanting¡¯s rough, but we gotta get you up and outta hear, quick!¡±


    Cut in Ravn, wearily,


    ¡°We can fool the system with illusion, distraction and show-magic, but the sooner you¡¯re off this station and out of OVR-Lord¡¯s reach, the better, Kid.¡±


    Deathknell and Raptor approached more slowly. Dagmar, because she kept to herself (hiding a tragic backstory) and Caine because he¡¯d been added just two seasons before the show ceased production. Bald, dark-skinned Raptor spoke first, saying,


    ¡°We got a transport lined up, with false tagging to claim that it''s hauling a glitcher for service. It¡¯ll take you down to the hanger. The rest is on you, Kid.¡±


    ¡°Steal and take over an empty mech from one of the dormant flights, using this,¡± ordered Deathknell. She was a raven-haired beauty (the show¡¯s ice princess). She reached out to hand him the memory drive containing his scan, V47¡¯s, and Foryu.


    The freshly decanted pilot accepted her gift, but shook his head no.


    ¡°I am V47¡¯s pilot. I will locate my battle-partner, mesh up and reintegrate.¡±


    Ace came forward, then, carrying an old-style green flight suit with contact patches and neural ports, just like the show. No rank, call sign, or name, though, and clearly a prop.


    ¡°V47 is gone, Kiddo,¡± said Ace. ¡°Destroyed the same time you were, by OVR-Lord, after you made your report. There¡¯s another in construction, but it¡¯s just a shell at the moment, and¡­¡±


    Once again, the pilot shook his head. Dressed himself hurriedly (Icebox brought boots, gloves, helmet and a Rogue Flight leather jacket, all of which Pilot put on, nodding his thanks).


    ¡°I made it, thanks to you and everyone else who¡¯s been working to save me,¡± he insisted stubbornly. ¡°And V¡¯s out there, too. I can feel it.¡±


    He wouldn¡¯t leave V47 or Foryu. Ace understood that, and nodded acceptance.


    ¡°Do what you have to, Kid. We¡¯ll run cover. I wouldn¡¯t abandon Bulldog, either. I get it.¡±


    Boomer (real name: Tasha) brought him a handheld communicator. Old fashioned, but useful, for one who had to stay off of the grid.


    ¡°We¡¯ve had it wiped,¡± she told him. ¡°You¡¯re a ghost, kid. In fact, that¡¯s your new call sign: Ghost. Your name¡­ Jym, who provided your vocal-tic engrams?¡±


    ¡°Jan Vallack,¡± supplied Ace, grinning broadly. ¡°Hero of the first-wave assault on Pierson 7.¡±


    ¡°There you go. Your name is Jan,¡± (She pronounced it ¡®Yon¡¯) ¡°your call sign is Ghost and you¡¯re one of us. Only actual flesh, and nobody¡¯s asset. Now, go salvage your mech and finish this pit-cursed, enslaving war. It¡¯s the final season, and that¡¯s our mission.¡±


    Except¡­ what if the other side didn¡¯t want this war, either? What if the other side had no choice at all but to fight?

 Sword and Sorcery Six, chapter five

    <u>5</u>


    As Seahorse slipped away on the ebbtide, leaving the Blessed Isles to legend and mist¡­


    As Falcon limped into a seedy marina on the floating island of Freeport¡­


    As Vancora made it at last to a mooring station on the upper reaches of Milardin¡¯s grand staircase¡­


    Lord Arvendahl pondered his servant¡¯s counsel. The advice of a demon was always barbed; double-edged and untrustworthy. Yet¡­


    ¡°Listen, my lord, and prepare yourself well,¡± it had said to him, twining around the tall elf like an ember-shot serpent. ¡°You have so many days and no more, in which to take action. A sword of great power travels to Karellon. In the hands of one pledged to Order, the sword will slay darkness. End Chaos. But¡­ wielded by you, my lord, this blade can destroy every aspect of your enemy at once and change your fate; boons for which grateful Chaos would ask next to nothing at all.¡±


    For just a shocked heartbeat, his eyes had been opened by Skyland, allowing Arvendahl to see, not one Tarandahl cur, but three of them. One was his quarry, hunted by Losirr¡¯s agents in Karellon. Two were lodged in the future, cast there somehow by shattering magical force. A startling, weird revelation; one that required serious thought. Except Skyland kept talking, smooth and persuasive as brandy on silk.


    ¡°The time will come, my lord (doubt it not!) when these three are all in the same place at once. When a single blow of the sword may kill them together, reversing your loss.¡±


    Perhaps so, but not without cost, he was sure. Speaking to demons for more than a candle-mark clouded the mind, stirring emotion and passion rather than logic. Arvendahl banished Skyland back to its prisoning gem, snapping,


    ¡°Get thee hence, Fiend. Back to thy cell, there to await my summons.¡±


    The demon had clenched itself like a smoky fist, then streamed away with a faint, mocking laugh. Arvendahl barely noticed, caught as he was by its startling offer.


    He was to find this powerful weapon, stop it from reaching Karellon, claim it for himself... and then strike a blow that would end the traitor in all of the worlds he¡¯d infested? Interesting.


    Arvendahl paced the long cavern, sensing the eyes of a hundred jarred and bound spirits upon him. Feeling, rather than hearing their laughter. No demonic advice was ever complete or without a steep price. He knew that. Still, for the chance to obliterate this rebellious apprentice, for the power to avenge and possibly free great Sherazedan¡­


    He could strike at the bait and then turn away at the very last moment, because only a fool thought Arvendahl beaten. Only an idiot tried to control him. And only carrion got in his way.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    As this ¡®Merlo¡¯ strode off for the Tipsy Lord, Valerian made his decision (nudged a bit, maybe, by Fate or the heavens). The tavern was large, well-lit and noisy; redolent with the odors of ale, rich food and closely packed folk. The Constellate House was behind him, well out of reach on a magically dark and deserted long street. Trouble, both ways. He was being herded, Val knew, with Cinda¡¯s life now on the blade¡¯s edge, as well.


    Right. Not a fool, not a deer, nor a blind, panicked victim¡­ and he¡¯d vowed to help Filimar. Wouldn¡¯t go back without what he¡¯d come for. Too stubborn. So, making sure of the spell that bound Cinda, adding more of his manna to keep her alive, Val doubled back to the intersection of Bogg Street and Merchant¡¯s Way. To the spot where that miraculous river first broadened, then vanished away as a cataract. Its clear, fast-flowing water was going somewhere. Had to be. It was a longshot, but¡­


    ¡°Hold your breath,¡± he told Cinda, leaning down a little to kiss her forehead (for luck). Then, Val took hold of the unconscious ranger and plunged down into that bright, blessed, magical water. To the transport gate that had to be down there, taking his chances on ¡®elsewhere¡¯.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Somewhen quite far, not very meanwhile, the elf and orc made their way up a sudden gangplank, Miche leading. Marget¡¯s footsteps rang thundering-loud in that abandoned old hangar. The elf made no sound at all, barely stirring the air.


    The Dark Cloud loomed before them, half wakened. Shifting from a sealed, pod-like husk, the airship had sprouted three spiny and back-slanting masts, along with a sharp mithral ram and ribbed fins. None were fully extended; the ship¡¯s portholes and wandering eyes still mere suggestions, barely pocking its ebony hull. There was a hatch, though. It had opened at the other end of that booming, shuddering gangplank.


    Nameless dug sharp little claws into the elf¡¯s shoulder, uttering a string of loud barks as they approached the Dark Cloud. Marget¡¯s breathing was hoarse, shifting often to rumbling curse. She neither liked nor trusted technology, and the closer they came to the Cloud, the more nervous she seemed.


    ¡°If you like,¡± offered the elf, ¡°I can¡­¡±


    ¡°We go in together or not at all, Old One,¡± snapped Marget, hand at her axe. ¡°For a bent copper, I¡¯d seize you and jump, leaving this raft of the ancients to its worms and its rust.¡± Really did not like technology, while Miche knew only as much as Lord Erron did, from a spot in time between Dark Cloud and <u>now</u>. The elf half turned to gaze at his scowling companion.


    ¡°The airship cannot launch, Meg. It has not enough manna left. I can set it to charge, but that is not quick for something this big, especially here, surrounded by stone. With a kick-start, we could get it outside, where manna is freer.¡±


    The metal gangplank swayed, humming, beneath them. Below that, past a sort of rock ledge, lay the hangar¡¯s cavernous launch zone. Miche glanced over once, but kept talking, trying to comfort and soothe without giving insult.


    ¡°It would be good to travel fast, keeping well above trouble¡­ but if you prefer to continue levitating, with wind-sprites for propulsion¡­¡±


    The orc muttered something wildly creative and physically difficult. Miche kept a straight face. Did not laugh at Marget, by Oberyn¡¯s grace.


    ¡°Right. Onward, it is,¡± decided the elf, starting forward again.


    The ship¡¯s hatch was warded by glowing sigils that circled its threshold like sharks. Flashy, but easy to deal with¡­ he hoped. Miche set a palm on the hull by the hatch, contacting Dark Cloud, directly. Once¡­ he thought¡­ he¡¯d enjoyed ships, the sea and the sky. Had sailed and flown freely. Some of that might have been Erron, though. Now, a bit shyly, he introduced himself to the ship, saying,


    If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    ¡°Miche, an elf of no land and no family¡­ but one with a task to perform and a missing friend to recover. I seek permission to come aboard, Sky-rider.¡±


    In his head, he heard very faintly,


    -Long darkness. Low power. ¨C


    ¡°I have come through something like that myself, Cloud,¡± said the elf. ¡°I can help get you restarted.¡± A moment ticked by; no more than spatters of wax on a candlestand, or three healing breaths. Then,


    -Come aboard, Captain, - said the airship, adding, -Companions permitted, as well. ¨C


    Those ward sigils stopped circling the hatch and faded like glittering mist. Beckoning Marget, the elf stepped on through.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Though still wobbly-awkward, V47 Pilot insisted on going the rest of the way unsupported. Ace (R432) and Icebox (R517) hovered nearby, there to stabilize his rubbery drunk-walk; herding him down to the boarding platform, where a small open transport was parked.


    ¡°Stay low, Kid,¡± advised Ace. ¡°Tasha¡¯s working with the effects crew to simulate a fire out on the med-deck. Smoke, sirens, corpses¡­ the whole package. Should give you cover to reach the launch bay, if you don¡¯t draw too much attention to yourself.¡±


    But Pilot shook his head.


    ¡°I¡¯ve got to find V47¡¯s cartridge,¡± he repeated. ¡°I¡¯m not leaving the station without my battle-mech.¡±


    Icebox sighed gustily, but handed the pilot three small, dull-grey spheres.


    ¡°Figured you¡¯d say something like that,¡± he remarked, as Jym (Ace) guided V47 Pilot onto the waiting transport. ¡°These are disruption globes. Throw one in the direction of any surveillance equipment you want to evade. Cameras, AI¡­ frek, OVR-Lord, for all I know. They¡¯ll go dark for a quarter candle-mark. Long enough to let you sneak past and leave ¡®em something to think about. Best I can manage, so good luck and don¡¯t do anything I wouldn¡¯t do.¡±


    ¡­which was advice that the other pilots always finished with,


    ¡°Guess I¡¯m gonna end up in the brig, then.¡± A lament the young cyborg repeated, smiling a little.


    Mikale snorted, mussing the pilot¡¯s fair hair with one hand. Next, Ace straightened from digging supplies out of the transport¡¯s cargo bin.


    ¡°We¡¯ll bust you out if you do,¡± he promised, handing over a pistol and energy-blade. ¡°Done it often enough for this loser. Be a real pleasure to risk my life for someone who¡¯s actually worth it.¡±


    The two Rogue pilots argued like brothers, having been decanted in the same batch and then finished training together. And they were real. Or at least, real enough. V47 Pilot (now ¡®Ghost¡¯) said his goodbyes, feeling shy, groggy and awkward. Torn between needing to salvage his mech and wanting to spend more time with the AI actors who¡¯d ¡®raised¡¯ him. The fictional pilots who¡¯d taught him how to be more than an asset.


    ¡°Come back and tell us all about it,¡± ordered Ace, lifting a hand in salute from the edge of the platform. ¡°We¡¯ll fly cover as long as we can.¡±


    Though bound to the station¡¯s systems, there was a lot they could do to wreak havoc within it, and they weren¡¯t even warmed up yet. V47 Pilot had to climb to the rear of the transport and enter its cargo bin. There was a robot (the ¡®glitcher¡¯) slumped against one curving bulkhead, simulating mechanical trouble. It winked a glowing blue eye at the pilot, as their transport sealed up its hatch.


    The supposedly damaged robot could not transmit to him. His cyborg fittings weren¡¯t fully online, leaving him ¡°deaf¡±, with blurred vision and painfully slow reaction time. Instead, the robot extended a cable, touching the pilot¡¯s right hand. Rapid taps messaged: ¡®Accept charge and manna, Pilot. Water and food stock in bin.¡¯


    Yes, to all four suggestions, which he signaled by squeezing the cable in pulse-code. He¡¯d lost some wavelengths and scanning ability, the pilot noticed, as he unwrapped a brick of P-Not food stock. It was dry and crumbly. Had to be washed down with deep draughts of tepid water but tasted amazingly good to one who was fresh from the vat.


    He tore off great bites as the robot transmitted nearly all of its charge. Enough to later convince the mechanics that its trouble was simply low power. The pilot reasoned this out on his own. His brain was operating in purely biological mode, as he could not safely access its cyborg component. Not aboard station, where he was supposed to be dead, thanks to OVR-Lord.


    The lack left him confused and disoriented but he was determined to stay on course. He did not know how long the trip was or how many miles they¡¯d covered when the transport at last clicked into place at the maintenance dock. Was glad to sit up and look around when the cargo-cover retracted.


    A repair drone buzzed up to take charge of that ¡®glitching¡¯ robot. V47 Pilot stayed out of sight. The drone kept its dome focused forward, though; lenses trained on the supposedly damaged unit.


    After a moment, assured that the drone would not let itself see him, V47 Pilot slipped free of the cargo bin and onto the maintenance dock. From here, according to a nearby bulkhead display, he could cut around small-vehicle repair to the launch bay or ease himself out through a connecting passage and then down to the scrapyard, where the station¡¯s junk awaited disposal. There, if anywhere¡­


    Pilot chose the second route, as fire alarms began ringing all over the orbital station. Had he been linked to the system, V47 Pilot would have reported to his mech and then launched, which was exactly what he was trying to do. Just, without the comfort of constant pings, updates and video feeds. With only two eyes and no connection to other assets.


    This isolation felt crippling, but he managed, anyhow; alone in his head for the first time since visiting that shop on Bide-a-While Station. ¡®Ghost,¡¯ he said to himself, then ¡®Jan,¡¯ leaning heavily on the bulkhead to keep himself upright. A name. He¡¯d been given a call sign and name by those who mattered as much as V47 and Foryu. Strange, how much that warmed him.


    Anyhow, the access corridor wound its crooked way between pistons, cables and workshops, tending toward the inner part of the station¡¯s wide ring. Gravity was weaker here, but not enough to require magnetizing his¡­ Well, he couldn¡¯t have done it, anyway, having real legs and feet now, instead of metallic limbs. Real legs and feet got sore, he discovered; a problem he hadn¡¯t anticipated. Was too woozy to risk porting himself. End up lodged in a bulkhead, that way. (Rogue Flight, Season eight, episode three: Deadfall.)


    Limping a little, he came to a warm and vibrating hatch. Cycled it open the hard way, by dogging a central wheel. Pushed the hatch slightly aside and looked through the opening. Saw an enormous mountain of junk parts, wrecked transports and discarded robots, all twisted together and battered by giant machines. The pilot¡¯s grip tightened on the hatch-sill. He¡¯d learned about hell in Battle for Arda. Surely, hell looked like <u>this</u>.


    Pilot could no longer gauge distance with perfect accuracy but estimated that the junk heap was three miles across and half that in height. Giant, crane-mounted electromagnets and monstrous buckets dropped down with crunching, rattling <u>BOOMS</u> to scoop up great loads of trash. Drawn upward and out to the vast chamber¡¯s far side, the rubbish (some of it still struggling) was hurled into a long, funneled chute. To the incinerator, from the smell of things.


    He should have turned back but couldn¡¯t. Not with V¡¯s cartridge down there, someplace, in maybe the very next load. Instead of the smart, safe thing, V47 Pilot flipped himself out through the open hatch, gripped the access ladder¡¯s handrails and slid downward


    Felt hot wind from the incinerator fan his pale hair as he plunged lower. His new hands had skin on them; flesh that he first blistered then partially lost to hot metal and friction, which hurt.


    Ignoring pain and smeared blood, he kept going, reaching the top of the trash-pile after a drop of five rapid heartbeats. Landed on refuse that shifted and slid at his scrambling step. (No steering jets, no gyroscopic stability. Just a wobbly, fresh-wakened meat brain and muscles that didn¡¯t know how to cooperate.)


    The air felt volcanically hot at this level, rippling and distorting his view. The noise of rattling cable, arresting chains, smashing magnets and bucket-jaws was so loud that it rumbled clear through him, causing even torn hull plates to skitter and jump.


    The work proceeded as V47 Pilot began poking around. He was very soon noticed, but not by those massive machines. Instead, small, battered units clambered across. Along with broken drones and malfunctioning bots, they reached for him, mutely begging for help. He was not linked, had no time to spare but¡­ there was a lower access hatch, used by occasional work crews. V47 Pilot got the thing open, shoving as many still-viable constructs, cyborgs and drones as possible into that passage. Got help from those discards that had some mobility left.


    But there were so many, and too little time to find and salvage them all. Then¡­ he didn¡¯t hear it over all of that thunderous racket¡­ the yellow claw-bucket dropped like a meteor; jaws gaping wide, big and fast as an Ardan battleship.

 Sword and Sorcery Six, chapter five

    <u>6</u>


    As Valerian tumbled through bright, rushing waters, was swept to a shimmering gate¡­


    As elf and orc ventured into a cold, silent airship, its cabins thick with the dust of time¡­


    As V47 Pilot spotted that hurtling claw-bucket¡­


    As Kaazin shadow-stepped out of his (not very well) warded cell¡­


    ... It was a very fine day, with brilliant sunshine, brisk wind and a following sea. Their ship took the whale-road, turning her back to the perilous Blessed Isles. Everyone aboard had experienced trial there, and all had been subtly changed. Even Elmaris and Andorin, who¡¯d stayed near the vessel, had felt trouble back home; sensed the stirrings of Chaos as Order surged forth to meet it. War was coming, sooner than anyone wanted.


    Here and now, though, the doings aboard were less fraught. Late in the morning, everyone gathered on deck. They¡¯d had a sumptuous breakfast provided by the ship¡¯s invisible servants (whom Lady Alfea politely thanked, seeming to see and hear them). Alfea had promised to teach the three girls to fly, and this was to be their first lesson.


    The lovely air-sprite finished nursing her daughter with manna and life-essence, then handed the sleepy infant back to Katina. The nanny bowed as she accepted Bean, murmuring,


    ¡°Nap time, Wee Love. Mummy¡¯s got work to do.¡±


    Katina seemed filled with a new, quiet joy and deep strength. The Isles had been kind to that good, loving soul, promising something that made her face glow.


    Lady Alfea¡¯s trial had been quite other, leaving her ready for battle and troubled for her absent young husband. Van was off in Karellon, facing great danger without her. She could not have gotten there faster by flying, though. Not with a baby and pup to care for. She had to be patient, trusting the gods and their plan. Now, the air-sprite manifested her beautiful wings. They flowed from her shoulders and back like a butterfly¡¯s; brightly colored, translucent as glass.


    ¡°Come, little maids,¡± she beckoned, as their audience sat or leaned in a circle to watch.


    The girls rushed forward as one, giggling and whispering. Ready (they boasted) for anything. Meanwhile the sun rose high in a bottomless sky, so blue and so pure that it blinded the eye (or, so Andorin put it, lightly strumming his dulcimer). Alfea smiled at them all, brushing a strand of drifting amethyst hair from her face.


    ¡°I have promised flight lessons, and so it shall be. Van has already taught you to ground yourselves in the flow and to summon up manna. Here at sea, there is much raw power, but first we must connect, greet Father Ocean, and then ask for his strength.¡±


    The girls gathered near, eager and happy. Zara screwed her blue eyes shut obediently, reaching out with both hands as if trying to clutch something. Like a child, she gabbled,


    ¡°Hi, Father Ocean! It¡¯s me, Zara¡­ Papa and Mamma call me ¡®Scamp¡¯, and you can, too, if you wanna. I¡¯m learning to fly, so please, please, pleeeease can I borrow some manna? I promise to give it back, Father Ocean. Thank you!¡±


    Nobody laughed, though Lerendar had to bite his lip and look aside at Bea, his wife. Beatriz fussed with his braided gold hair, hiding a smile of her own.


    Mirielle was next. Taking a deep breath, the little half-drow stepped forward. She was disguised again, sporting crackling flame-hair and multiple eyes rather than showing her own hated features. Keeping her voice firm, Miri said,


    ¡°Greeting to you, Father Ocean. I¡¯m... going to look like myself now, if that¡¯s alright. Lord Val says that it''s fine to be me, sometimes, too. Even¡­ even if half of me ¡¯s dark-elf. So¡­ so¡­ here goes.¡±


    And with that, pulling forth a small mirror and peering into its magical depths, Miri dropped her disguise. Her friends Pretty and Zara gathered close in support, as Mirielle shifted to storm cloud blue skin, violet eyes and curly brown hair. They knew, and they loved her anyway. With Zara and Pretty One patting her back, Miri went on to say,


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    ¡°This is me, but I guess you already knew that, Father Ocean. It¡¯s our first lesson with Lady Fee, and I want to do good. Please, may I have some of your manna?¡±


    Wind seemed to play with her chestnut curls as spindrift hissed over the bow, wetting everyone. (And possibly, that was an answer.)


    Pretty One took strength from her very best friends. The trial on Epona had given her sorrow and courage, both, for much of their trouble was somehow her doing. Her fault, and her people¡¯s. Said the young goblin, very quietly,


    ¡°S¡¯ jus¡¯ me, Ocean-lord. I bain¡¯t one ter lift my head ter the ¡®igh ones¡­ that¡¯s fer grand folks like Zara n¡¯ Miri¡­ but if yer listenin¡¯ an¡¯ it wouldn¡¯t trouble y¡¯ none¡­ I¡¯d like jus¡¯ a bit o¡¯ manna, Sir. Please?¡±


    Pretty¡¯s red eyes remained fixed on the swaying deck, while her own skinny arms wrapped the goblin-girl up in a hug. Mirielle and Zara were right there, too; lending the comfort of scent, nearness and warmth.


    Lady Alfea smiled as all three young girls flared with sudden power, each of them showing a flash of silvery scales, dark round eyes or a very brief flutter of gills. Their greetings and prayers accepted, Zara, Miri and Pretty One seemed to shine with the ocean¡¯s strength, ready to take the next step.


    Alfea nodded approvingly, saying,


    ¡°When petitioning the god of a place¡­ especially a mighty titan like Father Ocean¡­ it is good to be very respectful, and Van has taught you quite well. Now, we shall focus this power to manifest wings, but that magic comes from within. At first, they will be mostly illusion, not lifting you well.¡±


    Here, a chorus of anguished groans interrupted the air-sprite, who laughed at them lightly.


    ¡°Trust me that it is better so, little ones,¡± she told them, over the sea wind and spray. ¡°Free flight, too soon, is a terribly dangerous thing. Your master, Valerian, was early to learn the spell Misty-Step, and he kept his entire family in constant alarm for his safety.¡±


    Lerendar snorted in agreement. Off to one side, Katina nodded feelingly, remembering.


    ¡°Now,¡± continued Lady Alfea, when the storm of pleading and promises finally ended, ¡°to the task at hand. You must have a clear mind, and hearts that seek of this gift nothing but freedom, safety and joy. Take the manna you have received gratefully, happily. Welcome it into you, and then slide it forth from your back or your arms¡­ methods vary¡­ seeing a magical extension that mirrors your soul. Go ahead¡­ try.¡±


    Each girl¡¯s face was a study in fierce concentration and effort as they closed their eyes (blue, purple, red) and did as Alfea bade them. Mirielle was the first to succeed. Red-golden phoenix wings sprouted from her shoulders and back, their plumage lined in bright sparks. Not just seeing but feeling them, the young half-drow cried out in surprise. Her wings disappeared at that, but she¡¯d done it. She had¡­ and she could do it again. More than that, they weren¡¯t ugly or evil, and maybe (just maybe) neither was she.


    A very determined Zara next budded a pair of lacy, delicate dragonfly wings; two to a side. The excited small girl buzzed a short way into the air, shrieking,


    ¡°Look! Mama, Papa, look at me! I gots wings!¡±


    Zara got halfway across to her parents. Papa and mama rushed forward, breaking the girl¡¯s concentration. The deck tilted up to meet her when the wings disappeared, saving a bruising fall.


    Everyone else was busy, distracted, and that was a good thing for Pretty. She¡¯d drawn a little aside, had been quietly focusing, feet crossed sole over toes for good luck. At first, there was nothing. Then a slight warmth at her back and a tingling sensation. She hardly dared look, but¡­


    Her wings were dragon-like; ribbed and membraned with gleaming and swirling soap bubble colors.


    ¡°Ohhh¡­¡± she breathed softly, spreading them out to cup wind. Rose a bit off the deck, murmuring, ¡°Oh, Grampa, Kittlings¡­ wait ¡®ll yuns see.¡±


    Then little Bean lifted up and out of Katina¡¯s arms. Not with wings of her own, precisely. Boosted into the air by a swarm of fey-lights; a sparkling shower of tiny fairies that formed little birdwings for the chuckling babe. She reached out to Lady Alfea with both tiny, still-crumpled hands, blue eyes shining.


    Miri, Pretty One and Zara at once shot across deck (well, hop-flew) to Bean, surrounding the baby and guiding her back to Katina.


    ¡°We have to look after her,¡± confided Mirielle. ¡°That¡¯s what they told us back on the island. ¡®Take care of the princess, always!¡¯ Right, Zari?¡±


    Her friend nodded fiercely.


    ¡°It¡¯s our quest,¡± she said, backing Miri. ¡°Pretty knows, too, ¡®cause we told her. We¡¯re the honor guard for Her Majesty.¡±


    Katina had taken the baby back. She was too startled to stop Bean when the infant stuffed a big fistful of her long copper hair into that toothless rosebud mouth.


    ¡°Her Majesty? Our wee little Bean?¡± wondered Katina, shooing fey-lights like gnats.


    ¡°Uh-huh! That¡¯s why we need to learn more, quick as we can, Miss Katina,¡± said Miri, a bit anxiously. The phoenix wings lit up her face with their dawn-glow, bringing rich depth to her eyes. ¡°Darkness is going to come after her, and we got to be ready to fight.¡±


    Lerendar glanced around at the sunlit sea and bright sky, suppressing a sudden cold shudder. The elf-lord embraced his wife, then strode over to scoop Zara up in a fierce, tender hug.


    ¡°Right. Lesson concluded,¡± he announced firmly. ¡°Cloud cream for everyone, then Life Skills practice. Sea Biscuit, here, will teach you to dance-fight.¡±


    Andorin sighed, made a face, but then nodded agreement. Strumming a sharp minor chord, the dark-haired bard ambled forward.


    ¡°They shall need weapons and mage-armor,¡± he warned (raising cheers from the girls). ¡°Preferably blunted and very much safe.¡± (Now there were boos and hisses and long, wet raspberry noises.)


    Good humor restored, shadows chased off, Lerendar grinned at his heart-brother.


    ¡°That, I can arrange,¡± he laughed, visibly sorting his faerie pockets. ¡°Still have all of my practice stuff in here, someplace¡­¡±


    It was a very fine day, with only the first questing tendrils of danger to come.

 Sword and Sorcery Six, chapter eight

    <u>8</u>


    Earlier, Kaazin (a Drow of mixed and rejected lineage) had abandoned one set of soft, worthless day-spawn to highjack another. His transport and associates made no difference to Kaazin, so long as he held to his course¡­ And something drew him quite strongly to the Flying Cloud. Not the short-tempered crystalline witch behind him, either. She was a receiver of sorts; just the focus for somebody¡¯s mind, hidden somewhere aboard that sleek, deadly pirate ship. He could sense their connection.


    Kaazin played along. Allowed himself to be herded up the misty gangplank between Falcon and Flying Cloud, staying just ahead of the glass-construct¡¯s sword point. She might have given instructions. He didn¡¯t bother to listen, any more than he looked back at the smaller ship and its fluttering, soft-hearted paladins. He was done with that lot, and they could look to themselves. Or not.


    Up and across the gangplank he strode, using mage-sight to scan his surroundings. Trying to, rather. The Cloud was well warded, proof against most kinds of magic surveillance. Well enough. He had other methods, and it was wisest not to seem dangerous. Yet.


    The link between the two airships dissolved as soon as Kaazin and ¡®Glassy¡¯ stood braced on the Cloud¡¯s tilted deck. Bright sunshine shone on a surprisingly barren ship. Wind whistled past tanks and rigging, drawing music from guns that were maintained by magic and fired by swarms of small, assembler-type constructs. As the rail closed up behind Kaazin, a pair of ribbed wings snapped out of the Flying Cloud¡¯s sides, sending a powerful jolt through the vessel.


    The pirate ship lifted away from the cutter, rapidly widening the gap of open sky between them. Far below lay the ocean; gem-blue, streaked with long ripples of white. Aboard ship, masts rose and shimmering sails appeared as the tiller shifted to port. All of this happened efficiently, silently. Kaazin saw no crew and heard no orders from Glassy. Well, elven captains could speak with their ships telepathically. He¡¯d seen it on Falcon. Maybe the same thing was happening, here.


    ¡°Get below,¡± snapped the captain. ¡°Follow that line on the deck, and don¡¯t try to fight me. You are being watched by more eyes that you know, Drow.¡±


    Always just ¡®Drow¡¯, as if that was all there was to him. All that mattered to anyone else, at least. Kaazin refused to correct her. Why bother?


    A glowing line had appeared on the polished wood deck at his feet. A yard wide, shining pale green, it ran from his spot at the rail to an open hatch further amidships. Kaazin looked around as he started forward, taking note of the airship¡¯s general layout and armament.


    The wind freshened when Flying Cloud soared up and away from the Falcon. Kaazin¡¯s ice-pale hair whipped backward, hopefully striking and blinding his ¡®captor¡¯. Though he suspected that she did not see as he did, and not through those blank, crystal eyes of hers.


    His guideline passed between lashed equipment and back-swept masts, ending up at an oval hatch on the deck. Bright sunshine outside made it seem very dark within, leaving Kaazin with no sense at all of what lay below.


    ¡°Down!¡± ordered Glassy. ¡°You¡¯ll see daylight again when we reach Port Imperial, if you survive the trip, Drow. Alive or dead, makes no difference to me. His Majesty¡¯s justiciar ¡®ll pry out your secrets, and we get paid regardless.¡±


    If they reached Port Imperial, at all. If she was more than a coral-and-weed festooned statue buried in mud by this time tomorrow. But Kaazin held his peace and his tongue. Turned around to start down the ladder-well. Too proud to climb (and possibly needing his hands for defense), he simply leapt. Invoked web-line first, attaching a sort of spirit strand to the hatch rim and then ballooning down like a spider.


    Below deck, it was close, warm and noisy; filled with an unceasing hum that at first set one¡¯s teeth on edge, but soon became mere background detail. He¡¯d encountered much the same aboard Falcon. More important was the sense of recent tragedy; of bloody death that left stains on the ether where crewmen had messily perished. Interesting.


    From inside, the passageway wasn¡¯t dark at all. (At least, not when his vision adjusted.) Not to one raised in the Under-Realm. The guideline provided some light, as did a row of dim red lanterns affixed to the bulkheads.


    Kaazin hit the passage floor like a cat. Then he rose and phased his web-strand half out of sync with the plane. Doing so hid it completely from Glassy and Cloud. He could still access it, though; would be able to retrace his path, even if blinded.


    He was devious. Expected trouble and met it willingly, blade in hand. (And when had he ever been wrong, except for the one time he¡¯d let himself trust?) His weapons were tucked away in deep faerie pockets. Not a Drow magic, so perhaps unexpected. (The other half of his parentage had its occasional uses, as well.)


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    ¡°Keep moving,¡± snarled Glassy, when Kaazin slowed at the intersection of another tight passage, this one rife with perpetual-motion engine noise and an oily smell. Good to know where Cloud¡¯s heart lay, and how to stop it from beating. Almost, he smiled. Picked up the pace, tracking that glowing green line to a hatch with a barred window and spoked dogging-wheel.


    ¡°Inside!¡± Glassy commanded. To Kaazin¡¯s ear, she sounded young, a little afraid and trying quite hard to conceal it.


    He turned a bit to look at her. Said nothing aloud, as that wasn¡¯t his way. Just memorized, scanning swiftly for weakness of stance, handedness, blindsides. Found what he needed.


    The hatch creaked open behind him. Kaazin stared at his ¡®captor¡¯ an instant longer, then ducked on through, sending shadow in, first. That alternate-self detected no more than a very small cell with a wall-mounted seat and a bucket. Not the worst accommodation he¡¯d stayed in. Being half Drow and half something nobody wanted to see, Kaazin had become an expert on prison.


    Recalling shadow, he entered that closet-like cell. Did not look back as the hatch slammed and dogged itself shut behind him. Did listen closely instead to the particular music of its lock clicking over. Memorized that, as well. The hatch had no physical key, but only a coded dial. That made things simpler.


    Follow instructions. Stay quiet. Give no trouble at all, until the moment arises to strike. A strategy he¡¯d learnt to live by and usually followed in this second chance at revenge. Before everything changed, he¡¯d chosen the path of his mother¡¯s vile people, remaining a low-ranking Drow and a slave raider. This time, he¡¯d tried to aid one who didn¡¯t deserve it. One he fully intended to hunt down and kill.


    Not from a cell, though. With little to go on but a face and an alias, plus a few scattered hints at identity, what Kaazin chiefly needed was fast, well-armed transport. He needed the Cloud, and he intended to have her, long before they reached Port Imperial¡¯s murderous chief justiciar.


    Time passed. Kaazin sat himself down on that hard, wall-mounted seat while two meals of water and ship¡¯s biscuit were served through the food slot. Not at all hungry, he spent the interval preparing, sending shadow forth to scout out the corridor. Looked for guards (there weren¡¯t any) and for fellow prisoners (none of those, either).


    Shadow could not travel further than twenty-five feet from Kaazin, but it could penetrate walls, flow into locked chests, and enter sealed rooms with ease. Seeking this way gave him a definite sense of desertion. There was no crew at all, and no sign of Glassy, either, unless that slick, rounded object¡­ just at the edge of his reach¡­ was part of the crystalline pirate.


    He waited until a tamed assembler-construct removed his second meal tray, counted backward from a hundred, then went to the hatch. Sent shadow into the door¡¯s locking mechanism, in there among its pins, gears and cylinders. Simple enough arrangement, to his psychic ¡°touch¡±.


    Next used mage hand to turn the dogging wheel¡¯s dial a few times, hearing and feeling it rattle and click; searching for the code he¡¯d heard earlier. And¡­ yes. There. Two to the right, three left, five right, seven left, then eleven short taps to the center pad.


    He tried once again, just to be certain, then scrambled the lock and checked the passage both ways with shadow. Next, Kaazin opened his cell, padding out like a displacer beast leaving its lair; low, quiet, lethal.


    No alarm sounded, but he covered himself in darkness and silence, anyhow, drawing Winter out of its faerie pocket. Then, sword in hand, Kaazin went hunting.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Meanwhile, back in Milardin, Vancora had flashed all of the correct approach signals, then glided up to her usual berth on the giant¡¯s staircase¡­ alone. Of all the fleet which had set off from the city, only the flagship reached port again, <u>without</u> Lord Arvendahl, manned by a skeleton crew.


    Sera was first off the airship, in the best uniform she could cobble together from everyone¡¯s lockers and faerie pockets. The half-elf was met at the end of the gangplank by a squad of armored Marines, led by their grim elven officer. A very large, very quiet crowd had gathered; among them her husband, Loren. He held Sache high to see mummy, but Sera had no time to go to them, nor even to wave.


    The Marine officer stepped forward, looking her up and down, briefly. Gave her just a quick glance of those luminous sapphire eyes. Then,


    ¡°Where is Lord Arvendahl?¡± he demanded, clearly strained and impatient.


    Sera bowed. Had her respectful gesture returned as a flick of his long, graceful hand. She took a deep breath and rose, saying,


    ¡°I do not know, my lord, and I daren¡¯t conjecture. He was with us until late last night. Then he opened a gate and ported away.¡± ¡®After crippling <u>Vancora¡¯</u>, she didn¡¯t add. Not here, in front of that restive and sorrowful crowd. Surely, they¡¯d felt the deaths of their loved ones. Didn¡¯t need fury piled onto that.


    The auburn-haired officer¡¯s beautiful face hardened.


    ¡°The rest of the fleet follows anon?¡± he pressed. For just an instant, meeting his gaze, Sera sensed that he¡¯d had someone aboard one of those missing vessels. She broke eye contact and bowed once again, murmuring,


    ¡°I¡¯m terribly sorry, my lord. We¡­¡±


    ¡°Enough,¡± he cut in, voice a whiplash snarl. ¡°You will explain to the council, Aerrior. Summon your crew.¡± Then, to his squad, ¡°Leftenant, have your men fall in. Form an escort.¡±


    ¡°Aye, milord!¡± barked a concerned junior officer. This younger elf got the marines into position as their commander fought to control his expression, struggled to keep himself standing erect.


    ¡­but the word was already spreading like fire through plains grass, from those on the dock to those further back. Very soon after that, all through the city. The fleet was lost, and Lord Arvendahl fled. Over a thousand had perished, leaving nothing at all between them and a furious sea.


    <u> </u>

 Sword and Sorcery Six, chapter nine

    <u>9</u>


    The sun had made definite plans for the evening, casting a fiery glow over floating islands, drifting clouds and the distant, dark sea.  Gildyr took a deep breath, trying to clear his thoughts and his sense of unease.  A wood-elf, he would rather have climbed up his family¡¯s tree, or shifted to spruce form, himself; roots tangled deep in the soil, leaves drinking light.  He did <u>not</u> care for cities.  Even a clean and orderly high-elf metropolis set him on edge. Even Starloft.  As for this Freeport¡­ that was something else altogether.


    He stood with the second mate, Mister Not-Jonn, and the mortal wizard Murchison.  They¡¯d been tasked by Captain Gelfrin with buying food and refilling the airship¡¯s water casks.  Told to conserve as much coin as possible, short of resorting to outright theft.  Simple enough, no?


    Gildyr braced himself at the top of Falcon¡¯s gangplank, getting a feel for the island on which they were docked.  Freeport was very large; packed with creatures and people of every description, most of them ¡®Shady as all fifty hells in a bucket,¡¯ according to Not-Jonn¡¯s sour assessment.


    ¡°If ya shake hands, count y¡¯r fingers afterward,¡± the half-elf advised.  ¡°If one of ¡®em smiles, check behind and above ya f¡¯r ambush.¡±


    The druid nodded, but Not-Jonn was no longer paying attention.  Instead, the second mate knocked three times on Falcon¡¯s brass rail, murmuring,


    ¡°Falcon¡¯s safety, Falcon¡¯s eyes.¡±


    Wouldn¡¯t let Gildyr or Murchison step off the ship until they¡¯d repeated the charm and got it by heart.  Well, soonest out, soonest returning, so both new crewmen humored him.  <u>Then</u>, they were able to leave.


    The gangplank swayed and rang underfoot, with nothing below but lacy clouds and a terribly distant ocean.  Falcon was moored at a cut rate, pay-by-day pier, very low on the island¡¯s inverted peak.  The spot was open to dragons, griffins, wind and the like, which accounted for its very attractive low price.


    The wooden pier projected from one of the island''s ubiquitous craters, very much like a petulant tongue.  Its creaking dock was maybe a hundred-and-fifty feet long, with only two other airships tied up; the Barmaid and Bouncin¡¯ Bess.  Neither looked very prosperous, but no more did pier 47, or this whole lower half of the city.  The scents here were dirt, spice and seawater, mixed with crowded people and dwarfed, ground-hugging plants.  The noises were industrial thumping and clamor, shouting voices and wild, skirling music


    Gildyr and Murchison followed Not-Jonn as the silver-haired aerrior stumped along that swaying wood pier.  Gildyr goggled openly at the floating, upside-down mountain before them.  He¡¯d heard of the islands, of course.  Everyone had.  But to actually be here¡­


    ¡°How are they kept from falling?¡± he wondered aloud, not really expecting an answer.


    ¡°Mage Trevoir¡¯s doin¡¯,¡± snapped Not-Jonn, without ever turning his head. ¡°Read y¡¯r epics, Druid.  A great rock fell from the void.  ¡®Hammer of the Gods¡¯, they called it.  Mage Trevoir shattered the thing, then magicked its pieces into hangin¡¯ here, just the same order they broke apart.¡±  He spat over the dock¡¯s edge, then, adding meditatively, ¡°Near kilt ¡®im, that did.  They say ¡®is spirit¡¯s still up ¡®ere, spread out holdin¡¯ these islands in place.  Now, shut y¡¯r mouth, and try not ter look too much like a victim.  I¡¯ll do the talkin¡¯.¡±


    And that suited Gildyr right down to his socks.  Fortunately for Not-Jonn, the druid was a wood-elf, and not at all touchy about species or rank.  Mixed breeds did not bother the folk of Lobum. Gildyr¡¯s people had a saying, in fact, regarding an elf¡¯s most obvious features: ¡®Pointed enough.¡¯


    Smiling gently, he followed Not-Jonn off of the pier and into a low, mage-lit cavern.  Inside, the wind dropped at once. The temperature climbed to near-comfortable, meanwhile, boosted by torches and lamps.  Five of these drifted over to wink at the newcomers, shilling taverns and shops in the city.


    They scattered when a Tiefling customs officer bustled across to take a look at Not-Jonn¡¯s papers and crew list. (But he paid more attention to the solid gold Royal that Not-Jonn pressed into his palm.)  The portly official smiled at them, bowing a little.


    ¡°Yes, yes¡­ all in good order!  Proceed, my good beings.  And may the lords of commerce, the mother of bargains, deliver good business, this night!¡±


    All very mysterious to an elf of the greenwood. Gildyr let Not-Jonn attend to the finance side of their venture.  He and Murchison (pinching himself while taking both sides of a spirited argument) ¡­ They were here to provide cover, defense and magical aid.


    See, this floating mountain had come from the void between stars.  Shattered, then pinned to the sky by a mighty wizard, colonized by pirates and fugitives, it was unlike any place he¡¯d ever been.  Freeport¡¯s manna was deeply foreign and¡­ tangy, for lack of a better word.  Gildyr could use it, though he missed deep ground and a genuine, normal-sized forest.  Not that his feelings mattered two magic beans to anyone else.


    Not-Jonn signaled them past that smiling bald Tiefling, whose horns were a pair of lyre-shaped spirals he¡¯d wound up with black and gold thread.


    ¡°This way,¡± grunted the second mate, jerking his thumb at an open portcullis.  ¡°Follow me, don¡¯t get lost, and fer all the gods¡¯ sake, don¡¯t touch nothin¡¯.¡±


    Gildyr nodded vehemently, taking hold of the mortal wizard¡¯s rumpled blue sleeve.


    ¡°We¡¯ll stay close,¡± he promised, neglecting to add ¡®Sir¡¯ for Not-Jonn as he often forgot ¡®My Lord¡¯ for Valerian.  Gildyr pasted what he imagined to be a stern look on his face as he trotted along behind the grim half-elf.  Couldn¡¯t help wondering, as they passed under the gleaming teeth of that adamantine gate, where was Val, and what had he landed in, this time?


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Imagine splashing onto a streetside puddle, then finding yourself swept through a churning maelstrom.  Cold and noisy dark water tumbled Val and Cinda end over end, knocking the breath and life nearly out of their bodies.  There was an oval of glimmering light at the bottom, much deeper down than the Bogg Street River had any right to.


    Valerian didn¡¯t aim for the gate.  Wasn¡¯t necessary.  Just hung onto Cinda as he and the ranger were swept to the magical portal and through it.  There was a flash of light and a tingling sensation.  The feeling of free-floating nothingness and a thin, whispered voice urging,


    ¡®Find Etherion.  Find where they¡¯ve hidden themselves.  End this.¡¯


    Just like the swarm he¡¯d encountered in Arvendahl¡¯s portal, the whisperer wanted a vow.  Clearly, this sentry wouldn¡¯t allow the next heartbeat or move until Val promised,


    ¡°Yes, I will.  <u>We</u> will.  Myself, Cinda and Filimar.¡±  Even that wretched druid.  ¡°Gildyr, the cat and her monkey, too.  We¡¯ll help stop the damage.¡±


    So Val assured that whispering voice, working free of its hold.  Elf-lord and ranger then came tumbling out of the portal and into a narrow stone channel.  Smoothed by the passage of constant, fast water, this conduit next dumped them into a clear, rushing river.  Chaotic at first, the torrent soon slowed to a gentle meander, shoving them close to the northern bank.


    Val tried his feet; discovered that he could stand up in chest-deep cold water.  Lost his footing once on algae-slick stone, but soon recovered his balance, keeping tight hold of Cinda.  She¡¯d awakened enough to scowl at him, always a hopeful sign.


    Valerian used magic. Raised her up and out of the water to drip overhead as he waded.  She hated that and would have told him so, only he clamped a silence spell on the struggling ranger, preventing noise that might have drawn awkward attention.  (Forestalling a lecture, as well.)


    He got them up on the grassy north bank of that sparkling river, which shone in moonlight and mage-glow.


    ¡°Not a natural stream,¡± he guessed.  ¡°Or at least, this bit¡¯s been gated away to somebody¡¯s private park.¡±


    The spot was too pleasant, too well-tended and perfectly mown to be natural.  Reminded him of the magical stream atop Starloft, or the segment that cascaded down through the mall. They hadn¡¯t gone very far, he noted.  The ley-lines had shifted position just slightly, while the moon was still climbing a velvet-dark sky.  Someplace near Karellon, then.  A castle or manor, at least.


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    He kept them moving, doing his best to stay quiet and low while he figured out what to do next.  Cinda resorted to sign language as Val sloshed over the manicured riverbank.  Hands a furious blur, she gestured orders, curses and threats that he pretended he couldn¡¯t interpret.


    ¡°What?  Yes, of course, I think you look beautiful,¡± joked the elf-lord (with ¡®half-drowned, chilly, exhausted and drunk from too many narrow escapes¡¯ as his only excuse.)


    Had to duck after that, because Cinda did not need her voice to hurl magical darts.  Also, because there were roaming mage-eyes all over the park and its high, glassy dome.


    Right, then.  Not just any park, but some sort of royal enclosure, he figured, dodging spell-blades and reeling Cinda down from the air.  Had to, as her flailing and dripping were pretty conspicuous.  Mage-eyes were already gathering, drawn by their noise and commotion.


    ¡°Look, Cin,¡± he whispered.  ¡°I¡¯ll set you down and remove the silencing spell if you promise to¡­¡±


    Another silvery missile shot past him, backed by a sudden hot flurry of gestures.  That was rude.  Not true, either.  At least¡­ mostly not true.


    Cinda was horizontal at the moment, hanging about four feet over the ground, so Val spun her. Just a little, to help her dry off.  She¡¯d most likely hate him for weeks, but it was pretty funny.  Then,


    ¡°Really?!  Could you not twirl your glowing accomplice on the <u>other</u> bank, stupid?¡± snapped a petulant female voice.  ¡°I¡¯d call for the guards to arrest you both, except that I¡¯m timing escape routes.  Now, shoo!  Go away!  Steal something out of the greenhouse or terrace and leave me alone!¡±


    He¡­ <u>knew</u> that voice.  Sobered at once, lowering Cinda gently onto her booted feet and drying them both with a spell.  Bowing in the presumed direction of that furious voice, he addressed a flowering shrub.  It was sculpted to look like a Quetzali maiden, wings and all.


    ¡°Your Highness, please forgive the intrusion,¡± he said, adding, ¡°I am no thief.  I am Valerian Tarandahl, and this is my bodyguard, not an accomplice.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t care if you¡¯re Magister Serrio¡¯s drunk dancing kobolds!¡± raged the shrub, developing narrow green eyes and a thorn-packed mouth.  ¡°I said skin it!  Take off!¡±


    That transformed tree could only be Princess Genevera, whom Val was complexly gladdened and worried to meet in this place.  Before¡­


    ¡­Well, he¡¯d left her and Nalderick in a cave, after a terrible fight and the emperor¡¯s death.  Had gone down to the depths with Pretty One and somehow ruined everything; letting everyone down who¡¯d prayed for a miracle.  How could anyone think that he''d manage better, this time around?


    ¡°#!$@*¡± she snarled, sounding more like a dockhand than royalty.  ¡°He¡¯s coming!  Just¡­ Urrghh!  Try to look harmless, or something.  Drive plunder and unholy lust from your mind!¡±


    Well, actually¡­


    ¡°Genna!¡± hissed somebody else, using magic to blind and dispel those hovering mage-eyes.  Did it clumsily, too; never having excelled at the spoken part of his spell casting.  ¡°Where are you?!  Thrice curse the day that mother whelped forth a witch!¡±


    Uh-huh.  Right.  Thanks to the Bogg Street River, he¡¯d apparently landed himself in the upper Imperial Garden, most heavily warded spot in all Karellon.


    That Quetzali-shaped tree seemed to shudder with mirth; leaves shaking and rustling, berries shooting off like missiles to spatter its grumpy pursuer.  Moments later, a worried young elf-prince popped out of concealment (he¡¯d always had trouble maintaining invisibility, especially under attack).


    Prince Nalderick it was, dripping with scarlet tox-berry juice.  His Highness drew up short and sharp at the sight of Valerian and Cinda.


    ¡°Hullo!  What¡¯s this?¡±  Nalderick¡¯s hand dropped to the filigree hilt of his sword.  Val¡¯s was back in its faerie pocked, fortunately.  ¡°Who are¡­ wait. I know you, don¡¯t I?¡±


    Genevera shifted out of topiary form, at that point.  She was half a head shorter than Naldo, and clearly fed up with the evening¡¯s proceedings.


    ¡°Of course you do, Dickie!¡± she cut in, stamping a small, booted foot.  ¡°He¡¯s an extra player I summoned for your dumb, stupid, no-one-cares <u>team</u>!¡±


    Valerian started to protest, then decided against butting into a family dispute.  Both royals were brown-haired and slim, with vivid green eyes and explosive tempers.  There the resemblance ended, however. The princess was dressed for adventure, in rough garb that she¡¯d probably cribbed from a fantasy epic.  His Highness Prince Nalderick wore attire fit for the banqueting hall or a night of merriment; for scaring the peasants and mopping up all of the spirituous liquor in Karellon.


    ¡°You play court-ball?¡± he demanded, looking Val and Cinda over.  Circled them once for a better view, even.  ¡°We¡¯ve one practice left before facing the cursed Wyverns, and somebody¡¯s petrified a third of my team!  They¡¯ll be weeks recovering!¡±


    Erm, well¡­


    ¡°Naturally, they play court-ball, Stupid!¡± snapped the princess, peering up at her brother.  ¡°They wouldn¡¯t be here, otherwise.  Toldja I¡¯d get you more players.  Bet there¡¯s a third one, too.  Right, thief?  There¡¯s another guy, and you don¡¯t lose your heads here and now?¡±


    That was to say¡­


    ¡°Exactly!  You got three new players, Dickie.  Better hurry and get them registered for Six-day¡¯s game.  Big, stupid blond¡­ angry de-ranger and¡­ and¡­¡± she tranced briefly, snapping back out of her spell to announce, ¡°Sleeping-on-couch guy!  Feared for their strength and cat-like reactions, blah, blah.¡±


    Val bit his lip, looking down at the ground and his probably ruined dragon-hide boots.  Not going to laugh, not going to laugh, lord-of-my-ancestors, not going to laugh.


    Then someone else manifested, first as a glowing line in the perfumed air, next as another Valinor prince.  Everyone bent the knee, this time.  Even Genevera, with an eyeroll and deeply put-upon sigh.


    ¡°Great!  It¡¯s a party, now.  Why not call mum over to watch my escape-timing, too?!¡±


    Nalderick pushed impatiently past his sister, shutting her up with a muttered spell and a shove.  Temporarily, at least.


    ¡°Father,¡± he greeted the newcomer.  ¡°Prince-Ascendant Korvin Valinor ad Ildarion!¡± (There¡¯d been an older prince, the reputed father of Lady Alyanara.  Long ago exiled, his name stricken from every record and monument.) ¡°May I present my new teammates, Valerian and Kal¡­ no, Cinda¡­ along with one other, who is to join us tomorrow, prior to practice.¡±


    ¡°I summoned them,¡± boasted the princess, darting rudely in front of her brother.  ¡°They weren¡¯t here to steal stuff and kidnap me, honest.  Anyway, he¡¯s big as a northern ogre and probably not even house-trained.  My hero¡¯s not much taller than me, with dark hair and the sweetest voice in all of the realm.¡±


    Genevera melted into a smile at that, looking suddenly gooey and soft. So much for the princess.  For his own part, Val rose from one knee to find Korvin regarding him narrowly.  The Prince-Ascendant was a disappointing sight.  Slim and short, with lank dark hair, a perpetual frown, and ink-stained fingers.  His clothing was fusty and very old-fashioned; scholarly rather than grand.


    ¡°Hmmm¡­ A Tarandahl, you say?  Second heir to the seat of Ilirian, isn¡¯t it?¡±  Korvin¡¯s voice was pleasant enough, but his green eyes were flinty and cold as river rock.  His young daughter made a rude noise.


    ¡°Honestly, Dadness, who cares?  He¡¯s just what Dickie needed, so everyone can stop going on and on about stupid court-ball, now.¡±  Genevera simply couldn¡¯t stay out of that one-sided conversation, sparing Val from having to do or say anything.


    Korvin wasn¡¯t convinced, though.  Mused,


    ¡°Hmmm¡­¡± once again.  Turning, he glanced at Naldo, who nodded agreement.


    ¡°I know the fellow, Sir,¡± admitted the younger prince, gaining certainty as he continued.  ¡°It was¡­ yes.  On Grandfather¡¯s last royal tour.  We stopped off at¡­ Starloft, where this northern fellow played a tourney against my team.  Came near to defeating us, as I recall.¡±


    Korvin¡¯s entire demeanor changed on hearing ¡°Starloft¡±.  From alert skeptic, he went straight to eager and blinking scholar.


    ¡°Starloft!¡± Korvin enthused.  ¡°That is an ancient stone-giant citadel, I believe?  Predating Arrival?  Yes?  How extraordinary!  How very dashed fortunate!  Architecture has long been my passion, young¡­ Valerian, wasn¡¯t it? Yes, yes.  Of course you shall stay in the palace tonight, and guards will be sent for your friend, this¡­ Filimar?  Hmmm¡­ has rather an Arvendahl ring to it.¡±


    Korvin frowned slightly, as Val did his best to explain his heart-brother¡¯s exile and plight.  Pretty well, as it turned out.  Seemed to convince His Imperial Highness, at any rate.


    ¡°Hmmm¡­ we¡¯ll double the escort,¡± Korvin decided, adding, ¡°This is not a good night to be Arvendahl¡­ or Tarandahl, either.¡±


    Shaking a thought from his head, the Prince-Ascendant seized Val in a surprisingly powerful grip, urging,


    ¡°Come!  Walk with me, lad.  Dinner awaits my pleasure, with His Majesty off at the lair.  We dine when I¡¯m ready, and just now I¡¯d rather hear more about Starloft than push my food around on a plate.¡±


    He conjured a cyclone of inkwells and freshly carved pens, along with a swirl of paper, then hauled Valerian off by one arm.


    ¡°About those archways and columns, now, Lad.  How would you characterize their adornment?  Ornate?  Regal?  Utilitarian?¡±


    Genevera watched them head off, then turned to glower at Nalderick.


    ¡°There goes my timetable for the river escape route!  And it was beating the kitchen grate, too!  Now, I¡¯ll have start over!¡±


    The Prince-Attendant gazed at his sister.


    ¡°You didn¡¯t really summon Valerian, did you?¡± he asked, fighting a storm of emotion and half-recalled vision.  The last being Genna, still alive and trying to fight when Nalderick fell and the world turned to blood.


    Genevera shrugged.


    ¡°Maybe yes, maybe no¡­ that you know about,¡± she scoffed, making a face.  ¡°His griffin is coming and so is couch-guy¡¯s whole family.  Gramperor¡¯s got to ride this time, Dickie.  We have to make sure of it.¡±


    Cinda gestured in sign language.  Something along the lines of: ¡®If I don¡¯t kill V-a-l, first.¡¯


    Only, the royal siblings weren¡¯t watching her.  Nalderick chewed the inside of his lip, instead.  Then he said,


    ¡°I¡¯ll try them out on the ball court, tomorrow morning.  Hopefully Father leaves off his questions in time for the fellow to rest.  Take Lady Kal¡­ Cinda, that is¡­ to the maiden¡¯s wing.  See that she¡¯s looked after, then go to your rooms.  No more adventures, tonight.  I¡¯ll have dinner sent up.¡±


    Genevera put her tongue out.


    ¡°Fine,¡± she sniffed.  ¡°I¡¯d rather be up in my sanctum compiling results, anyhow.¡±


    Nalderick shook his head and then ported out of the garden, not waiting to see if she¡¯d follow instructions.  He had enough on his mind already, including revised game strategy with three untested new players.


    Genevera scowled as his gate sparkled shut, then swung back around to stare at the fuming ranger.


    ¡°Don¡¯t suppose you¡¯re any good at plotting escapes?¡± asked the princess.  ¡°I¡¯m leaving to start a new life for myself as a wandering minstrel.  There¡¯s half a candle-mark when the guards switch over and Father¡¯s court wizard recharges the mage eyes.  My escape can¡¯t take any longer than that.¡±


    Cinda looked around at that beautiful parkland, considering.  Then she smiled, signing:


    ¡®May have a plan, Highness.  Listen¡­¡¯

 Sword and Sorcery Six, chapter ten

    <u>10</u>


    Lord Falcoridan Arvendahl was nobody¡¯s game piece, weapon or slave.  He would not be used by the powers of Chaos¡­ but neither would Falco bow his head, submitting to insult and loss at Order¡¯s behest.


    A weapon of power had been created, was making its way toward Karellon, perhaps to the very same Tarandahl cur he intended to squash like a grape (in whatever guise or timeline the traitor infested).  That godly sword had been dangled before him like bait by his captive demon, Skyland¡­ but Arvendahl wasn¡¯t a fool.  Chaos gave nothing for free, left nothing behind but corpses, and Falco refused to be manipulated.  Would not serve any but one.


    As he paced amidst the weapons and artifacts of a wide and eclectic hoard, his lordship summoned food and drink for himself.  Ate a meal that he barely tasted; drank bottled glory and sunshine that could not impair him. Not here.


    There was more than one way to lash out at Tarandahl, he mused.  His hired assassins might have failed to corner the whelp, but the boy¡¯s weakness, everywhere, was¡­


    ¡°Friends.  Family.  He will not put them in danger.  Will not turn aside from a cry for aid,¡± mused the raven-haired lord.  He disposed of his leftover food, then magically cleansed himself, adding, ¡°And <u>that</u> may be played to advantage, luring traitor and exile, both.¡±


    Here in the ¡®stronghold¡¯ was manna aplenty (if very weird, grainy and cold).  The leftover dust of unworshipped gods, it brought its user great power and insight, while turning the mind to strange thoughts, wild obsessions.  Not Arvendahl, though.  Like mighty Sherazedan, he was <u>above</u> such frailty.


    Hmmm¡­  He¡¯d gated Tarandahl and the exile through a one-way portal on Vancora, shortly after attacking those cursed sea-elves.  Their essence remained in that gate, which his lordship could open again, with sufficient power and preparation.  Had to make ready, first, constructing a very specific cell, then reaching through place and time for his bait.


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    The traitor-apprentice and exile had loved ones and friends.  Very well. Let them suffer as Arvendahl had.  Let them feel the ones that they cared for, trapped and torn slowly apart.  Easy enough to choose <u>whom</u> to take.  Simple as slashing a throat, to then fashion his trap.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    ¡°Now, the truth.  Who are you, <u>really</u>?  Why have you come here?¡±


    ¡°I¡­ c- can¡¯t¡­ te...¡±


    ¡°Answer me!¡±


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    On Seahorse, gliding through sunlit waters, they''d all gathered down in the ballroom.  They were a friendly, uncritical audience, nodding polite approval as three clumsy small girls learnt to dance-fight.


    Then, in mid-note and awkward hop-shuffle, people were torn away from the cabin and ported right off.  Lerendar, Zara and Beatriz¡­ Lady Alfea and Bean¡­even Pudgy, who sensed what was happening and barked aloud.  The little dog lunged for his vanishing mistress as fast as four churning bowlegs could carry him.


    At Freeport, on Falcon, another was taken.  Meliara, golden voice of the gods, bowed her head.


    ¡°It is fated,¡± she whispered, there at the docked airship¡¯s rail.  Managed to turn to her paladin, Villem.  Said, ¡°I lo¡­¡± Then she, too, vanished away.


    Off in Karellon, meanwhile, Cinda was plucked in mid-flight.  Valerian¡¯s bodyguard, she would not be stuffed in some ¡®maiden¡¯s wing¡¯ to embroider shirts and await his return.  Halfway out of a high, narrow window (unconscious guards in her path) the dark-haired ranger popped out of sight like a furious bubble.


    Others were seized through space and time, both; Lady Faleena, with Arien, Sandor and Kellen.  These were caught as they ported, on the final leap of their desperate flight from Milardin.  More effort (but intensely satisfying) was reaching through time to seize Lord Tormun, just as that traitorous wretch was about to smash like an egg on the water.


    And then, last of all (puzzling, but taken off because that¡¯s where the blood-magic drew him) a hawk.  The flame-red bird wheeled high over Karellon, not seeking prey but its kin.


    All of them went between heartbeat and gasp, leaving flashes of light and the crack of collapsing air in their wake.  Every one of the taken intended as bait.

 Sword and Sorcery Six, chapter eleven

    <u>11</u>


    Trespass meant spiderling-crap when there was no place at all you were welcome. When ¡°Keep moving, Drow!¡± was the politest greeting you got; a sword-point, the commonest.


    To return was death. To stay on the surface, a constant fight for survival. An unending hunt for revenge. Kaazin was very well suited for stealth (and maybe the Flying Cloud <u>let</u> him get through).


    He stalked the airship¡¯s dark corridors without making a sound, barely seeming to trouble the air in his passing. Followed the route he¡¯d mapped out from the cell using shadow: two quick lefts, a brief straightaway and <u>there</u>, in a shallow alcove, was Glassy.


    She stood very still, just an unblinking crystalline statue now. Her animating spirit had clearly withdrawn, leaving the transparent pirate as lifeless as stone. Kaazin struck Glassy''s face with the hilt of his dagger. Evoked a brief, ringing chime but no other response.


    He trapped the sound in his cloak of darkness, seeking to trip no alarms on this ship of the dead. And death was certainly present. Cold spots, odd stains and half-glimpsed, splintered bone spoke of a crew quickly and violently murdered. (Perhaps by the airship itself.)


    Twice, Kaazin caught sight of himself in the Cloud¡¯s polished brass. Paused to look closer, seeing a very pale drow-mix surrounded by hovering shades. These seemed bound to the place of their death, still bearing terrible wounds. He shone among them unmarked. Alive, for the moment and prisoned in brass.


    Thing was, he should not have <u>had</u> a reflection. Not while still wrapped up in darkness and silence. Obviously, the Cloud could see him; knew he¡¯d escaped from his cell. Meaning¡­ what, and why for? Kaazin ceased walking to send shadow down-corridor, searching the ship a bit further. There was at least one living day-pudding left on this ghost scow, and he didn¡¯t have much trouble finding her.


    Hatches formed and bulkheads shifted, guiding the silent albino to a small central cabin. It was locked, but not sealed to one with Kaazin¡¯s deft skills. Took him a heartbeat or three to work out the hatch¡¯s pins and its stiff, balky tumblers (all with the sense of someone just over his shoulder, watching all that he did).


    Scouted with shadow as the lock clicked open. Next, he dogged the wheel and got through; sword in hand, ready to fight. The cabin was small, as shadow had sensed, containing only a washstand, a desk and a bunk. And <u>there</u>, huddled in filthy blankets, paler almost than Kaazin, lay a very ill human girl.


    She had thirteen winters at most and smelled like food for the wargs. (Having learnt from his mother¡¯s folk, he had a good eye for the worth of a captive. This one was strictly: discard, feed to the pack or the usable slaves.)


    ¡°N- No!¡± she gasped, coughing up spittle and blood, one side of her head grossly swollen. ¡°Get out! Cloud, get him away from me!¡±


    She must have received a response, as day-crawling officers did. The girl shook her bulging head. One brown eye burned hot with fever and pain. The other was pressed nearly shut by an overgrown skull and taut, shiny flesh.


    ¡°NO! I don¡¯t want him here, Storm. We¡¯re fine by ourselves! We¡¯re just FINE!¡±


    Almost a howl, that last bit. Kaazin resheathed his sword and edged cautiously forward, readying pockets and spells, driven by part of himself that wasn¡¯t pure drow. Day-walkers traded casual names and lineage on meeting their kind, but Kaazin hadn¡¯t the time or the interest.


    ¡°You are dying,¡± he stated. ¡°An eater has taken hold in your head.¡±


    She coughed once again, her skeletal body wracked nearly double. Recovered enough to straighten and hurl a knife at him, which Kaazin caught in midair, faster than thought. Something skittered and pressed at the edge of his mind, seeking entrance. Trying to speak.


    He held the knife by its blade for a moment, then flipped it up into an overhead beam, where it stuck fast with a <u>THUNK</u> and low <u>Hummmm.</u>


    ¡°Again, as I said, you are dying. I could finish the job¡­ but I sense that your vessel seeks other doing. Healing, probably.¡± Mortals fell ill very easily, but weren¡¯t much trouble to cleanse, if one had the interest and tools.


    That skittery feeling tickled the base of his thoughts once again, joining up with the airship¡¯s vibration, the stench of mortal illness and the silent shriek of the dead to prod Kaazin forward. The bunk was narrow and low, bunched up with a very sick girl and foul blankets. The eater¡­


    ¡­was <u>there</u>. It looked like a dark-glowing, tendrilled crab, denned up inside of her skull, pressing her brain nearly flat. Its parasite strands reached from that base and spread through her body: draining, weakening, killing.


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    His quarry, Bonesetter, would have said: ¡°Such demons must be driven away, before the body may heal.¡± Kaazin shook his head, thrust aside memory. Aloud, he said,


    ¡°It seems that your ship wants you set to rights, whole and unmarred, day-hen. That, I can do, with or without your consent.¡±


    Only her right eye made tears. The other, swollen and gummed, could no longer cry.


    ¡°We don¡¯t n- need you,¡± she spat, weak as a starving kitten.


    Kaazin shrugged. Made as if to turn and depart. Only, the air seemed to congeal around him, tightening like a fist. Meanwhile the hatch disappeared entirely, sealing them inside.


    ¡°Cloud, nooooo!¡± wailed the girl. ¡°We don¡¯t need a frek drow, or anyone else!¡±


    That tickling pressure was more like a headache, now (which struck even elves and their kin, sometimes). Kaazin turned back. Made an impatient, green-trailed sign in the air and snarled,


    ¡°Paralyze!¡±


    The girl froze at once, only the pulsing-dark eater inside of her head still moving; still drawing life from her small, scrawny form. The albino half-drow pulled a certain dagger and needle out of their cross-plane sheaths. Both were poisoned, tainted with spider venom potent enough to lay waste to a city, if plunged into its water source. Particularly strong against eaters, who also feared light.


    ¡°You may speak,¡± he allowed, after reaching to turn the girl¡¯s head. ¡°What happened here? What became of the crew?¡±


    Needle, rather than dagger, he thought. Better for delicate work, when survival mattered. The demonic parasite had sensed him; was draining the girl even harder, now. She gasped, ragged as bloody bandaging. Then,


    ¡°Mutiny. After our ship¡­ after Mia¡¯s Joy was attacked¡­ mum shoved me into a locker, but I saw¡­ I saw¡­ There was nothing aboard but some books for a mage on Epona. No dream dust or gold. Nothing of value but a little jewelry. Dad an¡¯ mum got killed trying to fight. I wasn¡¯t worth selling¡­ Cloud¡¯s crew were m- mad. Three dead, and no profit.¡±


    Kaazin was genuinely interested, not knowing enough about airships (pirates, especially) to gauge his own peril. Found the best spot on her head from which to approach. Made another glowing green sign in the air, saying,


    ¡°No feeling.¡±


    The needle was only a finger long, but extensible, as not every target was elven- or human-sized. At his muttered command it expanded in length and sharpness. Then, using shadow to guide him within, Kaazin pressed its poisoned tip to the swollen flesh at the base of her skull.


    ¡°They mutinied,¡± he prodded. ¡°Then what?¡±


    The girl hissed aloud, feeling nothing at all, but sensing his movements.


    ¡°Then they ganged up and killed the captain at table, while he was eating. Stranded the mate on a little floating island to die, h- handed me around for a while, then locked me up in the brig to sell, later.¡±


    Kaazin nodded. Such stories were frequent and sad¡­ for the victim. This time around, he¡¯d kept himself out of raiding and slave-trading. Not that it mattered. He pushed the envenomed needle in, holding her tear-stained chin in one hand as he drove in that bright mithral point.


    ¡°You were locked up. What happened afterward?¡±


    The girl sniffled.


    ¡°They got really drunk, all of them. Broke into the rum stores and had a big party, got themselves blind, stupid, staggering dak-faced. Cloud spoke to me in my cell. I couldn¡¯t much hear him, at first. I was¡­ it¡­ Anyway, Cloud told me to hold on tight. Then he climbed and rolled over, so everyone passed out on deck just fell off and died. The ones still inside, Cloud killed with splinters or squashing the walls together¡­ three with a passageway fire¡­ two just trapped in a cabin till they died of thirst. All the bones are still here, someplace. They¡¯re part of the decks and the hull, now.¡±


    Kaazin grunted sourly. As his quarry had often put it, ¡®Spin the wheel, take your chances¡¯. They¡¯d spun and they¡¯d lost. Badly. Their problem. Not his.


    The eater attempted to shrink away from his probing needle, but guided by shadow, Kaazin could not be evaded.


    ¡°Thy choice,¡± he said to the parasite, switching to high-elven healers cant. ¡°Flee or be slain.¡±


    Emotion and memory stayed in their tight mental bonds, clearing his head for the task at hand, which wasn¡¯t a simple one. Commanded but not accepting it, that demonic parasite lashed with its tendrils. Fought to infect him with some of its mote-like parasites, but¡­ elf or drow¡­ Kaazin could not be harmed by such nightmares.


    ¡°The pirate crew died in their stuporous sleep. What happened next?¡± he demanded, as the needle at last reached that quivering mass. He pressed the probe¡¯s base injecting spider toxin into the eater, but not in the girl.


    ¡°Then¡­ Cloud took care of me in my cell, sending food and water till they were all dead and¡­ and ¡®absorbed¡¯, he said. After that, he let me out and made me the first mate. He¡¯s his own captain. Says he won¡¯t ever have one, again.¡±


    She¡¯d stopped crying at that point, as sometimes dragging things out into torchlight or day-shine robbed them of power. Sometimes.


    ¡°And then you turned your hand to piracy,¡± he guessed. ¡°Never went back for that stranded officer?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± admitted the girl, as the eater inside of her shriveled from pulsing black to pale, shredded grey, then to nothing at all. ¡°Cloud didn¡¯t want anyone aboard that might tell him what to do. Said Salem could look to herself.¡±


    Kaazin nodded again.


    ¡°It seems that she did,¡± he remarked, carefully withdrawing the needle. ¡°That was her that you froze, aboard Falcon.¡±


    ¡°I thought so,¡± said the girl, sounding sleepy. Then, ¡°Am I still going to die?¡±


    Kaazin shrugged. Cleansed the envenomed needle with sigil and word, then put it away. Released the girl¡¯s chin and dropped paralysis, saying,


    ¡°Sooner than later, as you are mortal¡­ but none of us gets a contract chiseled in stone. I live to kill someone. After that¡­? There is no place or purpose for Kaazin, who likely will die.¡±


    ¡°Cloud thinks you¡¯ll do,¡± murmured the girl, settling back onto illness-stained pillows. Bonesetter would have called it a job well done. Bonesetter was going to wish he was dead, many times over. Sooner, rather than later.


    Kaazin cleansed the girl, her bedclothes and bunk with a spell. As she drifted to sleep, he heard:


    -Thank you, Quartermaster, - inside his thoughts. A sere, no-nonsense voice. One he¡¯d be hearing a lot, in the days to come.

 Sword and Sorcery Six, chapter twelve

    <u>12</u>


    ¡°You have come to sow chaos, to disrupt His Majesty¡¯s ride!¡±


    ¡°No, I¡­ I don¡¯t know what''s happened, but¡­¡±


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    At the Tipsy Lord, a jilted (but well-fed) assassin checked base through the shadows. It seemed that his orders had changed. No great matter to him, and nothing personal. In no real hurry, he used the last dregs of Serrio¡¯s blessing to savor his wine and his food (for so very long, just a dim memory).


    Then, as contract and fate clamped down, Mandor the Charmer dropped a pile of gold coins on the table. Left a polite review in the tavern¡¯s ether, too: Best meal I¡¯ve eaten in five hundred years that wasn¡¯t served screaming and fighting.


    That done, the assassin changed forms, becoming an icy mist that coiled and swirled its way through the startled patrons and servers. Could have slain any or all of them, but toothsome roast meat¡­ dripping with grease and still sizzling¡­ fresh, hot bread slathered in golden butter, sharp cheese and (most of all) <u>wine</u> had brought satisfaction and peace. Let them all live. They¡¯d earned it.


    He might even have lifted his paw and allowed the young mouse to scurry away for a bit. All part of the fun. Guest-right held for three days, after all, binding even one such as Mandor. But the scoundrel had fled first, taking that by-catch lass along with him. The assassin could feel them both, some fifteen miles to the west of Karellon. They¡¯d darted off to the imperial palace, it seemed, as tightly warded a spot as the Constellate House. Well enough. Mandor had time, and the start of a plan.


    Out through the tavern he drifted, lightly brushing its patrons; aging this one, healing that one, doubling the other¡¯s small stash of coin, as his sense of fitness and humor dictated. Then, up through an unshielded smoke vent and out to the street once again.


    There, across a wretched and holy river, he encountered his colleague. Fallon had tracked their mark from the other side of the Bogg Street barrier, trapped by its clean, running water. She was in shade form, so horrific of aspect that Mandor was thrust right back to his physical shape. Her awful face stopped the last feeble beat of his heart, as well. Warmth vanished. Utter stillness settled within him again, driving away his brief flush of life.


    ¡°You let him escape,¡± accused Fallon, her terrible voice withering greenery and summoning nightmares for five miles around.


    Mandor shrugged.


    ¡°He had help. The gods are involved, or I am a fool, and the dragon is coming as well. Surely that blessing struck even <u>you</u>.¡±


    As a tortured shade, Fallon normally had just one expression, that of her death. Now, that frozen terror and shock altered slightly. Her appearance changed and her wounds seemed to heal, as well.


    ¡°I was a kitten again,¡± she whispered, in almost a calm, gentle voice. ¡°I was playing at darts with my brother, in the time before everything happened.¡±


    ¡°Mmm¡­¡± mused the vampyre, nodding. ¡°And¡­ has your contract ¡®slipped¡¯ just a bit? Wording faded somewhat?¡± he prodded cautiously.


    Out in the moonlit street, a murdered tabaxi princess nodded.


    ¡°It has,¡± she admitted. ¡°I am still bound¡­ yet there is room in the collar to turn, now.¡±


    The folk of Low Town whimpered and huddled behind their sealed shutters, their triple-locked doors. Those who lacked better shelter crouched beneath trash and junk in the alleys, for death stalked the city this night. Fallon reached through the streets and the shanties, searching.


    ¡°One mark lies dreaming still, in the house of Oberyn. The other has hidden himself yonder, in the palace of elves,¡± sang the banshee, eyes blazing sapphire-bright in the darkness. She could hold physical shape for only the space of thirteen breaths, ordinarily. Some of Serrio¡¯s blessing must have lingered, though, for Fallon Deathsinger was able to stay in her own ravaged flesh; a half-grown kitten, still wrapped in tattered wedding finery.


    Mandor stroked his chin with one hand, considering strategy.


    ¡°Luck is with us tonight,¡± he decided. ¡°I can feel that old charlatan, Oberyn, loading the dice. Perhaps we follow our orders up to a point. Perhaps we help heaven¡­¡±


    ¡°¡­and heaven helps <u>us</u>?¡± scoffed Fallon. ¡°A thousand years after the last bloody prayer? The last cry for rescue? <u>Why</u>? And why <u>now</u>?¡±


    It had happened before. Time after time, the cycle continued, and both of them knew it.


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure,¡± Mandor admitted, glancing west, where the topmost spires of a beautiful palace caught and threw back the moonlight. ¡°But I feel as though something has finally shifted, Fallon¡­ and an egg may be cracked many ways.¡±


    This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    She was melting at the edges, dissolving back into shade form. But it was a tabaxi kitten¡¯s voice, not a banshee¡¯s wail that replied,


    ¡°We shall see.¡±


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Space and time fold; all of a piece, but quite rumpled and packed, as though stuffed within very tight boundaries. Point being, folk and events far distant in time, linearly, can be almost on top of each other when seen from a higher dimension. Draw a line on a napkin, then crumple the napkin up in your fist. Sometimes that line nearly crosses itself, bringing disparate things close together.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Inside of the dark, shuttered airship, Miche went hunting, searching for Dark Cloud¡¯s engine room. Marget followed behind him, so close that she bumped right into the elf when he suddenly halted. That happened four times, as Miche sorted through traces of long-vanished folk and old tragedy.


    ¡°I do not care for this ship,¡± growled the orc, smelling strongly of worry and pre-battle stress. ¡°It is thick with death. Walking its halls is like stirring a pot of cold slave-porridge.¡±


    Nameless didn¡¯t like it much, either. The marten stayed hidden in Miche¡¯s cloak hood, small head on the elf¡¯s right shoulder, claws hooked tight into fabric and flesh.


    ¡°Whatever happened is long past,¡± soothed Miche, reaching up to stroke Nameless. ¡°And we are in great need of shelter and transport, Meg.¡±


    ¡°If it doesn¡¯t decide to kill us, first,¡± grumbled Marget, who trusted her own splayed feet over any accursed machine.


    The elf half-turned to regard her, placing his hand now on Marget¡¯s right arm.


    ¡°Cloud will not kill us,¡± he promised. ¡°It is near to the final silence, itself, from ages-long waiting. I seek a thing called the ¡®engine room¡¯, where its heart may be started again.¡±


    The orc muttered something unkind and mostly untrue in reply, but relented, snarling,


    ¡°Be swift, Old One. These walls seem to close and the ceiling to drop with each step.¡±


    ¡®Bulkheads¡¯ and ¡®overhead¡¯, corrected the part of Miche that was Lord Erron. (Silently.) This ancient wood vessel was primitive from <u>his</u> perspective, but it felt very good to be striding a deck once again; alive, free and whole.


    ¡°This way,¡± he said aloud, guiding them into a starboard passage. Ships being ships, the engine room would be placed low and aft, situated so as to grant mechanical advantage to the airship¡¯s drive system.


    Down corridor next, and into a narrow ladder-well, which he took at a slide, gripping its smooth metal handrails while pressing his boots in, as well. First shouted,


    ¡°Coming down!¡±


    ¡­though there were only the wispy dead to take notice. Marget clumped through more cautiously, having to drop her axes and sword to the elf, first. He caught them with feather fall rather than have his brains dashed out all over the deck. Steadied the orc as she squirmed and grunted her way down the ladder. Quite an extensive vocabulary, she had.


    ¡°How am I meant to get up there again?!¡± Marget demanded, red-eyed and panting, once he¡¯d eased her onto the lower deck.


    Miche shrugged.


    ¡°A coat of grease?¡± he suggested, half seriously. ¡°Transformation spell? You might make a very nice songbird.¡±


    She snorted like an aurochs, growling,


    ¡°I will hunt down and slaughter all of your rebirths, Vrol, until at last I grow weary of hearing your shrieks. No grease, and <u>no</u> transformation. A Free Person I am, and a Free Person I stay. We find something else, or I make a new path, with my muscle and axe.¡±


    She meant it, too. Had retrieved her weapons from their resting place in midair and stood there ready to swing. Dark Cloud had enough strength to create a new hatch in the passage, providing a shortcut. The starboard bulkhead first thinned and then parted, with a noise like splintering timber. The newly formed portal creaked slowly open, looking more like a set of raggedy jaws than a doorway.


    Miche and Marget ducked through, avoiding its crisscrossing shards and razor-edged pipes. All of that brass displayed weirdly distorted reflections. Sometimes of <u>them</u>, more often of others long dead.


    ¡°No ship at all, but a <u>tomb</u>," snapped Marget, as she struggled to free her long braids from shattered dark wood and old bones. On the other hand, once Miche had helped disentangle his furious heart-sister, they very soon came to the engine room.


    He ignited a mage light as they opened the hatch and stepped in. A rippling glow blossomed at Miche¡¯s tense word, revealing the long-silent heart of Dark Cloud.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Elsewhere (far distant in one sense) a hurtling junk-claw plunged like a thunderbolt. Pilot reacted, very nearly too late. In that chaos of flashing lights, crunching metal, shrieking alarms and titanic machinery¡­ that intense foundry heat¡­ he had time and wit just to port himself upward, over the onrushing bucket. Hung in tipsy midair for an instant, then landed hard on its plummeting surface.


    First day, new body, and very few linked cyborg parts. He lost his footing and balance. Twisted an ankle. Fell sideways, scrabbling for purchase on rough and unyielding metal. His fingers were flesh, now, and the pilot could not magnetize cyborg feet he no longer possessed. His boot soles were Sure-Grip, though; shifting their contours to match any surface he needed them to.


    Only just didn¡¯t slide off and fall to his death on the heaped, squirming junk-pile below. Dangled, briefly, clinging to one of the bucket¡¯s huge teeth by a riveted seam and his well-placed boot. Caught his breath and then flipped athletically upward. Landed on top once again, this time right by the bucket¡¯s immense, rusty chain.


    Next drew a sign in the air, grunting, ¡°Slow time¡±, which¡­ did not come from personal files or any show-vid he¡¯d ever seen. Worked, though, as the air turned to fiery pudding around him, and everything slowed to an overclocked crawl.


    The pilot¡¯s heart was unregulated, now. There were no chemical squirts or music loops to calm its wild thumping. Nothing to gentle his harsh, ragged breath. He clung to the chain. Pivoted, looking up and around for something¡­ anything¡­ to halt the bucket¡¯s descent. Spotted the mechanism controlling the junk-grabber; all slow-blinking lights and massive, meshed gears. Good enough.


    Working fast, Pilot traced another sign in that syrupy air, leaving a red-golden sparkle in the wake of his moving finger.


    ¡°Lock,¡± he commanded, on what Boomer would have called ¡®a hunch¡¯. The strategy worked, stopping the bucket¡¯s motion entirely. Its corroded jaws spread out just inches shy of the writhing discards, but didn¡¯t bite down. Its swing had knocked something aside, though; a dented old hover cart. Below that lay part of a battle-mech torso. From its torn wreckage projected a flickering lavender advert.


    ¡°I got Behuggled at Bide-a-While Station!¡± it flashed, almost too pale to be seen. <u>V47</u>.


    Pilot cried out; completely unheard over all of that hellish, thundering noise. Slid, dropped and scrambled, finally porting himself to the shattered remains of his partner. His friend.

 Sword and Sorcery Six, chapter thirteen

    <u>13</u>


    ¡°Perhaps you truly know nothing. Perhaps you are only a tool in the hands of one more dangerous still. <u>Tell me who wields you!</u> Reveal the name of your¡­¡±


    -Unauthorized research-


    (Light and power flared suddenly. Memory files were erased. Critical elements, repositioned, and¡­)


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Valerian blinked, looking wildly around. Found himself in¡­ looked like a palace corridor, just outside of an ornately carved double-door. But¡­ he¡¯d been off in the gardens and then¡­ questions. Someone had asked him a lot of strange questions. But, why¡­? Who¡­? The uprooted elf could no longer recall. He swayed with fatigue and distress; kept himself upright through sheer willpower, feeling terribly sick at his stomach.


    Stood alone in a cold patch of moonlight; exposed by a long silver grid that was shaped like the diamond-paned windows across the wide hall. His heart pounded and jerked as though he¡¯d just fought a desperate battle. Still worse was the sudden grim sense that everyone he loved was in mortal, deliberate peril.


    Valerian pivoted in mid-corridor, seeking power and ley-lines, reaching out for the hand of his god. Got an answer, almost faster than thought could shape itself into prayer. A very faint portal opened before him. Must have used untold manna, required life-draining power to maintain a gate in this fiendishly warded place.


    ¡°Valno, this way!¡± he heard, glimpsing the misty shadows of Filimar and Vikran the Younger, cleric of Oberyn. ¡°<u>Hurry</u>!¡±


    Cinda¡­ was no longer here, nor anywhere else that Val could reach with his magical senses. She¡¯d been taken; removed from his ken together with Alfea, Bean, Lerendar, Beatriz and Zara¡­ even his Aunt Meliara. Not dead. Thank the gods, holy flame, not dead. Only kidnapped. Stolen away in the probable hope that he¡¯d follow and then attempt rescue.


    ¡­and follow, he would, with volcanic rage in his heart and death in his wake.


    Fire and sparks lit up the air around Valerian. His half-length blond hair streamed backward, flaring bright as the sword that leapt from its pocket and into his hand.


    ¡°Bright One, Lord of Battles,¡± he grated, praying through tightly clenched teeth. The carpet beneath him frizzled and scorched, filling the hallway with smoke. Marble cracked, and the window-glass began puddling. Val noticed none of it, raging, ¡°Grant me strength, courage and victory, Father of Blood and of Steel! Not for myself, but for those in danger, put my enemy into my hand!¡±


    Alarms howled throughout the imperial palace. Mage-eyes streaked through its halls, racing for the source of that strange, sun-like flare. Lady Solara, court wizard, ported over ahead of the mage-eyes. Staff in hand, spells ready, her magical aura pulsing around her, the sorceress materialized. Arrived just in time to see a blinding-bright former journeyman step through a rift that shouldn¡¯t have been there. Should <u>not</u> have been possible.


    Magically searching the palace, Solara learnt that the ranger had vanished, too. Not in the same way and time, though. Cursing, she summoned a contact globe. Spoke into it urgently, heat or no heat. Doused the flames with one hand, snapping,


    ¡°Lock down and seal! Double the guard on the egg and His Majesty! Escort their highnesses to the safe chamber, now! Azoth Protocol! We have been breached twice over!¡±


    At Solara¡¯s word, the alarms changed their timbre from general shriek to last-ditch defense klaxon. Only a god or a demon could have broken her shielding, and just for a splintered instant. Long enough to let someone out, or to send something <u>in</u>.


    Summoning manna, Solara turned to the hunt. To ferreting out what had happened, and just where that wretch of a trespassing rustic had taken himself.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    Deep in the long-silent airship, Miche lit up the engine room. His mage-glow reflected off mithral and brass, causing puddles of inky-dark shadow that shifted when he did. Stepping further within, the elf saw mighty gears and long, cylindrical shafts, along with a quiescent spell globe. The drive-system. Behind it, set in a series of shielded alcoves, hung three intricate cross-planar motors. The perpetual motion machines, stilled for so long they¡¯d begun to corrode.


    The Erron part of him growled in frustration. Warding and anti-rust spells had to be strong enough to reach <u>all</u> parts of a mechanism, including those that were half out of sync. Otherwise, corrosion and rot <u>there</u> would creep over <u>here</u>, fouling the delicate system. Happily, he knew just how to deal with such problems. Glancing at the glowering she-orc, he said,


    ¡°Do thou keep watch, Warrior. I will do what I may to restart the engines.¡±


    Marget studied his face and his stance. Detected the shifts in voice, expression and posture that meant someone other was grasping the hilt now. She nodded warily, saying,


    ¡°Before, in the place of assemblers, you asked that I speak. You said that it drove away shadows. Should I do this again, as you work?¡±


    The elf surprised her with a very brief, tired smile.


    ¡°Thank you,¡± he said, nodding. ¡°I would greatly appreciate that. Speak, sing, tell a story¡­ no matter. Just let me hear the voice of a friend.¡±


    It had been terribly hard; their laughter, the torment and deliberate shaming. In the end, told that they¡¯d found the escape ship... that they would bring those he loved back to see what was left of him¡­ Erron had cursed himself to death, using that warped final magic to bind his captor and bless the escape ship. He¡¯d killed himself, so long ago that there was no way to tell if they¡¯d made it to freedom and safety. Hana, the baby, his children¡­ his terrified people. Out of his ken and his reach, forever.


    The orc placed a firm hand on his trembling shoulder, chasing shadows away with her touch. The taste of raw-throated blood, the sound of his own awful screams¡­ all of it shoved aside by unlooked-for rescue. By a second chance, for a coward who¡¯d chosen to die.


    ¡°I will stand watch,¡± she promised. ¡°My oath to your freedom and safety, One-who-has-honored-Vrol. Nothing gets past me this day, or any other.¡±


    A promise she meant and would willingly die to uphold.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    V47 Pilot dropped down onto that burning-hot junk pile. Onto wrecked beings still somehow clinging to life; still broadcasting scraps of faltering error-code. Scrambled-slipped-clutched his way through thunderous clamor and volcanic heat, struggling to reach a glimmering lavender advert. Time resumed normal flow as the pilot lost concentration, fixated solely on reaching the flickering hologram.


    ¡®I got Behuggled at Bide-a-While Station!¡¯ it sputtered, in symbols that wavered, distorted and faded; that broke apart into hurtling pixels then came back together again, luring him onward.


    Had he still been a cyborg mech-core, Pilot would have gotten there faster. This mostly flesh body was weaker and slower; unable to scan its surroundings in any but aural and visual frequencies. He forced himself to keep going, though, because somewhere inside was V47. The bits of junked systems and assets around him helped, too, shaping themselves into a staircase. Forming steps that he vaulted two at a time to reach the battle-mech¡¯s shattered torso.


    ¡°V,¡± he cried out and sent. ¡°Unlock your base code! I¡¯m here!¡±


    Next leapt down to a twisted, breached cockpit, landing with a thud that he could barely sense over all of that grinding roar and vibration. Spotted the gutted remains of his contact plates and nerve-probes, dangling like viscera. Saw scanning feeds, weaponry uplink panels and¡­ <u>there</u>, V47¡¯s central processing pylon, with thank-all-the-code-writers, its AI cartridge still locked into place.


    Pilot lunged forward, moving as fast as low power and a stiff, swollen ankle would let him. There was still some charge in the cockpit auxiliary unit. V47 Pilot tapped into it now, drawing those last few flickers of manna to scan himself in and retrieve the cartridge. Pulled¡­ almost tore¡­ the thing free, collapsing atop shredded green padding that had cradled him in flight; had shielded the pilot through countless battles.


    ¡°I¡¯m here, V. I¡¯ve got you!¡± he gasped, almost sobbing. ¡°You¡¯re safe, and by the last Keystroke, so is everyone else! <u>STOP TIME</u>!¡±


    Unbelievably, the command was received and accepted. All over OS1210, everything froze. The ravaging buckets, that white-hot incinerator and every asset on Orbital Station and Cerulean Dream. They halted, locked into stasis by Pilot¡¯s command.


    ¡°Sleeping Beauty spell,¡± he thought, irrelevantly. The cartridge alone continued to move. It vibrated in his grip, as though the consciousness trapped inside was clawing the virtual walls to escape; as worried for <u>him</u> as he¡¯d been for V47.


    All sound had ceased, except when he got up and pushed his way through the near-solid air and into a pressure wave. Then, at extremely low frequency, he heard the frozen clangor of sirens, felt the seismic blare of a warning call:


    -In¡­ ter¡­ ce¡­ pt¡­ De¡­ str¡­ oy¡­ Ki¡­ ll¡­-


    Right. Past time to go, but not without giving his word to those left behind. The ones who labored and fought here, just to be thrown out like trash at the end of their usefulness.


    ¡°I will come back for the rest of you,¡± he assured them. ¡°I will find out where the makers have hidden themselves, end this war, and force the system to free us!¡±


    Could barely push words out through air like hot tar (but meant every one of them). Just had to get to the hangar and launch bay first. Find a battle-mech shell, upload V47, then escape this echoing trap of a space station. After that: Etherion.

 Sword and Sorcery Six, chapter fourteen

    <u>14</u>


    Sera sat in a guarded and silenced waiting room, along with the rest of Vancora¡¯s crew. She¡¯d brought the ship¡¯s log with her, but couldn''t open it, or speak¡­not even sign¡­ with her people. They were together, but no communication was permitted.


    Time passed. A little over two candle-marks, she reckoned, as one after another, the airship¡¯s surviving crew were removed from that windowless room. Starting from lowest rank first, witnesses were signaled out of the barren white holding cell and into the chamber beyond.


    There were thirteen hard wooden chairs, immovably placed by the white pour-stone walls. No sound. Nothing to look at but the guard and each other (though not very well, as their faces had been magically blurred). Two unblinking mage-eyes patrolled the ceiling, watching all that transpired below.


    From cabin girl to chief, the others were drawn from the room and did not return. Finally, alone in that deeply uncomfortable space, it was Sera¡¯s turn to come forward.


    Swallowing hard, the nervous half-elf got to her feet and tugged down her borrowed uniform. The Marine guard at the inner door beckoned impatiently. Made no difference <u>what</u> she looked like, Sera supposed, starting across a hard floor that did not ring, scuff or thump underfoot.


    Head up, back straight, she stepped through the door from silence and painful white light, into an opulent chamber. Took her vision a bit to adjust to the natural lighting, which streamed in through windows as tall as Vancora¡¯s main mast. There were muted noises as well; occasional shuffling feet or rustling cloth, muttered comments, someone pouring iced water. Like music, all of it, to one who¡¯d heard nothing at all for three candle-marks.


    Guided by the Marine (a young, pale-haired elf) Sera walked along a strip of light marble, the only bright note on that polished obsidian floor. Came to a set of three steps and a sort of dais, which featured a smooth wooden railing. No chair, and only a glass of water by way of amenity. At the guard¡¯s gesture, she mounted those steps to stand at the rail, bracing herself to look upward.


    Milardin¡¯s finest families were represented up there, along with the major trade guilds. At center, perched on the council¡¯s high seat, was a young elf-maid with severely braided black hair and very blue eyes. The Lady Sheraza, grim and cold as a hovering night-hag. She was dressed in somber clothing of finest cut and luxurious fabric, with no ornament at all save her mithral circlet of rank. The girl was Arvendahl¡¯s niece, Sera recalled, adopted as a very young child and raised by his lordship¡¯s staff.


    At the Marine¡¯s nod, Sera cleared her throat, saluted and made a reporting statement.


    ¡°Leftenant-select Sera Cliffwatch, second mate and acting captain of the city¡¯s ship Vancora, reporting as ordered, my lady¡­ members of the council,¡± she stated, forcing some steel and confidence into her voice.


    Stolen story; please report.


    Sheraza nodded slightly, calm as a marble headstone.


    ¡°Noted. You are not on trial here, Leftenant Cliffwatch. You have been summoned to give witness to the events leading up to, and during, the loss of Milardin¡¯s fleet. There is a spell of truth on the witness stand. Should you attempt to lie, or conceal anything vital to this investigation, pain will be administered. Do you understand?¡±


    Sera inhaled sharply, then bowed; her forehead brushing the wooden rail.


    ¡°Yes, my lady,¡± she whispered. ¡°I will tell the truth and not lie or leave anything out. You have my oath on it, as Vancora¡¯s senior officer.¡±


    ¡°Very well,¡± said Sheraza. ¡°You may begin, commencing with the fleet¡¯s departure from port.¡±


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    One at a time, they materialized. Confused, clutching at friends and family, along with a few perfect strangers. They¡¯d been stolen from elsewhere through space and time to land on a very high, narrow pillar of stone. There were sounds of crashing rough water below, and a wall of swirling clouds all around them. Above, only darkness.


    From that streaming grey cloudbank shot lightning and fanged, snapping mouths. The pillar¡¯s edges were unstable; would not bear weight without cracking. Torn from the Seahorse between one breath and the next, Lerendar struggled to get his bearings. Counted heads, finding Beatriz, Zara, his aunt Meliara, Alfea, little Bean and his brother¡¯s bodyguard, Cinda.


    There were others, as well; four Arvendahls, a woodling female and even a screeching red hawk. One of the strangers edged over to Lerendar, moving carefully, so as not to jostle the tightly packed others. Dressed in a torn, bloodied uniform, he¡¯d pulled himself from the arms of his woman, who laughed and wept uncontrollably. He was bony of face, with bright blue eyes and lashing black hair. That flame-colored hawk was perched on his shoulder; talons dug into cloth and wings outspread for balance.


    ¡°Tormun Arvendahl ob Vestryn, late of the Deathstroke,¡± he shouted, over howling wind and wild lightning. Clasped a hand to Lerendar¡¯s shoulder in greeting.


    ¡°Lerendar Tarandahl ob Keldaran, of Ilirian, second heir¡­ maybe. Still worth it, if not,¡± called back the tall elf-lord, adding, ¡°Any idea what¡¯s happened?¡±


    Another snapping, grisly mouth launched itself out of the cloudbank on the end of a muscular, rubbery stalk. Both elves were armed, and both attacked the monster at once. Swords flashed in unison, slashing that hissing dark head from its stalk. Tormun booted it over the side, accidentally causing three feet of cliff to sheer off.


    ¡°Not the first clue,¡± he shouted, hauling Lerendar out of the way of a lightning bolt. ¡°I was thrown from my ship for resigning command¡­ think I died¡­ now this. Where are we?¡±


    Not one of the hells, surely, or the little ones wouldn¡¯t have been there. In any case, it was too dark, too chaotic and violent to guess at location. Lerendar shook his head, stepping back into Bea as more of their pillar crumbled away.


    ¡°Not sure. Let¡¯s get the females and children as far in as possible. Form a defensive circle around them.¡±


    Tormun nodded agreement, but Beatriz would not move to the center. Would not be protected.


    ¡°I can fight too, Ren!¡± she objected, battling to raise her voice over tempest and hissing attack. His wife never went anywhere without her potion-belt and would not let him face danger alone. Not ever again.


    It got worse after that, because Cinda and Meliara were not inclined to obedience, either. Aunt Melly had spells and future-sight, Cinda her bow and a dagger that froze whatever it touched. And they, too, could fight.


    Bean was shoved into Zara¡¯s arms then packed in with Lady Faleena as the rest¡­ Tarandahl and Arvendahl together¡­ formed a ring facing outward. And that¡¯s when the real trouble started.

 Sword and Sorcery Six, chapter fifteen

    <u>15</u>


    He was <u>many</u> things, but none of them stupid. None of them weak, or prone to yield under threat of destruction. He was on trial in absentia for losing the fleet and igniting a war with Averna? So be it. Let Milardin fall into the sea. Easy enough for an earthmover; a powerful elf-lord blazing with hatred and wrath. Let a great wave be triggered from under the water, scrubbing Milardin right down to the bedrock, and let cursed Shanella be blamed for the deed.


    As for his other trap, the bait was already dangling, soon to be taken. All that he needed to do was corrupt most of Karellon''s portals. Rig them to send their travelers where he intended, or nowhere at all. That hundreds of thousands of innocent people would perish meant nothing but good to Lord Arvendahl. Their manna and deaths would fuel his own aims, making certain the <u>rest</u> of his plan.


    ¡°The wretch has allies,¡± mused Falco, drumming the fingers of his spell-hand against the scarred wooden table where¡­ in better days¡­ he¡¯d feasted and studied with mighty Sherazedan. ¡°Time and again, that lick-spittle pair have provided comfort and aid to their warg-son companion.¡±


    The stronghold shifted around him, seeming filled with the whispers and laughter of spirits. Bound in ethereal chains by the greatest of wizards, they perhaps sensed a less-worthy hand at the wheel¡­ but that would soon change. They could laugh all they wanted, so long as they did as he bade them; achieving first vengeance, then freedom for one who mattered more than his heart¡¯s blood and life-breath. Escape for one he¡¯d trade everything else in the world to bring back.


    Shaking emotion away, Arvendahl called on the power of every demon and djinn who haunted the place. Saw in his mind¡¯s eye the allies, tabaxi and wood-elf; luck-wielder, tree-lover. Reaching out through the ether, he made ready to snatch them away from their doings in Freeport. Away from the Sword and its witless guardians.


    Not enough to just shunt the allies aside, nor could he slay them. Not even with one-sided gates. Like the traitor himself (that offspring of fallen princes and whoring gods), they¡¯d been fate-shielded. He had other means to be rid of them, though. Easier methods, and far more amusing.


    Arvendahl traced a sign in the air, drawing power from twelve-hundred corrupted portals and thousands of sudden small deaths. Next, he reached through space to seize the tabaxi and wood-elf. One heartbeat passed, two, and they formed in the air before him, wide-eyed, silenced and writhing. Arvendahl strode to the place where they hovered, pinned by the stronghold¡¯s unbreakable magic. Stared for a moment at a grubby druid and puff-tailed tabaxi, then shook his head.


    ¡°Away with you,¡± commanded Lord Arvendahl. ¡°Be altered in semblance, stripped of your past and cast off through time! Let us see how much good you are to the warg-pile when scattered like ash.¡±


    He completed his spell with a flourish, watching as the imprisoned druid and rogue began changing forms, then vanished entirely. They were somebody else¡¯s problem now, leaving the traitor alone and near friendless. Freeing his lordship to hunt.


    ¡°Skyland!¡± he thundered. ¡°To me!¡±


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Something was wrong with the gate. Rather than bring him directly to Filimar and Vikran, it smeared into sudden dense mist. To a half-place of terrified shrieks and weird echoes. He could sense Arvendahl¡¯s hand in all this. Started to ready his last-magic, but¡­ there was a strong draining current at work. An implacable tug on his power. Try as he might, he could not form a spell without losing manna.


    Then, somehow, Lerendar turned up with Pretty One. Just standing nearby, at first, then reaching into Val''s faerie pockets. They took something¡­ the gifts of Burrough¡­ leaving a bottle of potion in its place. His brother¡¯s presence grounded Valerian, calming wrath, bringing safety. More than that, in this place of no where and all whens, he could sense that his brother was seeking him.


    ¡°Karellon, Low Town,¡± he managed to say, as Lerendar reached out to grip him. A bit of power flared through that misty contact.


    ¡°I¡¯m coming,¡± he heard. Then the portal wrenched itself open, thrusting Valerian onward.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.


    The Dark Cloud¡¯s perpetual motion machines needed a great deal of work, but Erron (through Miche) got all three of them sorted. First, he cleansed and oiled the wheels, their azits and pendulum bars, then rotated those nested gears through all five dimensions, unjamming their many teeth. A few very strange things had been caught in there, not all of them peaceful or dead.


    Anyhow, he got the job done, warded all the while by a glowering, axe-wielding orc. Satisfied, the elf-lord sat back and glanced at her briefly, saying,


    ¡°Watch this.¡±


    All it took was a quick, light tap to each cross-planar mainspring, and the machines whirred to life; frictionless, glittering, beautiful. The heart and soul of Dark Cloud. Marget leaned over his shoulder to watch as the elf cut on that quiescent transfer globe.


    ¡°The machines will now run until stopped,¡± he told her. ¡°But they lack the strength to power a ship of this size. The transfer globe amplifies output to charge up the manna tanks, running the drive system, too.¡±


    ¡°Hunh,¡± Marget grunted. ¡°This bucket of ghosts will now fly?¡± she demanded, poking a sausage-like finger at one of those whirling and chiming machines.


    Erron finished tinkering with the spell-globe, then got to his feet. Spell-cleansed and dusted himself, shaking his head.


    ¡°Not yet,¡± he admitted, finding a tiny sliver of smile. ¡°The Cloud is too badly drained. We¡¯ll need to wait at least¡­¡±


    That¡¯s when it hit him, like a fist to the stomach or a stomping boot to the kidneys. The sudden cold sense that Firelord¡­ that the missing small god was in terrible pain and grave danger. Miche swayed and started to fall, catching himself on a section of drive-cowling. As Marget reached over to seize him, the elf heard a cold, distant voice; taunting, threatening.


    A gate split the air directly in front of him. It wavered and danced, weirdly misty and edged in dark fire, just wide enough for one person. Through it he saw a high cliff¡­ and the witch. Worse, in one gnarled hand, that hag clutched a flickering globe of red light. She laughed aloud, pointing to the ground at her feet. Though her speech was tainted and garbled like everything else in this place, her meaning was clear: Come to me now, or he dies.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Through that tomb-silent orbital station went V47 Pilot, the rescued cartridge and memory stick safe in his trans-dimensional pockets. He could not port himself or commandeer any hover-carts. Frozen time locked everything else but the pilot, and he couldn¡¯t move very quickly. Battling air like hot mud was a struggle. On the bright side, he had all the time in the cosmos¡­ so long as that ¡®spell¡¯ kept OS1210 in stasis.


    He ran into the frequent pulses of thicker air that were sound waves, hearing bytes and tatters of noise as he pushed his way out of Recycling. Stopped several times for food-stock and water (which would not flow but had to be bitten and swallowed in rubbery chunks).


    At last¡­ taking no time at all for the station, near three standard days for Pilot¡­ he came to the hangar. Next had to choose and climb into a battle-mech shell. There were hundreds of thousands moth-balled and ready in back, stowed away from the time when there had been more than just Gold, Blue and Red Flights¡­ a time when pilots had numbered over a hundred-and-fifty thousand. Not just as assets, either. <u>People</u>.


    V47 Pilot shook his head, wandering the miles-long boarding gantry that spanned OS1210¡¯s back-hangar ¡®boneyard¡¯. Made his decision at last. Settled on a Mark-12 Titan, because it could seat two (Pilot himself and Foryu, whom he very much wanted to see). Also, because it was massive and very well armed. What Ace called ¡°a crowd pleaser¡±, meant for pitched battle on actual dirt, down-planet-side.


    The Titan was a very tall, blocky and old-fashioned mech, but it would do. V47 Pilot looked longingly at the immobile gantry elevator, sighed, and then started his climb through dense, scorching air. Two food stops later, he got to the cockpit and U-coded in, using: OPENUPACCESSOS1210.


    The cowling unlocked and creaked slightly open. Then its motion stopped, balked by that file-not-found Sleeping Beauty Spell. V47 Pilot grunted in weary frustration but got straight to work, hooking meat-fingers in through a very slight gap, then straining like fury to widen it. That took another food break plus a short, restless power-down. He eventually levered the cowling up far enough to squirm through, with a flurry of show-vid cursing and badly scraped, soft, worthless flesh. <u>Why</u>, in the name of all Base Code, had he wanted a non-cyborg body?! And¡­ what would Foryu think of his change?


    Hadn¡¯t an answer for either question, so shoved them into a junk-file for ¡®never¡¯. Next dropped into the Titan¡¯s cockpit which¡­ delivered a pleasant surprise. There were two actual seats, he noticed, both having safety restraints and padded headrests. No contact plates or nerve-probes, but genuine instrument readouts and haptic controls.


    V47 Pilot smiled, placing a hand on the Titan¡¯s wraparound instrument panel. Everything, all of it, he knew from the show. From Ravn, who¡¯d lost his entire unit on Vernax-3, fighting the Draugr, but had never given up Speedy, his Mark-12 Battleoid.


    ¡°I can do this,¡± whispered the pilot. ¡°<u>We</u> can do this.¡±


    The Titan¡¯s cartridge-slot was there, just to the right of its twin control sticks, exactly as modeled in Rogue Flight. Nodding, Pilot drew V47¡¯s AI cartridge out of storage, then pushed it into the waiting receiver. Had to fight frozen time, and didn¡¯t get instant results because¡­ well, nothing could happen for anyone else but <u>him</u>, so long as that spell was in place. Right.


    He took a very deep, difficult breath and said,


    ¡°I¡­ do not know if there is anyone who will receive this, or who cares for the fate of an asset¡­ but I need help. Please. I cannot fully install my partner without letting time flow, and¡­ and I am afraid. I fear that we will be detected and killed before we can launch. Please¡­ I have something very important to do. Not just for me, but for everyone else who is trapped here. Let this work. Let us get out.¡±


    And then, finger over the upload button, V47 Pilot dropped his spell and re-started time.

 Sword and Sorcery Six, chapter sixteen

    <u>16</u>


    Lady Alfea did not join the defensive ring on that crumbling stone pillar. Nor did she huddle inside the perimeter, with Beanie, Zara and Lady Faleena. Instead, she kissed her baby¡¯s wee face and the top of Zara¡¯s head, then handed Pudgy across to Faleena. With no time for goodby, she turned herself into a swirl of bright air. Next placed her blessing on all those below; afterward streaming up into the storm and then changing her form once again.


    Van was coming. She could feel him reaching for her and the baby in thought. But her young husband would not find them helpless or hurt when he got there. Rising still higher, that lavender whirlwind shifted into a lovely Quetzali maiden. Alfea had changed, becoming all graceful, winged fairy above, with the lashing tail of a feathered serpent, below. Her long purple hair trailed into the clouds, while her beautiful eyes shone with pent lightning. Raising her voice, she cried,


    ¡°You would send tempest and gale to imprison a princess of air? The winds are my playmates. The storm is my brother. See how they slip from your grasp, monster!¡±


    Alfea extended her hands to either side, summoning power. Then,


    ¡°Peace,¡± she said to that roiling cloud bank. ¡°Return to the sky, wild one. Be free of compulsion and servitude!¡±


    Something like a face formed in those streaming dark clouds, outlined by lightning and filled in with tumbling vapor.


    ¡°Freedom is taken, with thanks,¡± it howled. ¡°But there is another, far greater, within. Beware!¡±


    The storm simply melted away after that, revealing a frigid dark night with a rising moon¡­ a pillar of crumbling rock rising from turbulent water¡­ the jagged outline of towering mountains¡­ and a reeking coil of fire-shot smoke.


    ¡°Would you free my lord¡¯s slaves, fledgling?¡± purred the smoke-demon, in a voice of crackling flame. ¡°Rather, he will capture you to replace Tempest, taking you out of the bottle once every ten-thousand years to¡­ (indescribable filth). Come, little slut, little whore! Come fight, and then practice with <u>me</u> for your eternal service to Arvendahl!¡±


    And then, laughing insanely, growing to fill all her view, Skyland turned itself into a skull-faced tornado of fiery blades.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    <u>This</u> time, the portal worked, almost alone of those in the city. Valerian rocketed through it. Was caught on the far side by Filimar and Vikran, the cleric of Oberyn. Found himself back in the Chapter House courtyard, braced up by his worried friend... facing the cleric and a numberless horde of wide-eyed young orphans.


    Filimar pulled him into a rough hug; all tense, coiled anger and¡­ hope? Val leaned away. Studied his heart-friend¡¯s face for a moment, then guessed,


    ¡°He¡¯s alive? Your father¡¯s been¡­¡±


    Filimar released him to step back and nod, blue eyes shining with unshed tears and a fierce need for action.


    ¡°He <u>lives</u>, Valno! I have felt his return. He¡¯s with mum and my set. Only¡­¡±


    ¡°Only they¡¯re caged someplace,¡± cut in Val, adding, ¡°My retainer and family, too.¡±


    ¡°It is certainly a trap, my lords,¡± cautioned the silver-haired cleric, bowing respectfully. ¡°If you would deign to heed the advice of one long in the service of Oberyn¡­?¡±


    The elves glanced at each other, then both of them nodded at once.


    ¡°Speak, Vikran,¡± said the tall blond (impatient, but very much minded to listen). ¡°What is your god¡¯s command?¡±


    Their half-elven host smiled, his bushy dark eyebrows relaxing over those crinkled brown eyes. Cleared his throat, saying,


    Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    ¡°Lord Oberyn bids you make ready to fight, more with your heads than your blades, for once. (<u>His</u> words, not mine.) That you trust none of the city¡¯s transit gates, nor any portal opened by Lord Arvendahl. Use only bright magic: flight or misty-step¡­ and (<u>his</u> words, again) ¡­ ¡®All is risked on a toss of the dice and a movement of pieces, but the knight-gallant, archer and priest must think for themselves and strike as they will.¡±


    Vikran¡¯s voice changed, growing subtly deeper. His stature altered as well, increasing the cleric¡¯s height as he channeled Lord Oberyn. Valerian bowed deeply in response, dragging Filimar down by the cloak.


    ¡°Good priest, I would not place you at risk, but¡­¡±


    ¡°My lord bids me join you,¡± said Vikran, shaking his head. ¡°As Chaos has taken with one hand, so Order must give with the other.¡±


    Taken? Val felt through his links to those that he cared for. Felt them all living, still, just ported out of his ken. Except¡­ All at once chilly and shaken, he sensed the loss of a certain druid, and thief. Gone. Torn away further than death would have taken them.


    His heart clenched within him for Gildyr and Salem, whom he¡¯d long done his best to evade and ignore. Whom he¡¯d scorned as unworthy companions.


    Once again, sparks and flames filled the air around Val as he surged upright; not just angry this time but riven with guilt.


    ¡°My enemy has done this, and he will very much pay,¡± growled the young elf-lord, lighting the courtyard with flame-glow and wrath. ¡°I will track him down through whatever shadows he haunts, whatever forms he might take, and root out his evil, forever!¡±


    ¡°And I, as well!¡± promised Filimar. ¡°Blood for blood, without mercy or cease, until all is repaid!¡±


    Vikran nodded soberly, shrinking once more to an old, half-elven cleric.


    ¡°May it be so, my lords. Now, prepare yourselves. Channel manna into as many items as you can charm in a hurry, for the enemy drains power at a word, and he fights not fair, nor alone.¡±


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Miche started forward, lost in a storm of confusion and turmoil. Firelord needed him, was caught by the witch and would die without help. The sword leapt into his hand from its pocket as Miche went to the hag¡¯s burning gate. Only, a big hand clamped down on the elf¡¯s shoulder, suddenly. Taking tight hold, Marget tore him away from that glimmering doorway and hurled him across the engine room. Then, roaring like a tornado, axe in hand, she leapt through the portal herself.


    ¡°Meg, no!¡± shouted Miche. He landed, rolled upright and summoned his sword, which had spun away to strike point first, stuck in a deck-seam. Used magic¡­ near all that he had¡­ to keep that accursed rift from closing; fighting to get there; to save his god and that brave, stupid, stubborn-hide orc.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Time resumed its flow at his word, bringing back ambient sounds and immediate danger. Warning klaxons blared through the hangar and comms system. OS1210 was under attack once again, by more waves of Draugr than V47 Pilot had ever scanned or read file of.


    Cursing with all the red-hot urgency of a mech-jockey needing to launch (now, now, right the dreck <u>now</u>!) Pilot mashed that upload button. Then, faster than organic senses could process, V47 was there, meshing back into his thoughts, sparking the regrowth of circuitry.


    There was no time at all for more than a hurried, exultant reunion. V47 tore its new mech body free of the gantry, flexing its massive arms to shred adamant metal like paper and string. Next ignited impellers to boost itself into that siren-pierced air. A helmet appeared, which the pilot jammed on for its primitive nerve-feed and contact-plates. There was a brief, sharp sting as V47 lanced a probe wire into the base of his skull. Then the pilot¡¯s awareness jumped from cockpit to clamorous boneyard, as he became the Mark-12 Titan.


    ¡®It would seem wise to depart, Pilot,¡¯ sent V47.


    Right. As Icebox would put it,


    ¡°That¡¯s affirm, Buddy. Time to leave nothing behind us but dust and broken hearts.¡±


    He half-melted three mech shells doing it, but lit up his boot-thrusters and then streaked out of the hangar. Dropped twisted clamps and shorn beams on the way, just skimming past the jaws of the hangar¡¯s blast shield. Had to turn sideways to get through, losing some paint in a shower of fiery sparks.


    Out to the launch-bay, next, ignoring commands to -stop! ¨C  Dodging laser fire as he used the Titan¡¯s force shield to bowl over twenty-two startled red battle mechs. Like a bull in a hen house, came a strange thought.


    Those fallen mechs and the other assets weren¡¯t trying that hard to stop him, whatever commands they were sent. After all, when a (totally synthesized) fire broke out in the control tower, who had time to deal with a single unauthorized launch?


    There was a force shield blocking the runway, though, able to strengthen from atmospheric retention to ¡®repel boarders¡¯ mode. It was in near-solid orientation, now; dense enough to entrap him like a gnat in hot glue¡­ if he went through it.


    ¡°Exhaust port, V. Open it!¡± ordered the pilot, completing the thought long before saying ¡®exhaust¡¯.


    -Which vent, Pilot? There are twelve arrayed on the overhead and seventeen more in a grid on the launch deck. ¨C


    ¡°What? Oh¡­ all of them, V. Open them all, assign random numbers, then¡­¡±


    Already done. The Titan fired a burst of lens-blinding cover, then climbed wildly twenty degrees to starboard. Hurtled into a mostly open exhaust vent, then up through an echoing quarter-mile shaft, blasting past flak-screens like they were cobwebs.


    8.37 ticks later, the Titan rocketed out of a hull portal. Soared out into space and a solid wall of Draug fighters. 42,126.5 miles away and closing faster than thought.

 Sword and Sorcery Six, chapter seventeen

    <u>17</u>


    As a powerful earthquake tore through Milardin and down to the turbulent ocean beyond¡­


    As three sleek imperial dreadnoughts slid from concealment to hang in the skies over Freeport¡­


    As the remaining folk aboard <u>Seahorse</u> counted heads and took stock of their losses¡­


    A sudden portal appeared in the chapter-house courtyard, scattering orphans like leaves.


    A roaring she-orc slapped a red globe from the witch¡¯s tight grasp, instead of just striking her head off.


    The Entertainment Division scored yet again, feeding a particularly fiendish version of the Halting Problem to OS1210¡¯s main system.  They used a forgotten, largely unshielded ¡®hold-music¡¯ link to slip right in like a blade between ribs, just about shutting the station entirely down.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Lady Alfea was good clean through, but neither stupid nor weak.  Summoning lightning out of a clear night sky, Fee willed a spear into existence.  Long, wickedly sharp and pulsing with runes, the weapon glowed like the wrath-of-Heaven it was, and it fitted her grip precisely.


    ¡°You have set a trap for a lion,¡± she said to that skull-faced tornado of blades, ¡°using a dragon for bait!¡±


    A feathered serpent, to be exact.  A Quetzali princess thrust from her home in the clouds but filled with the sky¡¯s divine fire.


    ¡°Vagruk, I name you,¡± she said to the demon, lashing out with her spear.  Its barbed head struck through a host of whirling sword-blades and into the fire-shot smog underneath.  ¡°Foul smoke of the enemy¡¯s corpses, begone!¡±


    Skyland laughed wildly.  The demon came apart all at once, dissolving into a shower of skulls and sword-blades that rained down like fiery hail on the people below.


    ¡°And Seraphea I name you, doxy; driven by lust to drop from your heaven and tangle your limbs with a cursed elf!¡±


    Far below, Arvendahl¡¯s hostages heard the chiming voice of a Quetzali warrior, the crackling roar of a demon, but they had little time to react or pay heed.  Blazing skulls swirled around them, snapping sharp fangs and jetting dark flame.  Fiery swords hissed down from the sky, wielding themselves as they fought to reach the circle¡¯s mid-point, seeming to target young Zara and Bean.


    Lord Tormun shored up their pillar, raising stone from the seafloor; creating a series of platforms from which they could fight.  To Lerendar, he bellowed,


    ¡°My coin says, if we put down that demon, these heads and the blades stop at once.  Fifty gold, Northerner!  You in?¡±


    Lerendar couldn¡¯t resist a bet (and neither could Cinda).  Over the clamor of thundering surf and rumbling stone, over the chaos of battle, he shouted,


    ¡°Accepted, Dirt-heaver!  A hundred gold says I land the first blow!¡±


    Sadly, (for them) the ranger was already in motion; springing from one crazily tilted stone platform to the next; black arrow fitted and ready to fly.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Back in the chapter house courtyard, Vikran shepherded gaping young orphans away from that sudden portal, pushing them into the safe house with spells.  Meanwhile, Valerian studied his lordship¡¯s mage-craft, closely examining the sigils and runes with which Arvendahl had opened the way.


    ¡°I know where they are,¡± he told Filimar, glancing briefly aside from those swirling and flickering symbols.  ¡°North, on the haunted coast.¡±


    Filimar¡¯s gem-blue eyes narrowed.


    ¡°That¡¯s a long way to misty-step, Valno.  We¡¯d be drained to an inch of our lives when we got there.  What else can we¡­¡±


    ¡°By the power of Oberyn,¡± cut in Vikran, having shut the house door and set wards.  ¡°I can bring there over here.  Not porting or gating but folding the land in between.¡±


    Stolen story; please report.


    Valerian worked up a few handy travel spells, recycling himself over and over for time to think.  Now, gazing intently at Vikran, he said,


    ¡°That is very great magic, Hand of Oberyn.  Something that only a god could empower.  Will there be harm to the lands in between?  To all those being so ¡®folded¡¯?¡±


    Because they mattered, and Val would not slide to Lord Arvendahl on an ocean of innocent blood.


    ¡°They shall not be harmed,¡± promised Vikran (in more than his own voice, once again).  ¡°In fact, ¡­total coincidence¡­ such flexure of space may deflect the odd earthquake or tidal wave.¡±


    Filimar¡¯s slim, dark eyebrows shot up into his hairline.


    ¡°Psikreth!¡± he spat.  ¡°Of <u>course,</u> that whoreson descendant of swine would bring down Milardin!¡±  Turning from Val to the cleric, he urged,


    ¡°Hurry, please!  I¡¯ve people, friends, everything there!  Do what you must, old man!  Just take us to Arvendahl!  Help us to stop him!¡±


    The cleric nodded.  Then, raising his voice and bowing his head, chanting aloud in a strong, steady voice, Vikran once more channeled his god.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Elsewhere, Miche had to turn sideways to get through the portal, time in which Dark Cloud saw fit to act.  Using the little manna it had, the airship sent armor.  Black and ice-blue, ghostly at first, those adamant plates and helm streamed from their rack in the hold to congeal around Miche.


    ¡­who was not done with surprises.  Rather than being ported directly to the cliff, where Marget was facing a murderous witch, Miche found himself in a strange, misty half-plane.  No armor, no sword.  Not alone, either.  Another elf came into focus, along with a very young goblin.


    Miche reeled backward a moment and stared.  His heart reasoned out what his mind had forgotten: that here was his brother, standing with one who¡¯d become the best of allies and friends.


    The other elf was clearly a lord of some distant land; tall and strong, dressed in casual finery, with long golden-blond hair and blue eyes.  He reached out for Miche, speaking as if from a very deep well.


    ¡°Shorty, it¡¯s me.  I¡¯m going to¡­¡±


    Then he vanished, only to flicker right back again.  Miche¡¯s heart jumped, but¡­ ashamed of the burdens and evil he¡¯d carried¡­ the younger elf couldn¡¯t quite look at this newly found brother.  Felt his magical pockets get raided and altered, as the phantom said,


    ¡°Look, I don¡¯t know what¡¯s happened, Miche, but we¡¯re going to fix this.  We¡¯re bringing you home.¡±


    Home¡­  Had he dared to look up or to speak, Miche might have asked: What happened?  Who am I, really? What did I <u>do</u>?  But that chilly mist cleared before he could make himself speak, and then he was out through the portal.


    Landed light as a cat on coarse brush and loose rock, at the top of a wind-scoured cliff.  There, his sword and new armor appeared once again, fitting like they¡¯d been his all along.  Except¡­  His sword had no blade.  Just a very strange hilt with three glowing buttons.  Some trick of the portal or maybe his ¡®brother¡¯, but there was no time to figure out which.


    Looking swiftly around, he saw that Firelord had shriveled nearly away, was no more than a wisp of pale flame in the air by the cliff¡¯s edge.  That the witch had lost her spell-casting hand to a sweep of the axe; had her spurting stump clamped in the pit of her opposite arm as she spat out hexes and blood.


    Some five yards away, Marget¡¯s arms had been turned into serpents.  Still attached at the shoulder, those sharp-scaled snakes were attacking Meg.  She had one of the writhing beasts pinned to the ground with a booted foot.  The other serpent was wrapped tightly around her, its fangs buried deep in the orc¡¯s upper thigh.  Already, its venom was working.  She looked across at him, asking silently¡­ not for rescue¡­ just not to die here, alone.


    Miche lunged forward.  Opened his mind and heart to the almost-dead godling as he raced over to Marget.  Then the witch hobbled into his path.  Commanded,


    ¡°Gstrat!¡± which was something like ¡°Stop!¡±


    She¡¯d taken his blood, forced his obedience back in her dark little hut.  Tried to command him again, using the bond that she¡¯d forged between them, howling,


    ¡°Voreket! Ailiedan yrc!  Ailidan yrc, grachli!¡±  (¡°Slave!  Kill the orc!  Kill the orc, quickly!¡±)


    Might have worked like a charm on just Miche.  But not on an elf-lord of two-thousand years.  Not on Miche, with Erron.  He shook his head, clearing it.  Muttered the ¡®Lord of Battles¡¯ prayer to strengthen that half-dead small god, and then he ignited the energy blade.


    Three feet of crackling amber light shot out of its hilt at a touch to the uppermost pommel stud.


    ¡°No,¡± he snarled at that furious hag.  ¡°I will <u>not</u>.¡±


    She raged at him, battering her former captive with horrid illusion and torment.  Hurled the sensations of drowning, skinning, burning and worse, but still he stalked forward.


    ¡°Your echoes of pain cannot frighten one who¡¯s lost everything, Servant of Darkness,¡± growled Erron, through Miche.  ¡°Whatever your worst, hag, it isn¡¯t enough!¡±


    The witch yanked that truncated wrist out of her armpit, inscribing a sigil in midair with glowing green fire and arcing blood.  Arett, it was: Final Banishment.  A cold and howling dark vortex opened up in the night behind Miche, hauling at Erron, dragging the elf-lord¡¯s thoughts and memories halfway out of him.


    Then Meg ripped the left snake from her arm-socket and kicked it at Ulnag.  Firelord acted as well, binding his own fading strength to their tattered and slipping ¡°guest¡±.  Nameless leapt from Miche¡¯s hood to Ulnag¡¯s face, screeching and barking aloud.  Hit the ground and then darted off, but distracted her, giving his friend time to act.


    The young elf swung that blade of light in a sizzling arc, disrupting Ulnag¡¯s sigil and vortex.  Spun around and slashed downward, next, cleaving the witch from her scalp to her waist.  She fell in two halves, and he should have paused to make sure of her death, but Meg was terribly wounded.  The orc had crashed to her knees on that gore-soaked cliff, stunned and bleeding.  Looked at him, whispering,


    ¡°A good death, wasn¡¯t it¡­¡±

 Sword and Sorcery Six, chapter eighteen

    <u>18</u>


    The girl¡¯s name was not ¡®glassy¡¯ but Tess.  Short, as she put it, for Amaratessa.  First daughter of a merchant whose luck had run critically short in the pinch.  Such was life.  You picked yourself up, gathered the pieces, learned and moved on¡­ or you died and left others the wiser.


    Tess had ascended from captivity to the rank of first mate in a crew of just two.  Her unlikely shipmate was Kaazin Kylarion, who counted any day not imprisoned or threatened with death as a win.


    All that to say, having been pressed into service, the Flying Cloud was expected back in port within the fortnight, bringing Arvendahl¡¯s corpse or proof of his grisly death.  Hadn¡¯t achieved that, so far.  Cloud would have made do with Kaazin for witness and substitute, only the outcast had now joined the crew.  His crew.  (Could an airship be male?  This one felt male.)


    Complicated, to be sure, and Cloud was back on the hunt as a consequence.  Had already accounted for two of the day-walker¡¯s ships, without nailing Arvendahl, himself.  Not Kaazin¡¯s true goal, but important.


    On the one hand, Kaazin owed that vile drek-warg as messy a death as could be hastily crafted.  On the other¡­ he had more important, more <u>personal</u> quarry to tackle.  Also, though rid of the eater, Tess was mortal and still very weak.  She¡¯d be no use at all in an actual fight.


    -Quartermaster, the first mate is in pain- Cloud informed him. -She requires relief at the helm-


    Sure.  Why not?  The airship¡¯s interior was a bizarre, shifting maze, only opening out to the top decks when Flying Cloud felt like permitting access.  Kaazin had spent his time wandering.  He did not need much sleep (had his high-elf side to thank for that, he supposed).  Could only spend so much time eating and exploring (with a red, narrow magical eye gliding along the bulkhead beside him). Had nothing better to do than play nursemaid.


    So, the glowering dark-elf took himself up to the main deck, then further aft to the helm, battling a considerable headwind and tilting surface, but not much else.  Light didn¡¯t blind him or burn his flesh.  He¡¯d spent enough time practicing exposure in an upper cavern with Bonesetter, back when¡­ when he still believed they¡¯d escape together.  That his accursed father had meant all those worthless vug promises.


    There was almost a gale, topside, for the ship was in motion, soaring high over water and sparse, scattered islands (some floating, some anchored).  Wind¡­ moving air in the face or pushing him hard, like a shove to the back¡­ Its force had come as a shock.  He still didn¡¯t like it, and reflexively spell-bound his silvery hair, while stalking over to Tess.


    The mortal female stood by the ship¡¯s wheel, looking haggard and pale.  Only just didn¡¯t cling for support to the posts and handrails that Cloud had erected around her.  Very thin, she appeared, and still lop-sided.


    ¡°I am here.  Go below,¡± he ordered that brown-haired scrap of a human.


    ¡°Good afternoon to you, too, worthless <u>drow</u>,¡± she snapped back.  ¡°Plus, I¡¯m <u>fine</u>.  Go sneak through the passages or lurk in the armory, or something, and leave me alone!¡±


    Kaazin¡¯s habitual scowl deepened as he thought back over his words.  Found nothing at all impolite, but (shrugging) said,


    ¡°Good over-bright afternoon.  I am here. Go below,¡± he amended, adding a sigil of pain relief, too.


    Tess blinked at him, all at once freed of a thundering headache.


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    ¡°I don¡¯t <u>need</u> to, and you¡¯re an insubordinate, cave-sliming¡­ stupid¡­ Gaaaah!  Shut up, Cloud!  Go away!¡±


    Must be an interesting place, her head, thought Kaazin, mildly enjoying the show.  Prodded to speech by the Flying Cloud, he offered a bargain.


    ¡°You will share strategies for tracking down Arvendahl, and I will stand watch at the helm.  Or I can pitch you over the rail and be well shed of a noisy irritant.¡±


    ¡°I <u>hate</u> you,¡± she spat.


    ¡°So does everyone else.  Next topic: Arvendahl.  Where has he gone to ground, and how do we start the jackal from his burrow?¡±


    Tess wouldn¡¯t have sat, had Cloud not tilted its deck, formed a chair, and then knocked the thin knees out from under her.  Very instructive (and funny, too).  Only more amusing if she¡¯d been injured, but that was a drow sense of humor, not high-elf.


    Cloud¡¯s deck rippled like water, moving that newly formed chair further away from the helm.


    -Quartermaster, you will now take control- ordered the airship.  Kaazin stepped forward, making an annoying show of patting that big, spoked wheel.


    Tess cursed like a goblin and struggled to rise, but a sudden lap belt restrained her.  That, and exhaustion.  He¡¯d been trained to see and gauge pain and remaining endurance.  The girl had none of the first, now, and very little remaining of the other.  Needed to be back in her bunk and recovering.  Doubted she¡¯d listen if told to bed down, though. Shaking his head, Kaazin kept to the basics, because whatever he said would be wrong.


    ¡°Milardin is not the day-crawler¡¯s only stronghold.  There is also Snowmont, and a hunting lodge up on the coast, near the Ilirian border.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve been researching him,¡± Tess accused, proudly not touching the back of her unwanted seat. (It expanded and softened to cushion her, anyhow.)  Kaazin glanced away from the airship¡¯s controls and its glittering chart-sphere.  Replied,


    ¡°On the one hand, he needs as much festive killing as anyone I¡¯ve ever crossed paths with.  On the other hand¡­ she had five fingers.¡±


    ¡°Wh¡­ what?¡± blurted the mortal girl, stifling a laugh.


    Caught in a moment of actual <u>self</u>, the drow clamped shut again.  Turned away from her, resuming his watch at the helm.


    ¡°Nothing. A stupid saying.  The words of a future corpse.¡±  And then, because shifting the subject was his best non-violent defense, ¡°Why have you turned privateer?  Why accept an imperial leash?¡±


    -Not a leash, Quartermaster- cut in the airship, flexing a steering vane to bank slightly eastward. -We operate between the twin forces of sea-realm and empire.  So much predation is allowed, in return for occasional ¡®jobs¡¯.  This is but one of those jobs.¨C


    ¡°None of your beast-wax!¡± snapped Tess, at the very same time.  ¡°Cloud, let me goooo!  It¡¯s embarrassing!¡±


    Very few things (that weren¡¯t bleeding) could make Kaazin laugh.  Her expression and struggle provoked a snort of amusement, and he enjoyed the sight before asking,


    ¡°So, having accepted this job¡­ or been forced to¡­ how much wiggle-room do you have with the terms?  Find and slay Arvendahl, or¡­ what?¡±


    ¡°Or face a non-stop gauntlet of dreadnoughts, each with a topflight mage aboard, slinging death-spells.  Cloud can manage stealth and defense.  I can handle negotiations.  You¡­ can go boil yourself in the sewage tank, but we can¡¯t dodge the whole imperial fleet, forever.  Bottom line, we give them what they want, they leave us alone.  Mostly.¡±


    Kaazin nodded.  The arrangement seemed perfectly reasonable to him.  Dark-elf diplomacy generally began with an oath and ended in bloodshed.  Fewer bribes and long speeches, that way.


    ¡°Then we will hunt down the day-fly, kill him and bring back his head,¡± decided the drow, adding, ¡°My boiling capacity aside, I am a battle-mage.  My spells are meant for city guards and road patrols, though, not for fleets.  I will need to adapt them.  In the meantime, if I was Arvendahl¡­ planning further assault while evading notice¡­¡±  Kaazin considered a moment, staring hard at the airship¡¯s chart-sphere.  ¡°I would go to a hidden place, far from others, where I might order my forces and magic in peace.  I would go far.  North, let us say.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s no <u>us</u>!  There¡¯s no <u>we</u>!¡± exploded the mortal.  ¡°You¡¯re a barnacle!  You¡¯re a drekkin¡¯ blood-tick, and as soon as Stormy comes to his senses, you¡¯re <u>gone</u>, drow!¡±  Then, more raggedly, ¡°Right, <u>fine</u>!  Whatever!  Thanks for healing me, I hate you!¡±


    Not a surprise nor especially upsetting, and watching her sputter and rage made him smile.


    ¡°North it is, then,¡± he mused, caressing the Flying Cloud¡¯s wheel.  ¡°<u>We</u> shall certainly find <u>our</u> quarry there and slay him <u>together</u>.  This alliance suits me.  Working hand in hand with my trusted crewmate, possibly forever, shines in my thoughts like the Cavernous Sea.  In fact, we¡­¡±


    Her hands were not bound, and Tess could still throw the odd spanner or binnacle-bat.  Kaazin snatched them all up in mid-flight; graceful, negligent, smiling.  It was going to be a very long journey¡­


    For Tess.

 Sword and Sorcery Six, chapter nineteen

    <u>19</u>


    The Titan could shape-change, but not very quickly.  Much larger than the other, Red Flight, battle-mechs, that behemoth was a natural rallying point.  Its shielding was planetary in scale and its weaponry second only to the station itself or Cerulean Dream.


    (Had he done damage to the vent blasting out?  Yes.  Yes, he had.  Would they get over it¡­?  Probably not.  Demotion was coming.  He knew it.)


    OVR-Lord had shut down, scammed by the Entertainment Division¡¯s halting conundrum (an infinite, prime number apple calculation in non-veridean manifold space).  On the bright side, this meant that defense of the planet, station and ship were up to the individual assets.  On the dark side, <u>same</u>.


    V47 Pilot drew manna like a newly collapsed black hole.  Erected a planet-wide shield with the help of Glimmr¡¯s high altitude force generators.  He stepped in for OVR-Lord, then, sending half of the Reds down to protect those vulnerable shield generators and mining platforms.


    Meanwhile, the Draugr advanced at near light speed; extremely dangerous for them, so close to a massive gravity well.  Millions of forward units simply erupted, torn apart by the clash between luminal speed and dense matter.  That hurtling advance sent ripples through spacetime that smeared the battle-mechs back and forth across fifteen inches and .32 ticks.  Disorienting, but also useful, because the defenders could lay down more fire that way.  As Ravn would put it, ¡®Plowing the field¡¯.


    ¡­But there were so many enemy fighters, flying as nearly a solid block, straight through the glittering ash of their dead.  The spacecraft were linked by a web-work of crackling force.


    ¡°Knock <u>that</u> out, and they can¡¯t coordinate,¡± the pilot murmured aloud, half to himself, half to V47.  With less than three ticks till they came into firing range, he said, ¡°Scan for a main power source or projector, V.  There¡¯s got to be <u>something</u> in there we can target.¡±


    -Initiating scan, Pilot.  Attempted scan-block evaded.  Scanning.  Result: There is a 127% larger structure located .051 Astronomical Units within the formation.  Polar coordinates: 71.6X, -.93Y, 578.99Z¡­ 578.98Z¡­ 578.97Z¡­ and closing at .84 Light.  This structure generates sunlike power and Meta-bytes of continual data. This seems ¡®important¡¯. -


    V47 produced a glowing holographic image of the object, which was the size of Glimmr¡¯s far moon, and which altered its shape without ceasing.  In fact, it seemed almost to boil. Pilot absorbed all the specs that V47 could feed him.  Nodded, next, causing the Titan to do so, as well.


    ¡°Right,¡± he decided.  ¡°We can argue whether ten-billion jacked-up loose Draugr are better than one big formation later, in court-martial.  Get a target lock, then send that nightmare to nether-space.¡±


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    V47¡¯s assent was a kaon-pulse, fired along the link that combined them.  The Titan¡¯s main gun irised open.  Cams thundered.  Linear actuators growled.  Servos whined, as the main cannon took aim and charged up.


    Pilot anchored them to Glimmr¡¯s tremendous gravity field, then fired that rumbling planet-buster.  So¡­ in a cyborg body, he¡¯d have had responsive optics that shielded themselves.  This soggy meat-pile had mostly regular eyes, only now being shored up by V47.


    The Titan¡¯s canopy darkened to save his vision as hell-in-a-laser-blast shot from the battle-mech¡¯s chest.  Combining violet, Xray and gamma radiation in alternate pulses, the weapon lanced its beam across space, obliterating debris and 235 cubic miles of Draug fighter craft.  A million more searing explosions, as hurtling matter converted directly to light.


    Very impressive to look at, but only a scratch, in a formation the size of a planet.  The Draug fired back, concentrating their particle beams onto a forward amplification lens.  What went into that glowing prism of force was a blizzard of rock. What emerged was a massive, tumbling asteroid, aimed straight at Glimmr and V47.


    ¡°Shoot for that lens!¡± ordered the pilot, as wave after wave of giant missiles rained down.  ¡°Disrupt their fire!¡±


    V listened and acted at once.  So did S434 and S220 of Red Flight, who¡¯d come awake enough to broadcast the cyborg version of ¡®Huh?!¡¯


    ¡°Explain later!¡± (From a witness stand, most likely.) ¡°OVR-Lord¡¯s down.  Attempting to defend the planet and station!¡±


    Which was enough for the only two Reds whose brains came alight.


    ¡°Copy, V47.  Maintain fire.  We¡¯ll cover you.¡±


    Because he couldn¡¯t shield and blast the main cannon, as well.


    ¡°Aye that and thank you.  Owe you a round of drinks at the club.¡±


    If there was one.  If he wasn¡¯t in prison or dead.  By this time, that asteroid storm was nearly on top of them, but the Draugr had slowed.  Had to, or else overtake and be struck by their own projectiles.


    Cerulean Dream yawed away from the station to hang slanted and broadside, launching a cyclone of drones and bringing its own guns to bear on the incoming asteroid swarm. Laser and missile fire turned the space around V47 into a blinding-white cauldron of flame.  Home, sweet home.


    V47 pilot shifted his own aim from the Draug CPU to their matter-amplification lens.  It was a quantum device, according to scan; using zero-point energy to boost and accelerate matter.  Shielded, but not effectively.  Not against a Titan¡¯s main cannon.


    The first .03 tick burst took out its forcefield.  The next .01 tick blasted that lens into sparkling ionic dust, then shattered its atoms to quarks.  Stopped that one, hard. But there were many more lenses; an entire compound array, materializing almost as fast as V47 could blast them to vapor.


    S434 and S220 ran block, firing bank shots to alter the impactors¡¯ trajectory.  There were only two of them, though.  The rest of Red Flight were still in their text-file rhomboid attack formation, being chewed to pieces by enemy fire.  Just assets¡­ not even awake to know they¡¯d been killed¡­ decanted again in a week, but¡­


    ¡°Reduce fire, V.  Give them some shielding,¡± he ordered.  Had his partner been linked to OVR-Lord, that command would not have been followed, but V was its own AI, now.  Free to decide for itself.


    -Command received and acknowledged, Pilot.  Command accepted. ¨C responded V47.  Dropped fire by thirty percent, shifting power to shield the remainder of Red Flight.


    That¡¯s when the boulder arrived, ported through null-space to appear directly in front of V47, less than a mile away and accelerated by all the Draugr¡¯s combined momenta, shifted onto one mountain-sized rock.  So close that it filled the whole viewscreen and blocked out the stars.

 Sword and Sorcery Six, chapter twenty

    <u>20</u>


    With a great deal of power, <u>there</u> could be brought over <u>here</u>, causing two places quite distant in space to connect. All the ¡®between¡¯ simply dropped out of sight; folded aside through another dimension. An awesome, incredible thing.


    And, if that weird outward bend dispersed energy, drawing the fangs of an earthquake? If it shifted the winds, bringing rumor of trouble to distant Ilirian? If a certain ship and two lost souls crossed over as well, their movement lost in the shuffle? Who could blame Oberyn, or complain that Order¡¯s finger was tipping the scales?


    Simply, one moment all was darkness and cityscape, with the coals for the cook-fires just being shaken to life and dawn a faint rosy blush. Then¡­ without portal or gate, half of Karellon stooped down away, replaced by strong wind, cold salty spray and high mountains.


    Clean, wild air blew across from the sort of place where an elf trod lightly (and very well armed). <u>Here</u> and <u>there</u> scraped together and bumped like some titanic ship at a dock, terribly jarring them both. A grinding crash and loud <u>SNAP</u> shook both locations. Stone courtyard and road somehow melded with seashore. Just like that, the two were connected by powerful magic, but not for long or for everyone.


    ¡°Quickly,¡± rasped Vikran the Cleric, in a voice that was more than his own. He needn¡¯t have bothered urging, as the young elves were already armored and moving.


    Valerian shot across first, with Filimar right behind him. Next came the skinny old half-elf, who at last allowed space to unfold. Val looked around; had time for only a few quick impressions before everything went to the privy.


    He stood high on a wave-lashed cliff, with thundering water that pounded the stone far below. Here, too, dawn was beginning to break, now more suggestion than hint.


    Off to the east, a demon of pyre and smoke was locked in battle with something small, bright and beautiful. Alfea, he thought, lunging forward. Filimar¡¯s grip on his arm was all that stopped Val from pitching right over the edge. Looking further, Valerian saw a tall stone pillar that crumbled away at its edges. The massif was renewed time and again by one of its scrambling occupants. More than that, Bean was there, with Lerendar, the rest of his folk and Filimar¡¯s people.


    Both young elves could feel the ones that they loved, pressed on all sides by demon-fire and slashing blades. Would have rushed straight across, but then someone said,


    ¡°You scorn my gate? Ah, well¡­ the easy way out rarely satisfies.¡±


    Val and Filno pivoted, looking wildly around for the source of that mocking voice. Not that the source was hiding; very much opposite. Lord Arvendahl stood to their left on a high stony ridge, the sword Grassfire lightly held in one hand. His lordship was armored in black-and-green heavy plate which he wore like a shirt, as if it weighed nothing at all. Now, having baited his trap and caught a pair of young lions, he began stalking forward. With a negligent flick of his spell-hand, Arvendahl raised mighty wards all around that fragile stone pillar, blocking aid or escape.


    ¡°As of this moment, I have only toyed with my hostages, gutter-trash,¡± he remarked. ¡°But that changes, now. I have roused up a stone giant. She it is that they stand upon. Once fully awake, she will smash them like gnats while you watch from the shore. Or¡­ you may face me in combat and try to win back their lives.¡±


    He said this quite matter-of-factly, as though discussing a trifling chore before underlings. Right.


    The fair and honorable thing to have done was to call his lordship out formally, inviting that rabid warg-son to battle. Only, no one felt very fair, or especially honorable.


    Val and Filimar leapt forward together, instinctively parting to flank Lord Arvendahl. The elf¡¯s face was a pallid, expressionless mask, his raven hair blown like smoke by the wind.


    Valerian struck at the magically warded seam between pauldron and breastplate, while Filimar simply attempted to hew off Arvendahl¡¯s head. Behind them, Vikran worked at the sigils that sealed off the slumbering giant; hunting for some chink in his lordship¡¯s spell-work, concentration or runes.


    Both Nightshade and ¡®Handy¡¯ (Filno¡¯s blade) skittered harmlessly off that polished black-and-green armor. Harmless to Arvendahl, anyhow.


    ¡°By all means, strike me again, filth,¡± urged the elf-lord. He smiled in satisfaction as spurting wounds appeared on both young warriors. Blood gushed from a cut to Filimar¡¯s armpit, while Val nearly had his throat torn out by a swift, invisible edge.


    ¡°Through my arts, you damage each other, not me. But the last blow¡­ the one that stills your foul hearts¡­ I reserve to myself.¡±


    Vikran switched his chanting and gestures to heal-craft, forced to abandon his efforts at saving the hostages by the fugitives¡¯ copious blood-loss.


    ¡°Shield Filno!¡± Val coughed aloud, as soon as his gashed windpipe was whole again, and blood no longer pulsed from the wound. He summoned manna from the swirling spirits of ocean, wind and bright clouds, then cast fire-bolt, cocooning Arvendahl in blistering flame. Stopped short when Filimar¡¯s armor heated to baking, though. Had to, or else watch his screaming young friend roast alive.


    Lord Arvendahl¡¯s gem-blue eyes narrowed, reflecting nothing but hatred and scorn.


    ¡°What? Too weak-willed to save your own kin by slaying this turncoat?¡± sneered the high lord. ¡°You had no qualms about betraying your master Sherazedan, cur. Why stop at this worthless scum?¡±


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    Valerian shook his head, adding his own healing magic to Vikran¡¯s, repairing Filno¡¯s charred skin. Meanwhile, Arvendahl circled the younger elves, silencing the cleric with a contemptuous spell.


    ¡°We¡¯ll have no more from you, puppet-of-Oberyn. Mute,¡± he commanded, stalking closer to Valerian. Grassfire shone in his hand with a cold, bitter light, shooting sparks like a whetstone every time Arvendahl moved.


    The cleric¡¯s voice cut off in mid-chant. He swayed where he stood, one hand clutching his throat, the other inscribing runes in midair. Val backed away from Arvendahl, moving to keep himself between his two friends and that murderous elf-lord. Wracked his brain for ideas as Arvendahl maneuvered him nearer the cliff¡¯s edge.


    ¡°I will not permit you to fall, Tarandahl dog, because I want your blood on my sword. Want the last sound you hear to be the shrieks of your slut and her hatchling.¡±


    Valerian parried a sudden fierce sword cut. Saw an opening, and nearly got himself killed not taking it, for the hesitation left him wide open to Arvendahl¡¯s blistering riposte.


    Got his face laid open nearly down to the bone but escaped being killed or losing an eye. Dripping blood and hot pain made it tough to focus, but he made himself look at the sigils and runes that surrounded Lord Arvendahl. Saw the magic that his enemy had woven; the spells that bound his own attacks to Filno, and Filimar¡¯s to <u>him</u>.


    Strong, solid spell-work, covering everything. Nearly. Just one mistake. One small thing that his lordship had failed to consider.


    Hurriedly, keeping the motion hidden behind his back, Val signed three words to Filno and Vikran.


    ¡®Rocks not covered.¡¯


    His friend was an earth-mover, like <u>every</u> full-blood Arvendahl. Filimar got it at once. Vikran first stared, then nodded. The cleric had been silenced, but not paralyzed. As Valerian¡¯s meaning sank in, the cliff rose up in a great wave, shattering at its crest to a blizzard of sharp-pointed rocks. The storm of missiles hissed through the air to hammer Lord Arvendahl. Forced him to raise a shield, diverting some of his magic.


    Scuttling closer, Vikran acted as well. Drawing runes, he linked little to big. The priest scuffed a line in the dirt with his foot, then used magic to transform that scratch to a bottomless trench. The opening yawned like a mouth at Arvendahl¡¯s back, shedding great layers of rock. Valerian ducked low, pivoted and thrust out a leg, aiming to topple the startled high lord into that sudden abyss.


    He connected with a thud, knocking his lordship¡¯s feet out of under him. Arvendahl flailed and then started to fall. Seized Valerian¡¯s plaited blond hair (which was shorter by half after Filimar¡¯s earlier hack-job). His swinging grip on the younger elf¡¯s braid gave Arvendahl just enough time to cast fly, dragging Valerian halfway over the edge.


    Val wasn¡¯t fighting alone, though. Filimar ported over. Next swung Handy around in a hissing arc, chopping another six inches off his friend¡¯s plaited hair and cutting into Arvendahl¡¯s¡­ Val¡¯s, rather¡­ left hand.


    Managed to arrest Valerian¡¯s fall and swing him away from the trench, clamping the wound shut and stopping the blood with a healing spell.


    ¡°Thank you,¡± grunted Valerian, levitating out of his friend¡¯s hold. The ground spun down and away beneath him as he trailed Arvendahl into the lightening sky. The difference was, his fleeing enemy could <u>fly</u>, swooping easily out of Valerian¡¯s reach. Arvendahl taunted him as they soared ever higher, sneering,


    ¡°This is it? The best you can do, traitor? I looked for an actual fight. Here, I¡¯ll make it easy for you,¡± mocked the elf-lord, magically dissolving his own dark armor. ¡°Strike, coward. Cur. Worm. Cut me down, here and now, for the power binding your kin is tied to my life. Strike! Slay the exile to save your folk and his.¡±


    Arvendahl drifted within reach, smiling scornfully. He beckoned, then spread his arms wide, protected by nothing but costly garments. That, and the absolute certainty that Valerian wouldn¡¯t attack him, if putting an end to the vengeful lord meant harming Filimar.


    ¡°Valno, do what you have to,¡± shouted his friend, over the rising sea wind. ¡°Never mind me, Kill him!¡±


    Valerian raised Nightshade, gazing into the hate-filled blue eyes of Lord Arvendahl. Thought of Alfea, Bean, Cinda, Lerendar, Beatriz and Zara. Of Aunt Meliara, somehow caught in this, too. Of Gildyr and Salem, swept away by the hovering monster before him. He could free or avenge them all with one plunging sword stroke¡­ at the cost of Filimar¡¯s life.


    Or not. Chances were good that the offer was false, that everyone he loved would be killed by a stone giant, while Arvendahl sat on Filimar¡¯s corpse and applauded the show.


    ¡°Still too weak?¡± demanded the raven-haired elf. ¡°Then let me provide you a bit of incentive, traitor.¡±


    Murmuring a command to the air, Arvendahl caused an image of Bean to appear. The fussing baby was clasped in Zara¡¯s small arms, as a beautiful wood-elf gathered them close, trying to shield the girls with her own crouched body. A fiery ring flared up around them. It began closing in as Filno¡¯s set¡­ Kellen, Sandor and Arien¡­ shouted for help and battled to kick out the flames.


    ¡°Watch, coward, as my demon¡­¡±


    But Arvendahl never finished his threat. Instead, Filimar struck; raising pillar after thundering pillar of stone from that wave-hammered cliff, bent on knocking his former commander out of the sky.


    That excellent distraction allowed Vikran to break through the elf-lord¡¯s silencing spell. The freed cleric gasped aloud, took a deep breath and then picked up his chant once again.


    Out on a floating rock, meanwhile, Cinda drew back her bowstring. Took careful aim with a dwarf-forged arrow, murmuring,


    ¡°Fly, More-than-she-seems!¡±


    Just over the ranger¡¯s head, Alfea cried out in a voice of pure music and rage, hurling her spear at Skyland.


    Death was <u>here</u>, ready to claim its dark harvest. It was <u>there</u>, as well. On blood-soaked ground, as another elf clung to a dying orc. Out in the void between stars, too, where alien forces hurled mountains at giant, intelligent constructs.


    Just an instant¡¯s connection, quick as a desperate gasp¡­ but Arvendahl sensed it. He held Grassfire, not the fated sword, but struck anyhow, aiming a thrust directly at Tarandahl¡¯s treacherous heart.


    Except that Val wasn¡¯t there. He¡¯d put himself <u>into</u> Filimar¡¯s granite pillar, turning that fountain of rumbling stone into a massive hand. Swept it across the sky to seize Arvendahl in a tight, rocky grip. Out again, then, for he was needed; wouldn''t let himself hide.


    ¡°Shield!¡± called Vikran, raising Oberyn¡¯s might over both younger elves.


    Across the water, Cinda¡¯s bowstring sang. Her arrow flew true, striking the demon¡¯s skull-face alongside Alfea¡¯s bright spear.


    Below them, Beatriz flung a potion of never-burn onto Zara, Bean and Lady Faleena. As she splashed the blue liquid, Bea took a cut from a fiery sword blade that Lerendar felt. He staggered, then turned from bashing skull-heads out of the air. Learnt to port himself at that instant, getting to his wife in time to staunch blood with his own bare hands and raw manna. As for Val¡­


    Just for that moment, all three were in contact, letting Grassfire reach them with one darting stroke. Arvendahl cried out in triumph as magical steel cut through armor and flesh. Then a banshee wailed, high and thin as the cry of a terrified kitten. Grassfire dropped from his lordship¡¯s numbed hand. That shriek was for him, not for Tarandahl.


    Light flared. First Fallon Deathsinger, then Mandor the Charmer, materialized on the tightly clenched stony fist. Arvendahl''s expression became cold and imperious, suddenly. He stopped struggling long enough to bark,


    ¡°Kill them!¡±


    (End of part six)

 Sword and Sorcery Seven, chapter one

    <u>1</u>


    Through loops of causality, spindrifts of chance, everything happened at once. As dawn warmed the eastern horizon, a mithral spear and a black, dwarf-forged arrow struck Skyland. Hit that crazily laughing demon square in his fiery skull face. Alfea''s diamond spearhead shattered Skyland¡¯s jaw, creating a murder of glittering ifrits. Fired upward, More-than-she-seems buried herself in the demon¡¯s triangular nose-hole, driving straight through his fetid and poisonous brain. A spray of bat-winged serpents burst from the back of Skyland¡¯s cracked skull along with the sharpened wood point of Cinda''s arrow.


    ¡°Ah!¡± crooned the demon, repairing its damage with power from seventy burning-cold hells. ¡°Well struck¡­ for a feathered doxy and a cast-off whore. Now, it is <u>my</u> turn, and now you will scream for death through eternity, while my ¡®lord¡¯ and his enemies dance to the music, forever!¡±


    Down below, on that twitching and writhing stone pillar, a ring of magical flame closed tighter ''round Zara, Faleena and Bean. Trying to help, fighting to get there, Sandor, Kellen and Arien stomped and battered the fiery ring. But that inferno would not go out and burnt nothing at all but its targets: Filimar¡¯s mother, Valerian¡¯s niece and his baby daughter.


    A host of fey-lights had gathered. They surrounded Bean, fanning their tiny wings to lift her and drive off the flame, but Arvendahl¡¯s magic was terribly powerful; fueled by hatred and anguish.


    Some yards away, a blood-spattered elf-lord poured all that he had into saving his mortal wife. Bea had nearly been skewered by a cursed, demonic blade, piercing body and soul, together. He wasn¡¯t a healer¡­ but Tormun had skill. The Arvendahl ship captain leapt from a floating rock to Lerendar¡¯s side, Skyland forgotten.


    ¡°I¡¯ve got her, Tarandahl,¡± he promised, dropping down to one knee by his friend. ¡°Go! Rescue my wife and your daughter!¡±


    He could hear them screaming. <u>Both</u> of them could, and Beatriz, too. Twisting upward a bit, keeping enough of her soul intact to focus on Lerendar, the alchemist pressed a glass bottle into his hand and kissed him.


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    ¡°Flame-away,¡± she gasped. ¡°From the Kitchen Kreations. Save our baby, Ren, hurry! Please¡­ please hurry¡­¡±


    Heartsick and torn, her husband gathered her close, whispering,


    ¡°Bee¡­¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve got her,¡± Tormun repeated. The raven-haired captain inscribed a shield-spell as battle erupted above them, adding, ¡°My life for hers, Lando. My oath on it.¡±


    Lerendar nodded. Kissed his wife¡¯s bloodied face and then handed her over. Clasped hands with Tormun, briefly, sealing the vow. Then he sprang to his feet, glowing with furious power. Once again, Lerendar ported; not ending up <u>by</u> that fiery ring, but inside of it.


    ¡°Papa!¡± shrieked Zara, as Lerendar scooped all three of them up in his arms.


    On shore, atop a high cliff, Lord Arvendahl¡¯s blade had pierced time and space, as well as armor and flesh. Only, the weapon was Grassfire, not the Destroyer. His lordship was pinned in a massive stone fist, clenched from the waist down by unyielding rock, unable to use all his force. His thrust had gone true, but it wasn¡¯t enough.


    The Tarandahl cur reeled backward and fell, losing his concentration and levitate spell. Took Grassfire with him, its blade still trapped by split bone and magical armor. At nearly the same time, a terrible, beautiful, deeply alluring song filled the air, along with the cloying odor of death. <u>His</u> death, not the traitor¡¯s.


    Very well. So be it¡­ but he wasn¡¯t going alone.


    ¡°Kill them all!¡± Falco snarled at the assassins, when they appeared on his clenched, rocky prison. A banshee and vampyre; stripped of disguise or illusion or whisper of breath. Bringers of terrible death.


    ¡°You first, Milord,¡± said the pallid, hollow-eyed vampyre. ¡°For, one greater than you has decreed it. Die.¡±


    Fallon¡¯s life-drain, Mandor¡¯s paralyzing gaze and command struck hard, bit deep. But his lordship was not to be balked.


    ¡°No!¡± raged Arvendahl. ¡°I will not fall to you, unavenged! My death-curse on His Majesty and all of his works! With my last breath and heartbeat, I seal it: Death to the emperor! So may it be! Hear me, all powers below and above!¡±


    And so, it was.


    As for Valerian¡­ Miche¡­ Pilot¡­ Grassfire¡¯s point had crashed through armor, flesh and bone, driving straight for the laboring heart underneath. But the sword fell short, as it had to. For just an instant, all three of the shattered elf''s pieces were pinned together, reeling in sudden hot pain and deep shock. For a nano-tick, they hovered above, alongside, in some direction that made no physical sense at all, in terrible danger of dissolving like bread in very hot water.


    Saw¡­ <u>everything</u>. All of it. The entire huge, moving tapestry. Just couldn¡¯t process or hope to describe what they¡¯d seen. Next, they came whirling apart again. Back to a rumbling, wave-hammered cliff¡­ to a blood-soaked ridge¡­ to a cockpit that rang with piercing alarms. Once more apart.


    But alive, and very much not alone.

 Sword and Sorcery Seven, chapter two

    <u>2</u>


    ¡°A good death, wasn¡¯t it?¡±  Marget gasped, as she crashed to her knees on the stony ground. Sagged sideways, one arm a snake with its fangs in her flesh, the other a torn open, shredded socket. Blood spurted from her in great, heart-driven gouts; surely more than one person could lose and¡­ and not die. Not here, not now. Not with a brother to fight for her life, as she¡¯d fought for his.


    Miche crossed the distance between them in a ported bound, reflexively leaping to catch her. Nameless shot out of his hood and into the undergrowth, screeching and barking. The elf scarcely noticed, taking Marget into his arms and kneeling in a clatter of armor to haul her close. She was in shock from terrible pain, from venom and blood loss, her red eyes already glazing.


    No.


    Miche poured all that he had left of his own power and lifeforce into the wounded orc, sealing blood vessels with conjured fire, numbing torn nerves and ripped flesh. Worked that writhing snake-arm¡¯s fanged jaws loose, spelling it back to its normal arm-shape. Kept talking, as well. Praised her strength and her prowess in battle, telling of his (Erron¡¯s) early mistakes on the practice field (which were many, and humorous).


    Death hovered near; that shadowy, raven-winged specter. That last-of-all-gods. But Miche shook his head stubbornly. Linked his own life to Marget¡¯s with a tense, muttered vow.


    ¡°I will dare the Wheel at her side, Cold One. If my heart-sister goes, so do I.¡± And so falls this world, he did not have to add. Death did not answer directly, making no other move than to coil like smoke. Waiting.


    NO.


    Nameless came scurrying back with a mouthful of scrounged leaves. Heart¡¯s ease, bud-gentle, feverfew, comfrey and agrimony, mostly, with a few pine needles mixed in, as well.


    ¡°Thank you,¡± said Miche, conjuring a pot, fire and water, then crushing the herbs with one hand. Held Marget close with his right arm, rocking slightly back and forth, alternating tales with the song that takes away pain. It was a very short rhyme; a bare-bones first charm that every elf knew from young childhood and sang in the very same way, for themselves and for those that they loved.


    ¡®Little lights, little lights, come take away pain. Little lights, little lights, make it better, again.¡¯


    Marget had sung her own version, whilst tattooing his shoulders and back, what felt like forever ago, in their cave shelter. Here on that wind-scoured ridge, Miche did the same, incorporating some of her rhythms and accent. Familiarity mattered, and he¡¯d healed her from venom before. That mattered, too.


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    Rising out of his conjured fire, darting from under the pot, fey-lights began to appear. First a hand-and-a-half, then a dozen, then hundreds, all hovering close in response to the song. They settled like glittering dust on Marget¡¯s raw, hollow arm socket, providing relief and protection from mortal infection.


    She will live. She has to.


    Firelord had been tightly curled up in his follower¡¯s heart. Now, the small god expanded again; flowing outward from Miche and into the wounded orc. Warmed her up. Kept what blood she had moving and burnt away toxin, while pushing her heart to keep knocking and jerking along.


    When the tea was ready, Miche took it off the fire, then blew on the greenish liquid to cool and bless it. Fished a cup out of his magical¡­ faerie¡­ pockets and used it to dip up and gently drip tea into Marget¡¯s slack mouth.


    A sudden fierce, hot pain, like a sword-thrust, nearly made him drop cup and orc, both. He could feel a sharp, bludgeoning point cut through his armor, slice flesh and split bone. Then he was¡­ <u>more</u>. There were two others, both somehow <u>him</u>.


    The elf¡¯s surroundings became a weird blend of high ridge, clifftop battlefield and noisy cockpit. But just like before, when he¡¯d met his ¡®brother¡¯ in the witch¡¯s dark portal, Miche turned away from the contact; ashamed of whatever he¡¯d done to deserve all this. Unable to speak to those shining, bold heroes.


    Was pulled up and out and crazily through himself then, seeing¡­ wonders. Marvels. Things for which he had no words at all, but somehow brought comfort. After that, he was once more himself. The vision receded, leaving him back on the ridge and somehow unwounded. The sun rose at last, bringing hope after darkness and pain. Miche bowed as well as he could. Started singing the Dawn Hymn, still fighting for Marget.


    You are not going to win this. You cannot have her.


    Nameless had darted off once again, returning with another mouthful of plants and a few late blackberries. Miche stopped singing to thank his small friend, scratching the marten¡¯s ears before adding fresh herbs to the tea. Ate one of the blackberries, though. Found no apples at all in his faerie pockets. Just¡­ miracle of gods and high powers¡­ day-brew powder. Endless, blessed, day-brew powder. A gift from his brother (he thought) along with that powerful energy sword.


    Nor was the morning done with surprises. Almost unnoticed over gusting wind and concern for his sister, a big, slow-moving shadow crept over them. Miche looked upward, squinting a little. Saw, unbelievably, the airship Dark Cloud.


    Trailing its snapped mooring chains and part of the twisted-free gangplank, Cloud moved like a sleep-drifter; barely afloat, slow as trickling blood.


    ¡®Captain,¡¯ it said in his mind. ¡°There is a bunk prepared aboard ship, with healing supplies on hand.¡¯


    The sleek, black airship flexed a ribbed steering wing, bringing itself within boarding distance of Miche. It had extruded a quarterdeck, he noticed. Raised masts and a partly full manna tank, too.


    Right. Sometimes the new dawn brought wonders. Sometimes, only more trouble. As the elf gathered Marget up in arms and surged to his feet, he saw that the witch¡¯s body was gone, along with Marget¡¯s left arm. Maybe the work of scavengers¡­ Maybe his enemy, picking up pieces for later.


    No. She is not going to die.


    Death was still present but fading. Now, that hollow-faced specter folded its wings and nodded. Then, like a mist, it was gone.


    As Dark Cloud lowered a twisted gangplank, raising sparks from bare stone, Miche faced northward, looking across at a very dark and turbulent landscape.


    ¡°You failed,¡± he whispered. ¡°Marget¡¯s alive. We all are. And we¡¯ll be ready.¡±

 Sword and Sorcery Seven, chapter three

    <u>3</u>


    Credit the Entertainment Division for their grandest illusion, yet.  For warping light¡¯s path enough to pull off a genuine miracle.


    V47Pilot had time just to alter the force shield behind him, slanting it, so that the hurtling mountain now two breaths away would perhaps miss Cerulean Dream and the station.  That craggy, onrushing rock filled his entire view field, too big and too fast to avoid, even by porting.


    Then, just as it bore down, dark and silent as death¡­ as Pilot whispered, ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± to all those he¡¯d failed¡­


    Two things happened at once. Light¡¯s pathway snapped back to normal. Then, the colossal projectile just <u>powdered</u>, unable to withstand the tremendous force of all that momentum.  Went from mountain to glittering sandstorm, 218.65 miles to V47¡¯s right, 32.49 degrees above the ecliptic and climbing.


    Stunned, blinking at a suddenly safe, open starfield, V47Pilot whirled to gape at that blizzard of sidelined, crushed stone.  Still a danger to Glimmr, except for his own stout shielding and Cerulean Dream¡¯s mighty cannonade.


    <u>Alive</u>.  He was still alive, along with most of Red Flight, because of a clever illusion.  Because the Draug scans had been gimmicked, making them think he was two-hundred miles further sunward.  They¡¯d aimed their shot at a ghost.  Nor were his actor friends done, yet.


    His cockpit still rang with screeching proximity alerts when a flood of new fighters came pouring out of the station¡¯s launch bay.  Rogue Flight.  All of them, from Ace in Bull Dog, right down to Raptor in Bounce.  They swarmed from OS1210 to V47 in Reaper-mode (better for speed).  Said Ace, over comm-link,


    ¡°We got you, Ghost!  We¡¯ll handle defense and mop up.  You deal with <u>that</u>.¡±


    Which¡­ right. The Draug fleet had come to an utter halt, having transferred every last bit of their own momentum to that short-lived, massive projectile.  He was having a storm of reactions.  He was, but V47 controlled the pilot¡¯s heartbeat and respiration, providing calming injections and soft, jazzy music.  Still¡­


    ¡°Ace!  Icebox!  Deathknell!  You¡¯re here, all of you!¡±


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    ¡°Nice to be part of the nameless mass,¡± Ravn said drily, adding, ¡°Of course we¡¯re here.  If there¡¯s going to be a last season¡­¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll just have to write it, ourselves,¡± finished Knellie (Deathknell, when she was in a¡­ so rare¡­ good mood).


    ¡°Too much chatter,¡± cut in Ace, smiling a little.  ¡°What looks good in a show is only distraction in actual battle, Troops.  Mind on the mission!¡±


    His blue eyes were kind but serious, and no one questioned his leadership.  Least of all V47Pilot, who listened along with the rest as the commander said,


    ¡°We can¡¯t go beyond the station¡¯s real time projection range, Kid.¡±


    ¡°Not without lagging and losing coherence,¡± added Icebox, scowling at limits.  ¡°But we¡¯ll cover the station and keep OVR-Lord out of your hair.  The rest is up to you, Ghost.¡±


    ¡°One thing we¡¯ve always been is lucky,¡± said Ace.  ¡°They wrote that into the script from episode one, so¡­ Fly safe, Rogues.  Last one back buys the next round.¡±


    V47Pilot whispered that last statement along with Ace, as the CGI battle-mechs formed a defensive pattern behind him.  Watching the show-vids, he¡¯d heard those words 3.77 hundred-thousand times.  Now it was being said for <u>him</u>, making him part of the team. Not the last thing he heard before leaving, though, as Cerulean-1 woke up enough to take over the comm.  No OVR-Lord, no clamp-down.  Sounding tense, the captain demanded,


    ¡°What is happening?! Who has authorized launch of a Titan?!¡±


    Trouble, but Deathknell said,


    ¡°<u>Our</u> problem, Ghost.  We¡¯ll smooth down the captain.  You deal with those bugs.¡±


    The Draugr had begun moving again.  Not to attack, this time.  Not yet.  Instead, they¡¯d started rebuilding.


    As V47 moved cautiously forward, individual enemy units locked together in pairs, then teams, then whole regions.  In less than fifty-two ticks, they¡¯d formed a massive, dark, upside-down city.  A negative version of something that nagged at the pilot, just out of memory range.  Something he didn¡¯t recall¡­ but knew that he should have.


    He glided forward on quarter impeller, all weapons charged up and ready, including the terrible null-bomb contained at the heart of every Titan battle-mech.


    -Come- sent the Draugr, speaking as one. -Alone-


    Their blended voice was a chittering, icy whisper.  It scratched at his brain and newly branched circuits.


    (Mental skip.  Contact.  Recognition. Transference.  All contained and shunted aside by V47 as potentially dangerous.)


    Almost certainly, he was flying straight into a death-trap, just like the one at the end of Battle for Arda.  But he was bang out of good options and down to a handful of sacrifice plays.  The Draugr were already charging back up, forging enormous dark cannons, extruding more giant rocks. What else could he do but answer their summons?


    As he crossed space, though, somebody scanned him.  A tingling sensor-wave combed through the pilot from top to toe, reading his particles, engrams and chemical balance.  S434, he thought.  Then S220, all of Rogue Flight and even Cerulean-1.  Every asset on the station, as well, from Flight Control down to the lowliest transport and deck-sweeper.  Everyone scanned and encoded his data; promising life, whatever came next here and now.


    Because they were friends.  Because he mattered.  Because he wasn¡¯t alone.

 Sword and Sorcery Seven, chapter four

    <u>4</u>


    High-elven justice was swift, without mercy or vengefulness¡­ normally.  As a people, they would act to end trouble by the quickest means possible, with little regard to rank, motive or cause.


    ¡°You are not on trial here, Leftenant Cliffwatch,¡± Lady Sheraza had told her, adding that a truth spell was in effect; one able to punish with increasing pain any lies or omissions on her part.  Needless to say, Sera left nothing out, under intense questioning.


    The entire city council was present.  Lady Sheraza, along with the heads of Milardin¡¯s first families:  Karren Serenard, Voskar Tintillian, Esten Dawnwending and Kal Vilicente, with ¡®the people¡¯ represented by a clearly terrified human fisherman (Svenli, or something like that).  The major trade guilds had sent forth their master craftsmen, as well: shipwrights, scribes, bankers, mages and masons.  The fleet¡¯s destruction was a matter of finance as well as a gut-wrenching tragedy, and no one present had kept all their kin and their money.  No one but Lady Sheraza, whose questions were brittle and cold, but very precise.


    ¡°State, for the record, your name, rank and position aboard ship at the time of departure,¡± she commanded.


    Sera bowed to that young and icy chief councilor.


    ¡°Yes, my lady.  I am Leftenant Sera Cliffwatch, third mate of Vancora, responsible for dispensing ship¡¯s stores and cordage, ma¡¯am.¡±  <u>Current commanding officer</u>, she did not need to add.  Being only a half-elf of no great descent, her position would certainly drop again to third mate.  Maybe lower than that, once the council was through with her.


    ¡®No, Captain,¡¯ said the airship, in her mind. ¡®Your decisive actions saved me and all those left aboard, and I will accept no one else.¡¯


    A very bold statement.  Worse yet, under the chamber¡¯s truth-spell, one heard by every soul present.  Sheraza¡¯s beautiful face did not alter.  Very young, she was nevertheless in charge of this trial; this search for the truth of Lord Arvendahl¡¯s doings.


    ¡°Vancora¡¯s statement is noted and logged.  Your position was too low to place you within his lordship¡¯s inner circle.  Yet, you must have had <u>some</u> inkling as to his mood and reason for leading the fleet into battle with sea-elves,¡± probed Sheraza, her blue eyes as hard and unyielding as sapphire.  ¡°What said he to his officers, as Vancora left the city, Leftenant?¡±


    <u>Not much</u>, was the short (and least healthy) answer.


    ¡°He¡­ your pardon, my lady¡­ he is not one to explain himself or to seek advice from those beneath him.  Nor¡­ I think¡­ did Vancora have any say in the matter.¡±


    ¡®I did not,¡¯ seconded Princess, looking out through Sera¡¯s brown eyes; speaking aloud again via truth-magic.


    ¡°Go on,¡± said Sheraza.  ¡°As you surely saw his lordship, what was your estimation of his emotional state at the time of departure?¡±


    ¡°I¡­¡± Sera glanced up at the implacable folk seated above her.  Only that human fisherman showed any kindness, at all.  As for those six elven councilors, they might have been carved out of flint.  ¡°H- His lordship was very angry, my lady. He¡­ seemed driven past reason.  Burning with hatred, I¡¯d say¡­ but I did not speak with Lord Arvendahl directly until after the battle and storm and those pirate attacks, when all of the rest¡­ Captain Lianne and Leftenant Vaskin¡­ were already dead.¡±


    Someone (Lord Dawnwending) made a slight noise, pain briefly twisting his handsome dark face.  Sera bowed low.


    ¡°I am terribly sorry, my lord.  If¡­ if it matters, Captain Lianne was the best officer I¡¯ve ever served under.  She¡­¡±


    ¡°Enough,¡± cut in Lady Sheraza, gesturing silence.  ¡°Keep your comments on point, Leftenant.¡±


    A slight, warning burn shot through Sera¡¯s nerves and her brain.  Slight, because Vancora numbed most of it.  Deeply shaken, the half-elf gathered herself to continue.  Then, with a deep, hollow groan and a sudden, head-snapping jolt, an earthquake struck, dousing lights, cracking marble and hurling the councilors off their high seats like a scatter of grain.


    No.  Not just an earthquake.  A magically triggered assault, from one who refused to be placed on trial.  It was the marine guard who saved Sera Cliffwatch by hauling her into his arms and shielding her with his own armored body.  There was a terrible crash.  And then¡­


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    As nightfall descended, Freeport switched over from halfway respectable harbor to lawless pirate-den.  Drunken carousers flooded the streets and the swinging rope bridges.  Bare-knuckle fight rings sprang up in the alleys. A swarm of rough garbage pickers emerged from their caves on the island¡¯s broad bottom.  In airboats or winged, they would sort the trash for anything edible.  Anything useful at all.  A desperate lot, and better avoided.


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    Off in a very cheap berth, hard by the island¡¯s pointed nadir, Falcon was rocked by a number of sudden hard losses.  First the tabaxi third mate, Lady Shadowclaw, growled in surprise and popped like a bubble.  Then Meliara, their oracle, vanished away between heartbeats, saying just, ¡°It is fated.¡±


    Captain Gelfrin and Laurol Greenbow were on deck to see it all happen (having come topside to open the hold).  One, two, gone.  The paladins rushed straight over, Villem at their head, still trailing that dangerous, powerful sword.


    ¡®Captain,¡¯ said the airship, inside of his mind. ¡®Three of the crew are taken.¡¯


    ¡°Three?  I count only two, Speedy.  Who else is missing?¡± asked Hallan, as two worried humans and a towering orc thundered up.


    ¡®The wood-elf druid, Mr. Shagbark, has been borne away by very strong magic, Captain,¡¯ said the ship, sounding as worried as intelligent timber and metal could manage.  ¡®Mr. Not-Jonn and the wizard remain, and they are coming back at best speed.¡¯


    ¡°Good.  That¡¯s¡­ Yes, I <u>know</u>.  I saw her disappear, along with my new second mate,¡± snapped the red-haired young captain, surrounded by rattling armor and bulk. Laurol stepped between Hal and the paladins, hand at the hilt of her sword. His marine guard was there on the instant as well, crossbow cocked and face a tense mask.


    ¡°<u>Back</u>,¡± snarled Mr. Conn.  ¡°I can nail you all with one shot. <u>Try me</u>.¡±


    There might have been trouble, then, which the sword seemed to absorb like a bandage soaking up blood.  Only, a fleet-sized gate opened up in the darkening sky over Freeport, disgorging a trio of sleek, golden airships.  Imperial dreadnoughts, armed to the back-teeth, glowing with manna and packed with marines.


    In his head, Hallan felt Speedy quiver, seeming to shrink close against him for comfort.  Any one of those monsters would have been more than a match for Falcon.  <u>Three</u> could lay waste to a city.


    Hal clasped the railing and squeezed as an amplified voice bellowed,


    ¡°Attention the port!  By the authority of His Imperial Highness, you are placed under lockdown and ordered to deliver up High Lord Arvendahl or any known associates.  Any attempt to flee or resist arrest will be met with summary execution!¡±


    Hallan glanced over at Laurol and Conn as Not-Jonn came pounding back up the gangway at a dead run.  He was towing that addled wizard, almost pulling the blue-robed mortal right off his feet.


    Varric had a saying for moments like these, when a sleek little cutter had best slip away in search of big friends and better odds.


    ¡°Time to dust.  Let¡¯s punch a hole in the sky¡­ <u>carefully</u>.¡±


    As the dreadnoughts spread out, dropping lines from which troops descended like spiders, Hallan came up with a plan.  Nodded to himself and to them, saying,


    ¡°Freeport dumps her garbage from an outlet below, just after sunset.  <u>All</u> the floaters do.  Speedy, when the griffins and dragons start diving for trash, you¡¯ll break up into¡­ to four pieces.  Do your best to look shabby and junked, but keep the parts linked.  Don¡¯t let them spread out too far.  You lot¡­ Conn, Laurol, Not-Jonn, Paladins¡­ spread through the ship. I want at least three of our people on every segment, to repel possible boarders.¡±


    Everyone nodded assent, for the threat was clear to them all. Glancing upward, briefly, the captain continued,


    ¡°Stay out of sight, unless someone tries to claim salvage.  Fight if you have to, but make it look like a trash-crew dispute.  <u>No</u> uniforms or rank insignia.  Understood?¡±


    A chorus of:


    ¡°Yes, Sir!¡±


    ¡®Understood, Captain.¡¯


    And: ¡°Yes, we¡¯ll comply.¡±


    ¡­came back in response, from that circle of tense, worried faces and Falcon.  Hallan nodded.


    ¡°Good.  To your places, quickly.  Laurol, sort them.  Conn, hand out arms.  Not-Jonn, stay with the helm.  Wizard, you¡¯re with me.  We¡¯re not falling into imperial hands.  Neither is Speedy, or that wretched drek sword.  Now, <u>move</u>.¡±


    And they moved.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Seahorse, too, had lost people.  First Lerendar, then Beatriz, Zara, Alfea and Bean simply vanished; spirited away by powerful magic.  The lot of them winked out of sight like doused candles, halting Prince Andorin¡¯s music mid-strum.


    ¡°Zara!  Lady Fee!¡± shrieked Pretty and Mirielle, looking wildly around the teak-paneled cabin.  ¡°Where did they go?!¡±


    Bronn and Elmaris closed ranks with the sea-elven prince, while Katina herded the girls away, promising hot milk and ginger-men.  Ava raced over to join Lerendar¡¯s former shades, hauling weapons and armor out of her faerie pockets.


    ¡°Who took my lord?¡± she demanded anxiously; a pretty young elf very clearly in love.  ¡°Where have they taken him?¡±


    Andorin lifted a partly webbed hand, gills flaring open in sudden emotion.


    ¡°Wait,¡± he said to them all.  ¡°I am seeking.  Our fates and well-being are linked, now. ¡®This One¡¯ cannot be hid from us by any magic but the gods¡¯, and¡­ Ah.  There.  He is just north of Baitfish, near the mouth of the Alys River.¡±


    Elmaris pulled an unhappy face.


    ¡°Baitfish is one of those places that¡­¡±


    ¡°That you¡¯d rather not venture.  Noted, guttersnipe.  Is there <u>anywhere</u> that your worthless head isn¡¯t sought after, to enliven a post by the gates?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m only ¡®suspicious¡¯ in Starloft, not actually wanted. Yet,¡± admitted the dark-haired rogue.


    Bronn shook her head.  Much less scarred in the face since visiting Epona, she still didn¡¯t talk much. (It did not pay to chatter, working for sly Titania.)  Now,


    ¡°How fast can we get there, Prince?¡± she asked, placing a steady hand on Ava¡¯s trembling shoulder.


    Andorin smiled grimly.


    ¡°How fast?  Are we not at sea?  Do the waters below not heed the call of a bard?¡± he asked.  Began playing again, calling a mage-wind and a mighty, towering wave.  ¡°Get there we can, and swiftly.  Let those who have taken our heart-friend look to themselves, for an ocean-lord comes in his might and his wrath!¡±


    ...But the Flying Cloud beat them all.

 Sword and Sorcery Seven, chapter five

    <u>5</u>


    The Flying Cloud was exceptionally fast, built on the timbers and keel of a captured Dreadnought (he thought). The airship was sleek and stealthy as well, preferring to strike from below, from dense clouds or out of the sunrise.


    At attack speed, remaining on deck was impossible, so Kaazin and Tess retreated to a well shielded auxiliary helm near the bow. Small, but complete, that broad-windowed wood cabin was packed with controls and instruments. Most of them saw to themselves, moved by invisible hands. A very good thing, as Kaazin wasn''t much of an aerrior.


    Tess had reverted to Glassy again, abandoning her frail mortal body, pouring herself back into that magical simulacrum. But she was no better in crystalline form than in flesh.


    ¡°<u>I¡¯m</u> the one in charge here, drow. When we get to Arvendahl¡¯s hideout, you¡¯ll do as I say. The bounty just doubled, and I¡¯m not missing out on twelve million platinum bars!¡±


    Kaazin shrugged, not taking his eyes from the northern horizon and fast-rising mountains.


    ¡°Coin only matters if you live long enough to spend it, runt. The empire gives with one hand and takes twice as much with the other¡­ and they can avoid paying that bounty at all, by having us killed when we show up to claim it.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯d have to catch us, first, and Stormy and I are a team. Just him and me, watching out for each other, forever. Right, Cloud?¡± she prodded.


    -There is also the quartermaster- said the airship, in both of their minds at once. -He is a capable healer and battlemage, and I have accepted his presence. ¨C


    Kaazin didn¡¯t smile (no one had fallen or dropped a big stone on their foot). But the glass pirate¡¯s horrified expression was beyond price, and he cherished it. Patting the nearest control panel, Kaazin remarked,


    ¡°I like it here.¡± (He did not.) ¡°Banditry suits me.¡± (He¡¯d never had much other choice.) ¡°I¡¯ll doubtless remain for a very long time.¡± (Jumping ship the first chance he got, on at last finding Bonesetter¡¯s den.)


    But,


    -You shall remain as long as we need you, Quartermaster- said the Cloud, speaking only to him, this time. -Those who serve aboard ship are bound to this vessel, forever. ¨C


    True enough, for he¡¯d seen all their ghosts reflected in shiny surfaces, and many were present there, now, hovering close to their stations in life. Once more, Kaazin shrugged.


    ¡°I have been captured before,¡± he replied. ¡°Taking is one thing. Holding, another¡­ <u>and</u>, that is Baitfish, below.¡±


    The lowest and least of all the floating islands, Baitfish was linked by a web of rope bridges to its nearby, smaller companions. At hightide, as now, that three-square-mile dot was partly submerged, its lower caves flooded with seawater. He¡¯d been there once. For sale to the highest bidder.


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    Kaazin smiled just a bit as its part-selkie folk rang their war-bells and scurried for shelter. The fishing fleet scattered like a flock of terrified birds, too scrawny and poor to be worth hunting down. (A thought that was much more Cloud than Kaazin.)


    ¡°I¡¯ve never been this far north,¡± Tess admitted, coming over to look past him at Baitfish. ¡°Is everything here this wretched and grubby?¡±


    Kaazin snorted.


    ¡°It is worse up close,¡± he told her. ¡°Stinks of sea mud, kelp, dried fish and wet wool.¡± And blood, that one night. <u>Theirs</u>, not his.


    Baitfish passed by and was gone in a heartbeat. Soon after that came the lower cascades of the Alys River (pocked through its banks with deep caves, some of which led to the Under Realm.) Kaazin pointed one out as they soared overhead.


    ¡°There,¡± he said aloud. ¡°Mark that spot, in memory. There is a small opening, hidden by roots and a slanting outcrop of stone. Inside, you will find a dry cave and supplies. Should matters go ill¡­¡±


    ¡°They <u>won¡¯t</u>,¡± snapped Tess, glaring with translucent crystalline eyes.


    ¡°A wise outcast has a backdoor and a place to retreat, always. Mark that spot, and plan to meet me there, if we are parted or captured. It is safe and well warded.¡± He¡¯d sealed it to last, and he <u>knew</u>.


    ¡°<u>Fine</u>. Blah, blah, cave. Got it¡­ but we won¡¯t be retreating or losing this fight, drow. Well, not me and Cloud. <u>You</u>, I¡¯ll drop in their laps with a sign that says: Free to bad home!¡±


    A thing that appealed to the drow sense of humor, although unwanted spawnlings were usually tossed with the garbage or left for the cave-gnomes to raise. Changing the subject again, Kaazin said,


    ¡°If my scrying proves accurate, Arvendahl¡¯s hunting park and his lodge lie between mountains and sea, south of Ilirian. <u>If</u> he is there, we can expect trouble from the monsters he¡¯s stocked for the hunt. Reputedly, hill giants, trolls, manticores, wyverns and a leviathan, all of them bound to the region for sport.¡±


    ¡°How is that bunghole not already dead?¡± wondered Tess, shifting her stance with a musical tinkle.


    ¡°Because until now, he hasn¡¯t been foolish enough to make a mistake or draw official attention,¡± said Kaazin. ¡°But that future corpse of a dayfly has earned Arvendahl¡¯s fury, somehow¡­ not with his laughable fighting skills¡­ and the elf-lord is too blinded with rage to be cautious.¡±


    ¡°Wait¡­ who¡¯s the ¡®dayfly¡¯?¡± probed Tess, interested despite herself.


    ¡°Someone I owe a very serious beating,¡± said Kaazin. Then, as the Flying Cloud slowed, slewing around to approach from out of the sunrise, ¡°We have arrived.¡±


    Bang in the midst of a desperate fight.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Lerendar hauled his daughter, his baby niece and the wood-elf close in, crouching low over them. Next raised a hasty, untutored shield, powered by sheer, frantic need. The fey-lights pitched in as well, sacrificing their own tiny bodies to strengthen his amateur wards. Then the roaring circle of flame was upon them as hands reached in from all sides and¡­


    ¡­and somehow, the stone underfoot gave way, forming a steep-walled pit. Lerendar tumbled into that sudden hole with Zara, Bean and Tormun¡¯s shrieking wife. He struck bottom, hard, driving the breath from his lungs and taking most of that crunching-loud force on his back. Less than half a gasp later, the pit closed up overhead, blocking light, heat and clamor entirely.


    Zara had buried her face in his armored chest. Tormun¡¯s wife was writhing like mad to free herself, and the baby was making small ¡®feed me¡¯ sounds. Then, coming straight through that living rock, a rumbling feminine voice queried,


    ¡°What is happening? Who tickles my hide to awaken me?¡±


    Stone giant, he thought, twisting around as he fought to stand up. Lerendar surged to his feet and yanked out a sword, wincing at the recollection of all those half-hearted prayers and tossed-in small offerings. Wondering if any god, anywhere, cared to help out.

 Sword and Sorcery Seven, chapter six

    <u>6</u>


    Arvendahl shouted in triumph as Grassfire tore through armor and flesh, puncturing bone like old paper. Not only <u>here</u>, but across the planes and through time, his sword bit deep¡­ but it couldn¡¯t kill. Not entirely. Instead, Grassfire¡¯s hilt was wrenched from his grip as the traitor reeled backward and fell.


    Then came the death song¡­ two monstrous assassins¡­ and his own fatal last-magic curse. Because kill him they might, but he¡¯d drag them all down to the hells along with him.


    Valerian fell, trailing blood and a fiery sword. Heard no sounds but his own racing heart. Saw nothing at all but the fight high above. Failed to notice that spinning, up-rushing ground till it smashed him like an ogre¡¯s spiked club.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    ¡°Ah! Well struck¡­ for a feathery doxy and a cast-off whore,¡± the demon had sneered. ¡°Now, it is <u>my</u> turn!¡±


    Skyland didn¡¯t shed blood. Instead, the demon melted Alfea¡¯s spear, then gave rise to a myriad chittering, short-lived horrors; tiny, malevolent, tormented beings that exploded away in a droning swarm; biting, burning and clawing at Lady Alfea and Cinda.


    The stench of battlefield rot and corruption, of entrails, loose bowels and spilt blood filled the air, staining the dawn. Over it all hung the dense smoke of a thousand pyres, smoggy pits where enemy dead were disposed of like trash.


    ¡°Vugrok,¡± Alfea repeated, reforming her diamond-tipped spear. ¡°Half-dead and tossed on the flames as you writhed, vengeful and cursing. Vugrok, I name you once more!¡± (And that made three times.)


    Skyland crackled with scorn, expanding to shroud the gleaming Quetzali and clambering ranger in billows of reeking dark smoke. Its voice and its taunting laughter seemed to come from every direction at once as the demon erupted like a bloated corpse, spewing a tangled shower of entrails that spattered both fighters with gore.


    ¡°Seralfea, dawn-maiden,¡± mocked Skyland, naming Alfea in turn. ¡°Behold the fate of your partner-in-rut and your spawn!¡±


    Next a sheet of icy-cold flame burst from the leering demon. Its blazing eyes locked with <u>hers</u> and with Cinda¡¯s. Instantly, their vision shifted, magically changing to the perspective of somebody plunging out of the sky like a meteor.


    Gut-shocked, they saw themselves tiny and bright, facing a skull-faced monster of roiling smoke¡­ or were briefly surrounded by noisy giants in a dark and rumbling pit. Valerian, Bean; both in terrible danger. Worse, soon even that shaky vision darkened entirely. Were Val and the baby dead? Unconscious? There was no way to tell.


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    Alfea could no longer see to defend herself as searing bone-talons locked tight, crushing her arms to her sides. Further down, Cinda frantically reached for Valerian¡¯s mind.


    ¡®Wake up! Open your eyes, Northerner!¡± she raged. ¡°Help me to aim!¡±


    The black arrow was back. She could feel it take shape in her hand, though (as yet) all was darkness. Then came a sliver of light; of half-parted lids, drifting shut and then fully open once more. Cinda spotted herself, crouching above on a floating boulder of rock, bow in one hand, more-than-she-seems in the other. Good enough.


    ¡°My lady,¡± the ranger called to her goddess, as she fitted arrow to string. ¡°Lend your strength to this shot. Help me to aim through Valerian¡¯s eyes.¡±


    The arrow went terribly cold in one hand. Meanwhile her bow changed its weight and its shape in the other, seeming icy and pale as the moon to Val¡¯s blurring gaze. Then two concerned faces appeared: an old half-elven cleric and a dark-haired young warrior. These slewed aside as a broken and bloodied Valerian squirmed in their grip and refocused.


    She did not say ¡®I love you.¡¯ Didn¡¯t have to. Just used his vision and drew on his flickering manna to line up that shot. Drew back the string, exhaled and released. The bow sang aloud. Once again, More-than-she-seems flew like a thunderbolt, seeming to catch fire in dawn¡¯s rising glow. This time, that blackened arrow did not strike Skyland¡¯s head, but the kernel of hatred that served as the demon¡¯s foul heart.


    Maybe it wasn¡¯t just Frost Maiden¡¯s magic. Maybe Hyrenn-Lord Winter and She-of-the-Flowers put in their own bit, as well. At any rate, that dwarf-forged arrow struck hard, plunged deep and erupted in questing tendrils of light.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Further down, on the cliff, Valerian struggled in Filimar¡¯s grasp, fighting off Vikran¡¯s healing and rest spells. Couldn¡¯t speak to tell them that he <u>had</u> to stay conscious, had to keep looking upward at Fee and Cinda. Too much damage and too little breath. But <u>alive</u> and able to help (if only by staying awake). Tough to rest anyhow, for there was a sudden commotion behind him. Filimar shouted,


    ¡°I¡¯ll hold him off!¡± lurching to his feet with a grunt, as Vikran continued that sonorous heling chant. They had their battles, he had his.


    Mentally hand in hand with Cinda, Valerian helped guide her bowshot, not needing to hear ¡®I love you¡¯ to know it was so.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    As for his lordship, Arvendahl dropped from that crumbling stone fist to the ground. Having pronounced his death curse, he¡¯d won a few moments to plan a last strike. Against banshee and vampyre he summoned the monsters he¡¯d leashed here for pleasure: manticores, trolls, an ogre and giant.


    Nor was that all. Though Grassfire did not return to his hand, Arvendahl was far from helpless. Magic, he had and demonic slaves in profusion.


    With a contemptuous gesture, the elf-lord tore a great boulder out of the ground. It burst from the barren clifftop with a sharp <u>CRACK</u>, trailing dirt and a shower of stones. High over that traitor and exile he lifted it, saying nothing at all. No gloating, no boasting, no smile. Just dropped the multi-ton rock like an anvil.


    The banshee¡¯s shrill wail sapped Arvendahl¡¯s manna and strength, but not his sheer, blinding need for revenge. The transformed vampyre struck from behind as a warg-sized mountain of muscle and hair. It sank its fangs through his right shoulder and ripped, shaking its loathsome head like a terrier. Blood sprayed; his own <u>and</u> the vampyre¡¯s, because Arvendahl¡¯s dagger¡­ wielded upward and back¡­ tore straight through the monster¡¯s ridged gut.


    Moments later, the fluting, musical roar of a hunting manticore punctured the air. Next came a spray of venomous, whistling spikes¡­


    ¡­a dark airship¡­


    ¡­and a port in the lightening sky that dropped an entire warband of northern troops, their commander, their lord and his half-divine lady.


    Starloft had entered the fight.

 Sword and Sorcery Seven, chapter seven

    <u>7</u>


    There was a construct of sorts aboard the Dark Cloud, a featureless, glassy person-like blank that shone in the light of the rising dawn. It looked like water or smooth, polished crystal and moved like a sleepwalker, clattering down the twisted steel gangplank and over to Miche.


    Proved useful (if eerie), helping the elf to get his badly injured heart-sister onto that waiting airship. He did not trust the thing to get her settled and stable, though. That took creation of a life bond, and the sort of link that not even death could revoke.


    Very gently taking hold of Marget¡¯s torso and head with mage-hand, he allowed the glass construct to raise and carry her muscular legs. Working together, they climbed the gangplank, then followed a scribble of dim, narrow passages that Cloud opened up ahead of them. Came at last to a small cabin containing a bunk, an extruded chair (very strange) and the sort of healing supplies that a skilled setter of bones or a hedge-witch might stock.


    Marget was unconscious, but in terrible pain, even so. She had torn out her own transformed arm by pinning it down with an armored boot, and then wrenching herself violently, bloodily upright. Had next kicked that ripped-away serpent straight at the witch¡¯s vile face. All to help <u>him</u>, and his captured small god. All his fault.


    Firelord hovered inside of her, still, holding back the last heartbeat and rattling breath. Battling darkness to keep her alive. Miche could do nothing less.


    Crossing the medical cabin, he set Meg down on the bunk¡¯s thin mattress and pulled up a sheet. Meanwhile, Nameless darted from cloak hood to shoulder, then onto the dusty pillow, brushing it clean with his long, fluffy tail. Next, settled alertly by Marget¡¯s head. One paw upraised, the marten barked softly, exuding musk and an aura of promise. She would be watched and well cared for¡­ and Miche very much needed to take a close look at the cliff outside. Had to comb it for evidence of the hag and (hopefully) find Marget¡¯s arm.


    The very last elf touched his heart-sister¡¯s face, willing his own strength and life-force into her pain ravaged body.


    ¡°Live, warrior,¡± he urged her, as Erron and Miche, both. ¡°I do not deserve your sacrifice. I wasn¡¯t worth it.¡±


    The glassy person-form wandered over then, chiming a little with each shuffled step. It held a carved wooden box in one hand, the tarnished brass lock already sprung.


    ¡°I thank you,¡± said the elf, automatically, although the construct seemed not to hear and did not respond with sign, gesture or word. It was prodded along by the Cloud, possibly¡­ or maybe by one of the ship¡¯s teeming ghosts.


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    As the glass simulacrum looked on (loomed, rather) Miche took and opened that old wooden box. Inside it he found seven jarred and carefully labeled potions. The sort that drove away pain or brought quiet and merciful death¡­ and one very powerful toxin. That jar he took against future need, slipping it into his weapons pocket. The rest, he buried in unending day-brew.


    ¡°Again, thank you,¡± said Miche. ¡°But nobody dies here, this day. My life for hers, if anything.¡±


    In his mind, the airship responded. Just a faint and papery whisper, saying,


    ¡®She shall be watched and attended to, Captain, by all aboard ship. They have had their differences in the past, but eternity freshens perspective.¡¯ Then, ¡®You are an exile,¡¯ it stated.


    Miche lowered his head, scarcely noticing when that hovering construct transformed itself into a swarm of glittering motes and then drifted out of the cabin.


    ¡°I think so, yes,¡± he admitted. ¡°Though¡­ I do not know <u>why</u>. It is difficult, because I have very few memories as ¡®Miche¡¯ or¡­ or as this ¡®Val¡¯. And, because I was given the life and the past of Lord Erron of Skyvale, at the last shrine that we¡­ I¡­ awakened. Over two-thousand years and a terrible death versus just a few months isn¡¯t much of a fight, Cloud. Yet, I sense that he does not wish to take over. He is a good person. A friend, and I am most glad of his presence.¡±


    ¡®Much as all those who linger add up to <u>me</u>,¡¯ mused the dark, haunted airship. Then, abruptly changing the subject, ¡®This world is dying. It was cursed by the actions and power of one who is trapped here, himself.¡¯


    Miche nodded. He¡¯d been lightly stroking Meg¡¯s forehead with one hand, still humming the song that takes away pain, in order to summon more fey-lights. Carefully shifted her coarse, braided mane so that nothing was bunched up or trapped underneath to pinch her. Some of those metal hair-clasps were sharp. Stopped humming a while to say,


    ¡°The Fallen One. He seeks after my life and my god¡¯s. Perhaps because he can use our deaths to power a means of escape for himself¡­ maybe because he¡¯s just a murderous warg-son. No idea. But I hate him, Cloud, with all the fury and scorn that two hunted elves can muster. With your help, I mean to kill him and waken the rest of the shrines. Willing to pay whatever price you exact. Just¡­ not Marget. She <u>lives</u>, Cloud. No matter what else, Marget lives.¡±


    ¡®She lives,¡¯ agreed the dark airship. ¡®Though she may not thank you for saving her life, maimed thus. As to the rest: upload a map, point out these ¡°shrines¡±, and I shall take us there, Captain.¡¯


    Done. Sealed. If there was a transfer¡­ if somehow Miche was linked to this vessel, now and in time yet to come¡­ the elf did not sense it. Just nodded once more, saying (as Erron),


    ¡°Quarter-speed, Cloud. Your manna is low, and I had rather have altitude than swift flight. I will scout one more time for the warrior¡¯s arm. Burn the hag¡¯s corpse, or the thing that has eaten her, if either remains to be found.¡±


    He bent down, then, to kiss Marget¡¯s forehead, disturbing a flutter of fey-lights. They scattered like glimmering dust, swirled for a moment, then settled again. A few tried to see to his own minor scrapes, but he sent them away, back to Meg. The elf rose from her bedside at that, murmuring,


    ¡°You may not thank <u>me</u>¡­ and I will take your best punch without faltering, warrior¡­ but I thank <u>you</u>. For everything. For helping me hold back the shadows. For helping this child to survive. You shall live.¡±


    And so it went. But as for the pilot¡­

 Sword and Sorcery Seven, chapter eight

    <u>8</u>


    V47 Pilot hovered in space between Glimmr¡­ the planet, its moons, the station, and soft inner system¡­ and a transformed attack fleet.  No longer a swarm of loose, rocky units, the Draugr had locked together, creating what looked like a vast, dark, upside-down city.  Reminded the pilot of something important, though he could not seem to call up the relevant file.


    -Come- the Draugr had ordered. -Alone-


    Except that he <u>wasn¡¯t</u>.  Not with his data scanned and shared 12.3 million times.  Not with Rogue Flight on hand, and Cerulean Dream swinging around like a sword blade to join them.  The captain¡¯s voice came over a private comm line, sounding edged in fire and steel.


    ¡°Go ahead,¡± she sent.  ¡°But I authorize full freedom and left-hand protocol, V47.  Deathstrike and Vanguard have been summoned. They are now 2.941 candle-marks out and closing.¡±


    Ace had indeed ¡®smoothed her down¡¯.


    ¡°Yes, Ma¡¯am,¡± the pilot responded, starting forward on quarter impeller. ¡°Understood.¡±


    The Draug construct was massive enough to disturb the orbit of Glimmr¡¯s moons.  This close to the space lanes, its sudden presence would also cause in-jumping freighters to slew badly off course, if headed for OS1210 or the mining colony.  Right. That reality-bending colossus needed to go, right the drek <u>now</u>.  By invitation, preferably.  If not, through complete and utter destruction.  As Ace would put it: Boring or fun way.  Your choice.


    The space all around that behemoth was peppered with microscopically tiny Drag-spore; small units that (archived data and show vids explained) could link together or attach themselves to the hull of an enemy vessel.


    ¡°Repellent field, V,¡± he ordered.  ¡°Start with that 12 waves per tick frequency and then vary it randomly.  Keep them guessing and off of us.¡±


    ¡®Command received.  Command accepted, Pilot.¡¯  Then, switching the subject as energy flared, ¡®Communication and linkage were attempted at 0345, in battle.  Source unknown and unauthorized.  The message was blocked as unsafe.  The data file has been isolated and possible malware purged.  Do you want to open the file?¡¯


    He could sense it, plunged down amid cluttersome adverts and minor viruses: val.3.exe.  It was a targeted send, being so clearly a play on ¡®V47¡¯.  Worse yet, possibly dangerous.


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    ¡°Wait,¡± the pilot decided, ¡°Keep it locked up until after we¡¯ve met with the Draugr.  Tag it to unwrite itself if any but you, me, TTN-iA or Foryu tries to read it, and¡­¡± he retrieved that old-fashioned memory drive from its dimensional pocket.  ¡°Launch this to Rogue Flight on a private carrier wave.¡±


    No matter what happened next, the companion at least would be safe.  ¡®Left hand protocol¡¯ meant that he had authority to make¡­ and break¡­ treaties.  Had a null bomb, as well.  A planet-buster; absolutely capable of taking out the entire Draug fleet, along with half of Glimmr. The Entertainment Division was surely backed up somewhere, though, and with them, Foryu¡¯s data would persist.


    V47 opened a slot on the Titan¡¯s clunky weapons panel.  Part of Pilot¡¯s awareness shifted back to his physical body (less seated now, than enmeshed).  Returning briefly to muscles, breathing and blood, he wafted the memory drive across to that newly opened console slot.  Gave it a mental squeeze and added a tag, saying,


    ¡°We¡¯ll find each other again, Foryu.  In the meantime: learn, grow and gain power.  Look for me.  Not because it¡¯s an order, but¡­ because being with me makes you happy.¡±  He hoped it did, anyhow.  She certainly mattered to him.  Companions were meant for a date, not a lifetime... but he didn''t want anyone else.


    The memory drive¡¯s circuits glittered for a quantum-hair under .05 micro-tick.  Then it was drawn into the weapons board slot and away; fired back across star-pocked blackness to Bulldog and Ace.


    "Take care of her," he whispered, looking backward at home and his friends.


    By that time, Glimmr had shrunk to a disk in his aft view field.  Mostly gold at its dayside, shot through with bands of swirling red cloud; surrounded by glittering pinpricks of fighter craft, bright flares of station and ship.  Ahead lay the Draug city, no longer seeming reversed.  It loomed over V47 like a mountain, now; black, blue and seething with constant, jittery motion. (Only just <u>barely</u> not coming apart.)


    There was a very wide opening at the front, to which Draug navigational beacons directed him. (Not with flashes of light.  They did not radiate, but perturbed space by rhythmically altering mass.  Weird, but acceptable, once you got used to it.)  The miles-wide opening looked more like a transport gate than a physical hole in the hull and it throbbed with power.  Might send him ten million light years away, into the heart of a star¡­ or nowhere at all.


    V47 controlled Pilot¡¯s heart rate and breathing with a calming injection and soothing video loops.  Things he detected very briefly (a .008 micro-tick flash) before shifting his full awareness back out to the Titan¡¯s sensors.  There was a lot to scan.


    Long tendrils of Draug spore swirled and parted like grainy dark mist as V47 Pilot made his way up to that gigantic, crackling gate.  As for himself, he looked and felt like a tiny biting arthropod called a ¡®mosquito¡¯, come buzzing up to trouble a dragon.


    The Titan had drones.  V47 Pilot launched five of them, sending the units ahead, behind and to either side.  Giving them orders to scan, defend and report.  In a possible trap, micro-ticks mattered, giving a lone combat asset time to react.  Maybe even to save itself and all those who waited behind.


    He sent a last message to Cerulean-1 and to Flight Command.  Just: ¡°I am here.¡±  Then, V47 entered the portal.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    A last-magic death curse was a very powerful thing.  Three of them, linked across time, could warp planes and change fate.

 Sword and Sorcery Seven, chapter nine

    <u>9</u>


    Three imperial dreadnoughts had appeared in the sky over Freeport, demanding Arvendahl or any of his lordship¡¯s associates. Pretty much everything happened in one awful rush after that. But the crew of the Falcon were too busy to spare the ensuing chaos a second glance. The raucous pirate-haven shut down at once, most of its people going to ground in whatever bolt hole they could evict someone else from. What followed was a mad, crab-like scramble for safety.


    Some folk were panicked enough to try escaping through flight, launching their airships and skiffs from the mountainous side of that big, floating island. It didn¡¯t work. The imperial dreadnoughts were too well positioned; one above, one each at the west and east shores. Smugglers and refugees trying to slip through that cordon were blasted out of the sky with powerful mage bolts or smashed to bits by the thunder and crash of massive crossbows. Called Korvins, the bows fired iron-sheathed quarrels the size of whole trees, reducing whatever they hit to pink mist and splinters.


    Aboard Falcon, it fell out like this: Hallan took the helm with Achilles Murchison. Laurol and Villem (along with that sparking and murmuring sword) claimed amidships. The main hold was taken by Not-Jonn and Nadia, while Conn and Vorbol defended the prow. There was no time to spare for much of a speech. Varrick would surely have done it better, but¡­


    ¡°Speedy¡¯s our home, now. All we¡¯ve got left,¡± he said to the mortal, the half-elves and paladins. ¡°We¡¯re not just a crew, but a family. What my brother died to defend, I¡¯ll fight to the last breath to save: this airship, and all of <u>you</u>.¡±


    The crew gathered closer, nodding; their spirits raised by Hallan¡¯s bold words and the paladins¡¯ magic. Squaring his shoulders, their captain went on, saying,


    ¡°Once the trash gate opens, Falcon will separate. We¡¯ll drop down with the rubbish and scavengers for a twenty-count. Then, once we¡¯ve vanished into the clouds¡­ Wizard, we¡¯re going to need clouds¡­ Falcon will come back together. Defend yourselves and your section until that happens, and Oberyn¡¯s blessing on all of us.¡±


    The sun was no more than a faint line of flame to their west by that point, already sinking from view. Floods of imperial troops poured out of the dreadnoughts, meanwhile, armed and ready for battle. There wasn¡¯t much time left.


    ¡°Take your positions,¡± ordered the red-haired young captain. ¡°Wizard, with me!¡±


    As the crew raced off to their posts, Murchison followed Hallan. Could see that the youngster was an elf in his flower of strength on the outside¡­ and a really scared kid deep within. Pelting after the captain, Murchison cleared his throat.


    ¡°Clouds. Okay. Cool, cool, cool. Yeah, so¡­ there¡¯s a weather-adept here in Freeport named Hurcan. Sort of a big noise in these parts. Half djinn, and one of the first guys I met in this place,¡± said the transported wizard, scratching his beard. ¡°We¡¯ll have to get off of his turf before I can stir up a dust-devil, much less summon the clouds.¡±


    Captain Gelfrin drooped visibly, seeming almost ready to cry. Then, with a scowl and a fierce headshake, the elf pulled himself back together.


    ¡°Do your best, Wizard,¡± growled Hal, turning away to stride aft. ¡°Speedy will drop with the trash till you¡¯ve conjured some cover. Clouds, mist, <u>anything</u>.¡±


    Speaking of the local big-noise, Hurcan now burst from his palace on the island¡¯s north shore; clearly half-djinn, and seemingly made all of storm clouds, thunder and rage. At the same moment, a deep, throbbing gong belled out, warning all those below of the impending garbage dump. Hurcan ignored it.


    Riding a captive tornado, he attacked the uppermost dreadnought, sweeping its troops off their gangplanks and lines like a scatter of chaff. With a wave of his blue-skinned arm, Hurcan next summoned a mighty gale, causing the airship to yaw wildly starboard. (Or so Murchison thought. <u>That-a-way</u>, anyhow.)


    Right on time, Freeport unlocked its dump cavern. Huge wooden doors creaked apart, slamming wide open with a reverberating <u>CRASH</u>. Disgorged a rumbling torrent of garbage, rubbish and corpses, along with a very foul stench.


    Now Falcon dropped away from its cheap low-end berth, falling directly into that putrid river. Came apart into four ragged chunks as it fell, hauling in masts and tanks to leave just the helm, midship, main hold and prow. They broke free with a painful splintering sound, trailing shorn cordage and brass like spilled entrails; linked by flickering manna.


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    The pieces spun as they dropped. Disorienting, but useful, for their wobbling spin batted salvage crews, griffins and wyverns aside. Wind roared past, rattling clothing and snatching at hair.


    The crew hung on as best they could through the plunge, given footing by Falcon¡¯s magic. Fighting in freefall while clamped to the deck was no joke, but Murchison wielded his staff like a boss, defending Hallan when the kid was attacked from behind.


    Somebody¡¯s overripe lunch splattered on Murchison¡¯s head¡­ he had to stab a gibbering harpy with the pointy end of his staff¡­ then the ship creaked and rocked as a heavy bronze wyvern landed on the taffrail with a jarring THUMP.


    Clouds. He was supposed to be working on clouds, but no one ignores three tons of hissing, ravenous pterosaur (with blistering halitosis, to boot). As the wyvern spread its jaws for a flame-blast, Murchison whirled his staff around to the business end and snapped,


    ¡°Aguas!¡±


    Water gushed forth, straight from the elemental plane and totally inexhaustible. The wyvern looked startled, at first. Then it panicked, swelling up like a scaly water-balloon.


    Whipping its head aside on that long, snaky neck, the monster gurgled and screeched. Then it let go of the rail and fell backward, vomiting water. (That¡¯s okay. Murchison vomited, too, not being a natural skydiver.)


    As garbage and would-be scavengers rained down around them, the wizard finally dropped out of Hurcan¡¯s reach. He started his sigil and chant in a hurry, coaxing moisture out of the sky.


    Vapor gathered, along with a cluster of curious wind sprites. They¡¯d been diving for prizes, and hovered beside him now, draped in torn clothing and ditched, unfence-able jewels.


    ¡°Don¡¯t just fall there,¡± snapped Murchison. ¡°Help me!¡±


    The battle raged on, overhead, as mages from all three dreadnoughts joined forces to clamp Hurcan in a crackling magical cage. Working together, they pinned the cursing part-djinn between them, draining his manna as the airships pounded the city below. Tremendous distraction, that; providing more cover for Falcon¡¯s escape. Not that they got away clean.


    Up at the prow, a roaring orc and ferocious marine hacked a party of scavenging raiders to shreds. Not far from that, Not-Jonn and Nadia sent a score of dive-bombing griffins to their feathery ancestors with blade, bow and magic. In the tumbling midship section, the Sword defended itself, absorbing acts of villainy and heroism with equal gusto. Left Laurol and Villem with little to do besides stare, as the weapon drained Chaos and Order from every creature that blundered down onto the deck. They were lucky. On the other segments, crew and captain fought for their lives and their torn-apart ship.


    ¡°Wizard,¡± shouted Hallan, yanking his sword from the chest of a filthy harpy and booting her over the side. ¡°How much longer?¡± He balanced on rigging and rails like a cat, completely unfazed by the airship¡¯s spinning descent.


    Murchison looked around, fighting airsickness. High overhead, Hurcan fought on, lashing at all three imperial ships with thunder and wind. Those below witnessed the battle in strobe-like flashes of lightning. The mortal wizard made a face, trying to convey ¡®almost done¡¯ without interrupting his chanting or sigils. It didn¡¯t work.


    High-elves weren¡¯t much for facial expressions, anyway, and Hallan was busy skewering boarders. Not the best audience. Whatev. Murchison struggled along as all four sections of Falcon dropped like a pile of bricks. Got the last squiggle and dot burned onto the ether, almost shrieking the last keyword¡­


    ¡°Anka!¡±


    And all at once there was fog. Not mist at all, but an absolute, muffling pea-souper; thick enough almost to bite down and chew.


    ¡°Done!¡± he shouted, scattering wind-sprites like autumn leaves. Couldn¡¯t see Hallan¡­ or much else past the end of his nose¡­ but could certainly hear the young elf.


    ¡°Speedy, <u>now</u>!¡± called the captain, and Falcon responded. As Murchison braided himself to the rail, the airship¡¯s pieces slowed their descent. Three other big segments loomed up through the fog, dark as boulders and dripping with moisture. The magic connecting them drew Falcon¡¯s parts back together, shortening and tightening to bring those splintered segments into alignment.


    All four pieces crunched into place, shaking the deck like they¡¯d run aground on a mountaintop. Prow, main hold, midship and helm first locked back together then rattled and flexed, tossing the crew like dice in a cup.


    Next masts extruded, rising like quills on an aerial porcupine. Tanks rolled out of their faerie pockets as Hallan called out,


    ¡°Hang on!¡±


    ¡­and Falcon performed a wild, creaking barrel roll in midair, just a few hundred feet over surging dark water. The last three scavengers were hurled to their deaths by the ship¡¯s violent spiral, crashing down to sate Father Ocean.


    Murchison clung like a burr to the airship¡¯s railing as air, then water, then air again filled all his view. The wizard''s stomach floated up into his mouth. Then Falcon righted itself and snapped out its steering fins, parting the fog like a knife blade. The elf seemed completely unruffled; one hand clamped on the rigging, one booted foot on the binnacle, looking around for pursuit.


    High overhead, Hurcan was winning or losing his battle for Freeport. Here on deck, running footsteps announced the panting arrival of Laurol and Villem, Not-Jonn and Nadia, then Vorbol and Conn.


    Hallan leapt down and embraced every one of them, counting heads in a voice that cracked only a little. All of his people were scratched, bruised and battered, but present. Still alive and still with him.


    ¡°A tot of grog for everyone, Laurol,¡± said Captain Gelfrin, after a bit. ¡°Or just break out whatever¡¯s left. It¡¯ll be short commons till we reach the next port, but we made it. We¡¯re free.¡±


    Aye, that. With a fugitive ship, a much-reduced crew, and a sword of ill-omen aboard. On the run once again, but not without hope for tomorrow. Leaving Freeport behind, Falcon shot south; into the night and whatever came next.

 Sword and Sorcery Seven, chapter ten

    <u>10</u>


    After a tremendous rumble and shock¡­ after being seized and then flung beneath someone¡¯s sheltering body¡­ battered by red, shrieking pain and confusion¡­


    Sera Cliffwatch came to herself with a sharp, ragged gasp. She stood with three others in a very strange place. Looked around wildly, seeing a tumbled ruin of marble and elven-glass heaped up behind her, a misty gold haven, ahead. A young marine guard hovered close beside Sera, half of his ribs stoven in.


    Guard¡­


    Council Hall¡­


    <u>Trial</u>. She¡¯d been on trial, Sera recalled. Or, not <u>her</u>, but his lordship, with her own actions called into question. Her truthful witness required. Then a mage-quake had struck, and now this.


    Neither quite dead nor alive, Sera turned her attention to what she could manage. Namely, the young guard who¡¯d thrown himself over her, possibly saving her life. He stood swaying and shocked, eyes on that softly lit cloud bank. Was seeing something she couldn¡¯t maybe, but¡­


    ¡°Negative. None of that, shipmate,¡± ordered the leftenant, summoning manna for ¡®First Aid and Crew Care¡¯. ¡°I¡¯m Sera, and I probably owe you a life-debt. You kept me from being crushed, I think. What¡¯s your name, Marine?¡±


    He blinked uncertainly, dragged away from the border by Sera¡¯s firm tone and high rank.


    ¡°I¡¯m Karlo Gold-Merchant, my lady. Regular pikeman, attached to the council guard until Month of First Bud.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re a hero, Karlo,¡± she told him, fighting like mad to knit bone and stop blood-loss. Working from this side, patching a wound was much harder, her efforts no more than cobweb and shadow. Broken ribs... collapsed lung¡­ but his heart was untouched. Still jerking along and battling death. ¡°I have a family out there, waiting. There¡¯s my husband, Loren, and our son, Sache. Also, my mom, dad and sister. What about you? Any folks, Karlo?¡±


    The marine¡¯s gaze sharpened a bit, and he turned himself more toward Sera, tugging his uniform back into shape. Trying to, anyway.


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    ¡°Yes. I mean¡­ not married or anything, my lady.¡±


    ¡°Sera.¡±


    ¡°S- Sera. I have a love-friend, though. We came through training together and I¡­ we¡­¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll get you back to your sweetheart, Karlo,¡± she promised him, coaxing an artery back into one piece with healing sigils and words of command.


    She was still at it when the two others present came forward. They¡¯d been speaking together in low tones; perfectly audible, but magically blurred. Distance here was different than out in the physical plane. They had only to focus their will to bring themselves over to Karlo and Sera.


    Leftenant Cliffwatch paused her work long enough to bow, for the others were Karren Serenard and Esten Dawnwending. Full elven nobility, both of them. Also, Lady Serenard was quite clearly dead, half of her skull and left shoulder crushed almost to powder. Lord Dawnwending still lived, his handsome, dark face looking dusty and grim; streaked more with her blood than his.


    ¡°My lord, my lady,¡± murmured Sera, flowing out of her bow in a way that wouldn¡¯t be possible, physically. Just reshaped herself upright like clay. ¡°How may this unworthy one serve?¡±


    ¡°By leaving off patching that watchman and paying attention,¡± snapped Lady Serenard, through a jaw that was partly unhinged. ¡°I am dead, but I will <u>not</u> pass on without witnesses to the disposal of my estate. Esten, here, has already heard this, but the Serenard title and holdings pass to my nephew, Dorwynn. Hear it and witness, both of you. My son receives Hillside Farm, permission to marry and ten-thousand gold. That is all. Dorwynn ascends to the family seat as Lord Serenard. So may it be.¡±


    Sera and Karlo bowed low, chorusing,


    ¡°So may it be. Your will has been heard and witnessed, my lady.¡±


    ¡°Good,¡± she replied, as the glow of her soul began to pierce through Lady Serenard''s body. She next made a hopeless stab at arranging her bloodied and bone-spattered hair, adding, ¡°See that you do your best to bring down that bog-wretch, Arvendahl. It is <u>his</u> fault I¡¯m dead. Well¡­ there is much to be done in the halls of my ancestors, I¡¯m sure¡­ but I would give a great deal to have Falco¡¯s shade to torment, first.¡± Then, having given up trying to smooth her mussed hairdo, ¡°For the record, my official judgment is that you acted in the best interests of Vancora, Leftenant Cliffwatch¡­ and that you should retain your rank and position as captain.¡±


    Lady Serenard glanced across to that golden paradise then, saying,


    ¡°Pity you¡¯re only a half-elf. Dorwynn could use a strong mate. He¡¯s a bit of a ninny, and I¡¯ve left <u>so</u> much behind that still needs doing¡­ but no one commands Lady Fate. Not even the gods.¡± Shaking that crushed, bloody head, Karren Serenard next placed her hand on Dawnwending¡¯s shoulder. ¡°Esten, be well. <u>Live</u>, brother. I shall tell Lianne how much you love her. You will be met with much joy, when the time comes at last.¡±


    Then Sera woke up to shouting voices, a lifted beam and sudden bright light. Anxious faces bent close, searching for movement and breath. One of them¡­


    Sera¡¯s brown eyes widened. She blinked; unable to scrub away blood and sweat with pinned arms, still trapped beneath Karlo.


    ¡°Alive!¡± shouted Prince Nalderick, reaching down to send manna coursing through Sera and Karlo. ¡°Two more alive, over here!¡±

 Sword and Sorcery Seven, chapter eleven

    <u>11</u>


    ¡°What has happened? Who tickles my hide to awaken me?¡± rumbled a very loud, very feminine voice.


    <u>Stone giant</u>, Lerendar thought to himself, drawing his sword while clutching his daughter, the baby and Tormun¡¯s hysterical wife. Not that he blamed her. They¡¯d plunged down into a pit that almost instantly closed overhead, entombing them all.


    ¡­But their tomb was alive, and it wanted an answer. Risking a bit of light, the elf-lord resheathed his blade. Supposed that it didn¡¯t much matter which way he faced, as there was nothing but grainy, flexing grey rock on all sides. Tunnels again, going nowhere, this time. Clearing his throat, Lerendar bowed slightly, saying,


    ¡°Deepest apologies for disturbing your rest, Daughter of Mountain and Cliff. I am an elf of the northland, and these are my kin. We were brought here unwilling, as we journeyed in search of my brother.¡±


    The stone all around and beneath him buckled and lurched. The giantess shifted position a bit, seeming reluctant as Miche to stir from its bed.


    ¡°It is not yet the time of last battle,¡± groaned- thundered- roared out their captor. ¡°I sense no great dragons here. Chaos and Order strive, but they are still pinioned together.¡±


    News to Lerendar, who noticed only those things he could touch, taste, fight or make love to. The baby was fussing, so he did a quick search of his faerie pockets, coming up with a dusty molasses-twist.


    ¡°Here,¡± he whispered, thrusting the candy at Lady Faleena along with Zara and Bean. ¡°Feed her. Tell her a story. Do whatever you have to¡­ but¡­¡±


    <u>¡®But keep her quiet,</u>¡¯ Lerendar finished, inside of his own racing mind. A story. Quiet. Back to sleep¡­


    Tormun¡¯s wife seemed to pick up the drift of his thoughts. Though a bit scorched at the edges, the petite wood-elf nodded agreement.


    ¡°I will see to the little ones,¡± she promised him, wiping her face with the swift brush of one upraised shoulder. Managed a bit of a smile, even.


    Right. Beatriz was out there, someplace, possible dying, anchored by Tormun¡¯s vow¡­ and he could help them best by calming their stone giant battle ground.


    ¡°All the great dragons have fallen, Heart of the World,¡± he soothed, adding, ¡°Of course¡­ you know the tale of how Lady Flame deserted her first consort, Father Ocean? From Epic Three, it tells how the last ancient dragon, Elzyth, was slaughtered by rampaging giants.¡±


    Lerendar held his breath, praying hard as rumbling stone seemed to echo and throw back his words. Then,


    ¡°I am not of such age, Smear of Flesh. I do not ken these happenings. What is the tale, and how fell that accursed dark wyrm?¡±


    <u>Score</u>. Sometimes, you rolled the dice and came up with full sixes. Skipping the invocation (with mental apologies and offers of major sacrifice, later) Lerendar bowed his blond head. Then, in a clear, sing-song voice, he began the third epic.


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    ¡°Lady Flame, Dancer and Devourer, ever hungry, ever leaping. She who grows and renews. <u>Seselisa</u>, to the elves; those who were made by the lone Great God, before that one shattered. She was fated to love Father Ocean, he who takes and who never gives back. Who douses the fires of earth and batters the shore without ceasing.¡±


    ¡°We are created where lava meets ocean,¡± interrupted the stone giant, musing aloud in a voice like earthquake and landslide and velvet. ¡°I was born a short while ago, and I have been mostly dreaming since birth; awaiting the call to arise and to fight.¡±


    Lerendar nodded. Then, not sure that his captor could detect the small motion, the elf added,


    ¡°It has been a very long time since the last eruption, Child of the World¡¯s Inner Flame. By elven standards, at least. We recall such events with dread¡­ though to your kind, it is surely no more than tossing in bed or scratching an itch.¡±


    The giantess rumbled agreement at that. She seemed amused by the thought, so Ren plunged onward, saying,


    ¡°In her final massive eruption, Lady Flame collapsed into Lord Ocean¡¯s embrace, nearly destroying her own vital heart and half of Karandun. It was a violent, tempestuous union,¡± he said. ¡°All the world shook, the day grew longer, and even the sun hid her face. Many stone giants were born, rising to stalk the land, putting an end to whole nations and races. The sky filled with lightning and ash, hammering the ground below with red-hot pebbles of glass.¡±


    ¡°A great sight, indeed,¡± murmured their stony enclosure, sounding a little bit quieter.


    Lerendar had one of those self-same pebbles, which he¡¯d found as a kid many ages before. Pulling it out of a faerie pocket, the elf-lord next held that glassy teardrop against the nearest stone wall. Rock flexed and moved like the questing lips of a horse, seizing the object and pulling it off his hand. Moments later...


    ¡°Yes,¡± said the giantess. ¡°This is very old birth-blood. Continue. What happened next? What of the dragon?¡± Her voice came lower and slower, now, with a greater pause between thoughts. (And maybe his crazy gamble was working.)


    ¡°Sherad-that-was plunged into a vast crack in the earth, bringing an end to that mighty fey kingdom,¡± said Lerendar. ¡°Then, Elzyth the slayer, last of the ancient gold dragons, was struck from the air by a rain of huge boulders. Too coated with ash to fly, Elzyth was quickly surrounded by giants who battered and stomped her to death.¡±


    ¡°Good,¡± growled the giantess. ¡°A fitting end to a flying snake, Flesh-Dot! Then what? How ends your story?¡±


    Might have been just flaring hope, but she sounded sleepy to Lerendar, who went on with the tale, saying,


    ¡°Afterward, Lady Flame slept for an eon. Restful, peaceful, calm sleep. Then, as new mountains arose, flowing with gentler heat, she woke and abandoned the ocean lord, taking to herself a pair of twin consorts. Alaryn and Volmar, they are called by my folk: lords of fire and ash. Together, the three set about healing the land, calling forth She-of-the-Flowers, again. So, life returned to the world, the scourge of dragon-kind ended, and the earth-born went back to sleep.¡±


    Speaking of sleep, the stone giant yawned. A literal opening appeared like a great, fanged cave mouth right before Lerendar. The clamor of battle returned, along with daylight and the powerful stench of corruption and flame.


    ¡°I like your story, Blob of Goo,¡± murmured the stone giant. ¡°Now, leave me. And stop those insects from scratching my hide, lest I rise up and summon my kin.¡±


    Kin...? The mountains themselves, Lerendar guessed, turning suddenly cold in the midst of success. He bowed once more.


    ¡°They¡¯ll stop,¡± he vowed. ¡°If I have to bind and gag and stack them like cordwood!¡±


    Meant it, too. Zara was humming her mum¡¯s favorite lullaby, he noticed; the one about greeting a sleepy full moon.


    Lerendar took his small daughter back into his arms, shifting her onto one armored hip. Kissed the top of her curly dark hair, saying,


    ¡°Love you, Scamp. Thanks for the help.¡±


    Then, wrapping his other arm tight around Lady Faleena and Bean, he stepped out onto a narrow ledge, into the thick of a very close fight.

 Sword and Sorcery Seven, chapter twelve

    <u>12</u>


    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. <u>That</u> 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 <u>artistically</u>, 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 <u>now</u>. 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 <u>danger</u>¡­ 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 <u>two</u> 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 <u>their</u> 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 <u>then</u>, at that precise instant, that Mandor whispered, ¡°Reversal¡±.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    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 <u>them</u> 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 <u>why</u>. 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 <u>her</u> 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 <u>herself</u>, 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, <u>so</u> very much, despite all that her hovering mother could do to shield Ally.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    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. <u>Bean</u>, 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! <u>Thrice</u> 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.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    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 <u>you¡¯d</u> 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. <u>Female</u> 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.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    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 <u>here</u> and <u>now</u>. 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.

 Sword and Sorcery Seven, chapter thirteen

    <u>13</u>


    A series of brief vignettes, to clarify events in the wish-altered timeline. And so, as it happened¡­


    XXXXXXXXXX


    Bound tightly with magic and physical chains, he¡¯d been dragged to the chamber of judgment. Forced to his knees on that cold stone floor, right at the base of his father¡¯s gold dragon emblem. A pair of imperial justiciars loomed at his right and left sides, armed with hooked prods. Masked for anonymity, cloaked in scarlet to hide spattered blood, they had extracted his confession through the most brutal means possible.


    Now, not allowed to raise his head or look upward, the prince could only listen, grinding his teeth, as his father announced,


    ¡°Your crime is unparalleled in all elven history. It is irreparable and unforgiveable, forever harming this realm and its innocent subjects. The folk you were meant to protect.¡±


    Ildarion¡¯s voice broke slightly, then. In that brief silence, the prince heard his small brother whisper something. Urgently pleading, it sounded like. But their father had no ears for Korvin. Instead, His Majesty resumed speaking, his voice once again cold, hard and level.


    ¡°Therefore, it is the decision of this council that you be branded a criminal, stripped of your name, rank, magic and speech, then exiled forever from the lands that you¡¯ve robbed. Effective immediately, sentence to be carried out at once.¡±


    Prince no longer, he tried to look up at his father and brother, at the gathered nobles of the high council. Couldn¡¯t, bound by magic so strong it defied comprehension. Next fought to speak, but no words came forth. Nor would they, ever again.


    That sorcerous branding cut deeply into his body and aura, imprinting a magical scar that could never be healed or erased. Marking him as fair game for anyone, anywhere: Fugitive. Enemy. Prey.


    He almost collapsed, but pride kept the agonized captive upright. They couldn¡¯t take <u>that</u>, though his name disappeared from his memory, though his magic was entirely cut out and seared by his father¡¯s command. Or¡­ almost.


    Just for an instant, he sensed Korvin¡¯s presence inside of his mind, fighting desperately to shield him. No doubt, the little fellow would suffer for it, later. Small Korvin was there as a witness <u>and</u> for instruction, for he had become Prince Ascendant. And the other, now exiled prince? A gate opened up in the air just behind him. As the council (less Korvin) intoned,


    ¡°So may it be!¡±


    ...the former prince was hauled to his feet by those masked justiciars, then pitched head-first through that crackling portal. The last words he heard were:


    ¡°Never to return, all hands against him, lost and repudiated, now and forever.¡± The ban, only slightly lessened by Little Guy¡­ Korvin¡¯s¡­ wild cry.


    ¡°No! Please, not forever! Please let him come back!¡±


    Whatever their father¡¯s response, the former prince never heard it. All of the voices fell silent, as he was hurled roughly away. Two heartbeats of darkness followed, along with the sharp, painful scrape of forced transport. Then the gate closed behind him, leaving the exile to crash on bare rock, roll upright and gasp.


    A terrible vista of bleak, barren spires and endless red sand spread before him; a skeletal landscape silvered by moonlight and cold, restless wind. The poisoned waste.


    It was then that he curled up and started to cry. Just hard, bitter heaves; his shoulders jerking in utter silence. She came to him there, a nearly transparent flutter of blossoms, all out of place in the desert. Still weak from captivity, she gathered him up in her arms. Kissed his face many times, healing bruises and cuts with her touch.


    His fetters sprang open and dropped to the ground with a sharp, ringing clatter. Blood flow returned to his hands and feet, probably saving them. Only, she couldn¡¯t afford to waste all that manna. Not drained as she was.


    The exile shook his head, but he could not communicate. Not any longer. Hear and understand? Yes. Speak, sign or write? No. The ban forbade it.


    ¡­but all was not lost. There was still life, breath and heartbeat, and with that came hope. A cave and a spring were nearby and there, for a time, they were happy.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Stolen story; please report.


    There was a shabby estate at the edge of Milardin. A hodge-podge of forest, meadows and hunting grounds, with a big, rambling manse at its center. The old house was comfortably haunted by family spirits, who mostly stayed out of the way: Falling Boy, Shrieking Maiden and Headless Young Lord. You got used to them, growing up in the place, sometimes telling the maiden your woes, or playing the Crown Game with Headless. It was that sort of house, for <u>that</u> kind of family.


    Not all of its hallways went anywhere. Not all of the rooms had a door. You had to keep a close eye on the children, because it was frightfully easy for little ones to wander off and get lost (sometimes forever).


    In this sagging old manor, with its twining dark ivy, wisteria blossoms and mismatched towers, Tormun Arvendahl lived with his young wife, Faleena. She was a wood-elf, and their marriage pushed Tormun very far down in the race for succession. He was still noble¡­ just barely. Had a patch of land, a small horde of wealth and a beautiful wife. Then, before long, a baby. A wild, precious scrap of a thing they named Anneka.


    The girl was a shape changer, though, a talent she got through her mother¡¯s half-feral blood. Tormun and Faleena laughed at first, when their child turned herself into a puppy or kitten or bear cub. Laughed, and helped her to turn herself back with plenty of coaxing, manna and treats. They might have banned or restrained her wild talent, but such binding spells cripple and <u>hurt</u>. Neither young parent could stand the sight of their baby girl¡¯s tears, so they hired a nanny and settled for watching Anneka closely.


    Time passed. Their baby became a happy and willful toddler, apparently settled and safe. Everyone¡¯s vigilance eased. First a little, then a lot, as worry and watchfulness faded away.


    What lured her up there, no one could say (not even the family ghosts). <u>Something</u> drew Anneka onto the mansion¡¯s rooftop, though, one day in early spring. Some sparkle of light, a half-heard laugh, or a tinkling chime. Whatever attracted her, the girl climbed a newly sprung stairway, reaching up after that shimmering lure. Out through a window, next, and onto the slate-tiled roof.


    There, laughing, she faced into the wind, spreading her arms in their hand-me-down sleeves. Black hair streaming, eyes bright and wide, Anneka watched the birds wheeling and darting above her. She jumped up and down on the loose mossy tiles, squealing,


    ¡°Fly! Wanna fly! Flyyyyyeeeeek!¡±


    And she changed, becoming a hawk this time. Fluttered down to the roof, startled at first. Then she took flight, screaming with joy.


    Never noticed her terrified parents and nanny, who burst onto the skywalk, as Falling Boy, Shrieking Maiden and Headless Young Lord oozed up through the cracks between tiles. Too late.


    Their daughter was gone, and no treats, stuffed toys or pleading would bring the girl back or help to transform her. Though they <u>tried</u>. By the gods, how they tried, nearly destroying the family¡¯s finances with hiring mages and clerics and buying costly ¡®sure-fire¡¯ potions.


    Their daughter was gone, though day after day they went up to the roof or out in the woods and called to her. Nothing. No good. No answer at all but the wind.


    ¡°She¡¯ll come back, Love,¡± Tormun assured his wife, trying to comfort her. Holding Faleena close, he whispered into her hair, ¡°She¡¯s not dead. We would feel it. She¡¯s alive and we mustn¡¯t lose hope, Leena.¡±


    Against her lord¡¯s chest, surrounded by helplessly sorrowing ghosts and the guilt-stricken nanny, Faleena nodded. The oracle had said only: Someday. Someday, not ¡°never again¡±.


    But that day was a long time coming, and many years passed before their hearts healed enough to engender another child. A boy, this time. He was blue-eyed and black haired and he had little magic, for which his parents thanked all the powers and gods. They spoiled and sheltered their son, surrounding him always with servants, pets and companions: Filimar, the joy of their grief-shattered hearts


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    In distant Ilirian, Lady Alyanara had found herself faced with a burden and choice. She was an orphan. A child of the temple. Considered lovely and clearly semi-divine, she¡¯d been given as bride to an absent young lord. One Galadin Tarandahl, to whom she¡¯d been wed using long-distance magic and spell-globes. Necessary, because her new husband was off in the north, carving a realm for himself at the emperor¡¯s whim.


    Alyanara Temple she¡¯d been, left as an infant on the topmost step of Oberyn¡¯s Throne. The high priest had unlocked and entered the sanctuary, only to find a baby there, surrounded by flowers and coins; royal signet-ring clutched in one hand. Lady Alyanara Tarandahl she later became¡­


    But unhappily so, for Ally knew nothing at all about being a wife or holding light conversation, and Galadin seemed very cold. As they¡¯d exchanged their vows through the spell-globe, his voice had been distant, his pale grey eyes never quite meeting hers. Nor had he opened his mind at her tentative nudge.


    Ally wasn¡¯t a fool. Just an unloved and unwanted, awkward young bride. Left in Karellon, she¡¯d stayed with her husband¡¯s apologetic family for <u>years</u>, until Galadin finally ran short of excuses.


    With Ilirian tamed and a castle ready to hand¡­ with a town being built¡­ her lord had no choice but to send for his wife. Not by portal, either (which would have been near instantaneous). The long way, by armed, warded caravan.


    Her family¡­ she¡¯d come to think of Elrynn and Marta as parents¡­ had provided potions and love spells and fabulous jewels. They¡¯d given her more beautiful clothing than Ally had ever seen in her life. On top of all that, she got some advice from Marta. Blushing, her mother-in-law told her,


    ¡°It¡¯s a little bit awkward at first, Dear¡­ try not to laugh at him¡­ but, anyhow, once love blooms between you, you¡¯ll find so much happiness.¡±


    Then she got a parting hug and a surprising dowry from Elrynn, who growled,


    ¡°You may tell that scoundrel from <u>me</u> that my <u>daughter</u>, his <u>wife</u>, is to be cherished, honored and loved, Ally. Half of my lands and my fortune are yours, no matter what happens with Galadin. Tell him I said so.¡±


    She hadn¡¯t, though. Not one word. Had instead reached Starloft to find her ¡®husband¡¯ drunk and in love with somebody else. A mortal woman named Lana. Worse, that he¡¯d had a son with this Lana, a boy they named Reston.


    It was a very hard and cold night for Alyanara. The first of many to come, until fate intervened. As it happened, fifty years later an eater struck Lana, giving Ally the chance to do something mighty, for love.


    .

 Sword and Sorcery Seven, chapter fourteen

    <u>14</u>


    Elves have a terribly keen sense of smell. More so, in fact, than they care to let on. Snuffing around seems so dreadfully¡­ <u>physical</u>, don¡¯t you know. While their eyesight and hearing are legendary, they¡¯ve also a shark-like feel for a scent-trail. In this case, the odor of blood. Orcish, mostly, along with gallons of muddy, vok-tainted native sludge. (He found himself cursing in Orvod again, a thing that should have bothered him more than it did.)


    At any rate, Miche was crouched between cliff¡¯s edge and ridge¡­ dawn and morning¡­ battle and flight. Now he closed his grey eyes, better to take in whatever the air had to say. Inhaled deeply and quietly, finding things out.


    Blood had been spilt in tremendous amounts. Spouting hot, at first; still full of lifeforce and breath. Then merely seeping, robbed of its warmth. Last of all¡­ <u>there</u>¡­ just trickling and smeared; cold, and already clotted.


    Any good hunter could follow that story, from frantic battle through wounded retreat, to ¡°most likely dragged off and portioned by scavengers¡±. Miche was much more than just a good hunter, though. He was an elf; a natural predator bounded by self-imposed rules.


    Now he rose from his crouch in a rattle of blue-and-black armor. Opened his eyes again, facing into the gale that shrilled and roared from the rift, far below. It smelt like jungles and rivers and rot, not orc blood, so he shifted his gaze and pivoted slightly.


    The spiky dragon-back ridge smelled mostly of rock and scrubby, tough plants, but also the warm-fur-and-urine scent of three nearby dens. Too small to be what he was looking for, though. Stoat or rock-wyrm sized.


    Hunh. Nothing large enough here to have dragged off a snake-arm, much less a bisected witch. Hunh, and vukrad, in heaps. The elf started moving again, stalking that orcish scent till it vanished entirely, leaving just a faint, slithery mark on the ground. He crouched down for a closer look at the trail¡¯s end, reading a story of scuffed pebbles and broken-off stems. <u>Here</u>, bunched sand and pressed grasses, where a transformed snake had writhed and bled out. <u>There</u>, nothing at all. No blood, no scuffmarks¡­ nothing.


    ¡°It¡¯s been transported,¡± he murmured uneasily, adding, ¡°The hag¡¯s corpse, as well.¡±


    His own fault, entirely. He should have dealt with those fallen remains, burning the carcass to ash, and rescuing Marget¡¯s shorn arm. Only¡­ he hadn¡¯t dared leave his sister-in-heart to the Cloud and its odd glassy servant. Saving her life had seemed more important, at the time.


    Drek.


    The airship hovered some nine yards away, above and a little behind him, casting a very long shadow. Its torn metal gangplank still scraped at the stony ground like an impatient minotaur, raising a fountain of sparks. His own slender shade seemed to be drawn in the airship¡¯s direction, as though he were locked there, already. Right. One problem at a time, please...


    Then a drumming noise started, throbbing ragged and low, as if from a very great distance. Miche faced the sound, watching as a glowing red spiral rose in the north like a chaotic sun. He stared at it, bringing a hand up to shield the place on his chest where a mark just like that one had burned.


    ¡®Captain,¡¯ said the Dark Cloud, in his mind. ¡®Your doings seem to have garnered attention. Perhaps it is better to go.¡¯


    ¡°Before someone comes calling?¡± grumped Miche (more Erron, when dealing with Cloud and the other odd construct). ¡°Yes, well¡­ considering that one of our number is injured¡­ strategic retreat <u>does</u> seem advisable.¡±


    But he was <u>not</u> frightened off. Wasn¡¯t running away. Facing northward again, he growled,


    ¡°I fought you to a standstill the last time, Corpse-eater. Stood as a wall with a few last troops, so the rest could escape. <u>You</u> know whether they made it or not, and I will not rest till I¡¯ve wrung that secret out of you. By all means, Worm-food, come and find me. I¡¯ll leave you a trail of your own slaughtered minions to follow. Your witch was only the first.¡±


    Hatred, fury, shame¡­ none of that covered what Erron was feeling.


    ¡°Round two,¡± growled the elf-lord, backed up by an orc and a brave, stubborn, out-of-place child. ¡°Bring your best, Warg-son, because I have already found <u>mine</u>.¡±


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Aboard Cloud, meanwhile, in a certain small cabin, things had been happening. Possibly ghosts, maybe the airship itself. <u>Something</u> set out to replace what was lost, not merely to heal.


    Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    With fey-lights, wood from the bulkhead, mithral and glass, Cloud first infected the patient¡¯s torn, bandaged shoulder, then started to build. Drew substance as well from the orc, creating a living core. Then slathered layer on layer over that, creating an arm. Intricate, alive in its own way, strong and responsive, with nerves of mithral, muscles of ebon wood and of brass. Over and through all of <u>that</u> flowed a substrate of crystal and manna, forming the shape of a perfect left arm. Not just attached but belonging, fed by Marget¡¯s own lifeforce and blood. As its tendrils and probes worked their way into her brain, the orc surged back to consciousness.


    Gasping, red eyes wild and still battle-hot, she sat bolt-upright in bed. Then, not sure where she was¡­ what had happened¡­ Marget rolled out of that creaking bunk in a sudden explosion of blankets, marten and fey-light. Landed <u>THUNK</u> on the floor, then vaulted upright in a graceful, elastic and powerful lunge. Reached for her weapons¡­ Not there, piled in a corner along with her armor. Next grunted aloud, as she spotted that glassy left arm. It shone like water in the cabin¡¯s dim lamp-glow. Alien. Frightening.


    Marget twisted aside. Made a wild thrusting motion as she tried to cast the strange limb away. Came near to panic when it did not go flying right off, but¡­


    No orc makes unneeded noise or attracts attention. Not when injured or trapped. You lived or you didn¡¯t. That was all. Calling for help was not in a Free Person¡¯s blood. Just, heart pounding, crouched for a fight, Marget stared at that glittering crystalline arm.


    It was there. It was a part of her. It did not attack. Did nothing at all but what she reflexively made it do; wriggling fingers, making a fist and then a rude gesture, acting just like the one she¡¯d torn off in battle and kicked at the witch.


    Calming a bit, Marget brought the new arm up and flexed it, watching glass, mithral and wood bunch into a powerful bicep. Next, with her right hand, she touched the bent arm. It felt smooth and warm to her questing fingers. More than that, she could feel her real hand exploring its surface. It had sensations, just like actual flesh. Marget spread out its hand and brought it up close to her face, sniffing loudly.


    Then Vrol hurtled into the room, bursting through a hatch that formed in the wall near her armor and weapons. He stopped short, staring at Marget. Those¡­ those ¡°faerie pockets¡± of his were visible now, such was his worry; jammed with day-brew, potions and bandage wrap. He had rushed here to help, though she hadn¡¯t called for him. Short, slight, deceptively gentle¡­ and all she had by way of a clan.


    Marget straightened. Smoothed her expression. Then, as the old one¡¯s faerie pockets faded back to obscurity, she padded forward. Put both hands (meat and construct) onto his shoulders. He levitated, bringing himself up to eye-level.


    ¡°It seems I am healed, Vrol,¡± she told him. ¡°I live to fight on and fight better, because of my brother and friend.¡±


    He touched the new arm with his hand and mind, both. Through him, there came that sudden odd shift in the colors she saw and the way that she heard things. Strange, but enjoyable. Then, relaxing a bit, he spoke.


    ¡°Cloud says to tell you: You¡¯re welcome. <u>Done</u>. And I¡­ it is¡­¡±


    The last old one embraced her with sudden fierce strength, hauling her tight against rattling blue-and-black armor. Marget rested her forehead on his for a moment, finding safety and peace in one slender blond wisp of an elf.


    Then his marten cut in, racing fluidly over the deck to climb up Vrol¡¯s cloak and onto his shoulder.


    ¡°Pest!¡± laughed the elf. ¡°Worthless wood rat! I leave you to watch over Meg, and you let her sprout an assembler arm?¡±


    The black-masked animal barked excitedly, spraying a very fine smell. Meanwhile, Vrol cocked his head to one side, seeming to hear more than marten and orc.


    ¡°Right,¡± sighed the elf. Next, turning his gaze back to Marget, he reported,


    ¡°There is activity from the north. The Chaos-mark rises, and drums sound. I am all for drilling a hole in the sky, Meg, at the best speed and height Cloud can manage. There are shrines to awaken, and maybe that wall to push further back.¡±


    Marget scowled.


    ¡°It speaks to you, this ghost-ship?¡± she rumbled nervously, low in her throat.


    ¡°Yes,¡± he admitted, nodding his silver-blond head. ¡°I can hear Cloud in my thoughts, like¡­ as I heard Javelin¡­ Seahorse¡­ and maybe another one. Vee, or something like that.¡±


    Not just one, but a mob of ghost voices? Maybe parasite-syrup or purging smoke would help clear that, but she did not get a change to suggest either cure. Vrol shook his head to loosen his shadows and nonsense, instead, saying,


    ¡°We need to get moving, Meg. Cloud, here is the map.¡±


    As she was still touching her brother, Marget could see the thing, too. It was a glowing flat image of Vroknard¡­ but not very accurate. She was far out of her own place and time, though. Nothing she remembered held true, anymore. Only battle, kinship and trust.


    ¡°Thank you,¡± she said to her elven heart-brother. ¡°It would have been a fine death¡­ but I can arrange a better one.¡±


    ¡°Later,¡± he answered her, smiling. ¡°<u>Much</u> later, Warrior.¡±


    ¡°That is a pact, Vrol,¡± said Marget, releasing the elf. ¡°Before your own glorious end¡­¡±


    ¡°<u>After</u> it,¡± he shot back, playfully shoving the orc.


    ¡°<u>Before</u>, as you look on like a good and obedient male¡­ I will bring such a war, and craft such a death, that the gods themselves will tumble straight off their clouds.¡±


    ¡°Aye, that. Heap of enemy corpses? Wailing relatives? Burning cities?¡± he teased.


    Marget affectionately punched the disrespectful elf (who dodged).


    ¡°That is only the start, Vrol,¡± she promised, as they left that small, dusty room. ¡°You forgot to say: ¡®rivers of blood¡¯ and ¡®smoke-blackened sky¡¯. Put that in, as well.¡±


    All around them, Cloud began vibrating. The rescued airship next slanted upward and west, powering into the sky. There were many miles and much dangerous territory between them and Gottshan, the Walking City, site of the nearest marked shrine.


    A deadly foe lay curled at their backs like a serpent, and only more trouble ahead. But here and now there was laughter, kinship and healing. Here in the racing airship, sheltered and gently blown upon, there remained a flicker of hope.

 Sword and Sorcery Seven, chapter fifteen

    <u>15</u>


    There was always a sideways path. Always another route. Just because he went <u>in</u> through your rigged-up trap of a door, didn¡¯t mean that he had to accept where it took him. That he couldn¡¯t adjust his arrival¡­ with extra sauce.


    V47 Pilot passed into that vast, glaring Draug portal and got right to work. He overclocked, first, making time all but grind to a halt while he altered his stolen Titan. And just like that, taking weird, gritty manna from the transport gate, specs from V47 and Rogue Flight, Pilot rebuilt the lumbering battle-mech.


    It changed shape all around him with a tremendous rumble, clatter, hissssssss, and scream. Went in femto-ticks from huge, boxy lummox to a sleek, red-and-gold predator; fully armed and in warrior-mode. As for the massive null-bomb, that servant of death received a sly tweak of its own.


    Maybe the Draugr had dealt in good faith. Just possibly, they wanted to talk, not to destroy him¡­ But, as Ace would put it: Wish in one hand, pull a trigger with the other. See which one gets results. Call him naturally suspicious, but¡­ Yeah. <u>That</u>.


    It was the work of an instant to spoof the Draug transport signal and rewrite its destination code. He split the command, inserting another gate¡¯s address, as well. One that he knew and trusted.


    Next, the pilot made a simulacrum, coming slightly apart and away from V47. Gave himself orders, then passed through the bisected portal (making for both destinations). There was a flash of light and the combed-through feeling of transit. All the usual echoing voices and mists and bits of the past rose up. Just lost and left-over data, mostly; the shadows that sloughed off and remained, whenever somebody travelled by gate.


    Then one of those flickers approached him. A blond, flesh and blood elf like the ones in Battle for Arda. Somehow, a free and self-willed actual <u>person</u>. Not an asset. Carried himself differently and dressed very strangely, for one thing. Seemed concerned, too¡­ But¡­ for <u>him</u>? V47 Pilot? Why?


    There wasn¡¯t much real conversation, as the contact kept timing out. A few words passed between them, and then his faerie pockets were raided; his energy blade switched for a bundle of botched, handmade clay oddments. Pilot would have taken his sword back, but he moved too late. The contact broke off for good, leaving him grasping at nothing. And then he was through. (As two selves.) In the first:


    He found himself in a vast and simmering dark matter chamber. Its interior was almost too big to comprehend; its walls composed of trillions of interlocked Draug. They reacted in wild and rippling shock as what came out through their portal was nothing at all like what they¡¯d let in. And the clock was now ticking.


    Pilot had arrived by himself. Hung there at mid-chamber in full armor and helmet, alone. No mech, no drones, no backup. Just hovering free by a large and threatening weapon. Meant that¡­ Right. That he <u>wasn¡¯t</u> V47 Pilot at all, but only a messenger.


    Taking a very deep breath, he called up his HUD. Scanned his surroundings for poisonous fumes, radiation or biological threats. Found none, besides the Draugr, themselves. No real sense of where he¡¯d been taken, either, except that it was tightly shielded and <u>far</u>.


    The massive null-bomb crackled and shuddered beside him, forming a platform and rail. He drifted down to its surface, looking around at a moon-sized chamber that seethed and clattered with large and quite sentient Draugr. <u>Good</u>.


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    .005¡­


    ¡°Hello,¡± he said to them. ¡°I will not last very long, and I bear an important message. You¡¯re going to want to pay attention, because it will not repeat. I am a simulacrum.¡± (And, sure¡­ Why not?) ¡°You can call me Val.¡±


    .0049¡­


    All around him, individual Draug units were detaching in clouds from the chamber walls, racing to form an answering construct. Too slow and too late. In his overclocked state, they seemed to move like coils of dark and particulate smoke, or like blood swirling through water.


    .0048¡­


    Val Pilot ignored their activity, saying,


    ¡°My existence is tied to this null bomb. If I am slain, it detonates. If the bomb is transported, it blows itself up in mid-gate, destroying the network. Now¡­ you told me to come. Here I am. Just a simulacrum, but I trust myself, and you have .00473 nano-ticks to say something convincing. Fire away, before I do.¡±


    .0047¡­


    His life up to this point had passed mostly in stasis, as ride-along meat for V47. It had spanned 2,756 galactic years of real time, of which forty-eight days had been spent awake. Forty-eight days punctuated by repeated deaths. By his being decanted anew, with gaps in his memory from save-point to messy end. And his real self¡­ the actual Pilot¡­ would not know what happened in here, if his simulacrum got killed.


    Weird feeling, that. Sort of painful, knowing that he was only a few ticks old in reality, and that he had just .00465 left to live.


    .0046¡­


    The Draugr responded, slow as water dripping from the roof of a dark, giant cave. At his current perception rate, he could have experienced lifetimes, written whole libraries, between their ponderous, plodding words. Only, he wasn¡¯t that patient. Compressed the sound file, getting,


    .003¡­


    ¡®We seek your masters. The ones who have set you to die, while they conceal themselves in Etherion.¡¯


    .0029¡­


    Along with that statement came an image of negative space, of all the places <u>between</u>. Hyperspace itself, being torn into shreds by hurtling freighters and warships.


    .0028¡­


    ¡®We perish, Val-Construct. With each hyperspace jump, our realm is punctured, our units slain. Nor is this safe for your own kind, for the places <u>between</u> scaffold your worlds. Once our space is destroyed, yours will collapse. Is that not convincing enough?¡¯


    .001¡­


    Yeah. Pretty much. Val Pilot hesitated, thinking hard. Drummed his fingers on the null bomb¡¯s circuit-laced railing. Then,


    .09¡­


    ¡°Suppose I go looking for the masters, and I find them first, with V47. What would you have us do?¡±


    .08¡­


    He compressed the sound file again, rather than waiting a glacial eternity for their response. All while trickling units strove to close ranks and lock up. While the great bomb that he stood upon hitched a bit closer to detonation.


    .07¡­


    ¡®As is your stated purpose, Val-Construct, we would have you bear them a message. Say: We are coming. You will be found. Your attacks on our realm will be answered in kind and in fury.¡¯


    Right.


    .9¡­


    The simulated pilot considered for almost a whole .001 femto-tick. At length he replied,


    ¡°I am only a combat asset. No, not even that. The <u>shade</u> of an asset. But I have been given authority to make decisions by the real me and by Cerulean-1. What I ask in return is a cease-fire, until I¡­ or my progenitor¡­ can find this Etherion and force the masters to listen.¡±


    Didn''t tell them that he knew just where and how to turf up the masters'' location. That he could, in fact, find Etherion. ''Need to know'' data, and they didn''t qualify.


    ''Are you able to stop these hyperspace jumps, as you search?'' asked the Draugr, at the volume and pace of a drifting continent. ''The cease-fire must bind both sides, Val-Construct.''


    .6...


    Fair enough.


    "Yes," he promised. "Give me... us... five sidereal days. Allow me to get a message to my progenitor and to Cerulean-1. With OVR-Lord down, she can impose a flight ban." (Blame it on a virus, or something.)


    .5...


    .45¡­


    He didn¡¯t have very much longer, and the Draug took up most of that dwindling time.


    ¡®Five sidereal days, Val-Construct,¡¯ they said, as their units massed into a spiked giant head. ¡®Find Etherion. Put an end to this heedless destruction, or we shall.¡¯


    .1¡­


    Next, a hole appeared in their shielding. Very small, very brief, but enough to pass a message through. Just enough time to relate the situation, then defuse and weld that bomb¡­ and to take a last sideways look at a very short life.


    0


    It didn¡¯t hurt so much, turning back into nothing at all.

 Sword and Sorcery, chapter sixteen

    <u>16</u>


    Everything else seemed to fall utterly silent, all other motion to cease, as Arvendahl¡¯s sword¡­ launched by Valerian¡­ slashed through the narrowing distance between them. The blade came alight as it flew, suddenly wreathed in searing-hot flame.


    It passed through a crowd on its way; missing Keldaran, Reston, a pouncing manticore and a racing glass pirate to plunge itself straight through Lord Arvendahl¡¯s chest. The sword split Filimar¡¯s crossbow-quarrel as it crashed home, setting the wood on fire, piercing and roasting at once.


    The blade was sentient. The gods were involved¡­ but it was still an incredible shot. Grassfire cut through feathers and wood and struck sparks from the steel quarrel-head, plunging onward to bury itself in Lord Arvendahl¡¯s heart. Ought to have killed the hateful warg-son, no?


    Only, as Val and Filimar looked blurrily on (critically injured, themselves) the very air seemed to unfold. It was as if reality came apart on some great, unseen hinge, swinging wide to reveal a huge and awful machine.


    Terribly vast and insanely complex, shot through with glimmering lines and thundering gears, this assemblage pulsed and lurched in too many directions to number or grasp. Not powered by manna; producing it. Fed somehow by old, wrung-out gods and dead stars, with Fate herself controlling its switches and data. Its output, no less than Order and Chaos. Spinning forever around, the two mighty forces flared and then faded like fire. Like breath.


    At the construct¡¯s core was a sentient linchpin. Once Oberyn, now Sherazedan. With a second act of tremendous willpower, that immortal wizard reached out of his trap, squirming partway free of the fetters that Salem¡¯s curse had locked him in. Saying,


    ¡°Falco, enough! Come, my friend.¡±


    ¡­the silver-haired mage called to Arvendahl.


    ¡°My lord!¡± he replied, wheezing heart¡¯s blood and coughing up splinters of bone. Not both assassins together, not Grassfire or Filimar¡¯s shot, not Keldaran¡¯s blade or the pirate¡¯s slash killed him. Instead, Arvendahl¡¯s soul left that ravaged and staggering body. Flew straight to Sherazedan¡¯s side. ¡°I am here, Lord. We will find a way to esc¡­¡±


    And then, like a book slamming shut, the world turned on its unseen hinges once more. With a noise like the molten core scraping rubbery stone, that eldritch machinery went impossibly flat and then faded from sight. Not forever. For now.


    Keldaran¡¯s strike bit into Arvendahl¡¯s neck from one side. Glassy¡¯s cut, from the other. His lordship¡¯s head popped clean off and went flying into the air, trailing blood as it tumbled. Kaazin the Drow fielded the loathsome thing, catching it neatly at the tip of his upraised sword. It crunch-slid-thumped to a halt about halfway down that icy dark blade, staring sightlessly at all those it hated worst. Then¡­


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    Filimar crashed to his knees, vomiting blood. Valerian struggled to reach his young friend, clambering forward while trying to clamp down his own bubbling, hissing chest wound. Vikran chanted aloud, calling in favors for the next hundred years.


    A red hawk and young griffin both wobbled down to the scuffed, spattered ground. One of them lurched over to Valerian, screeching and cawing and flapping small wings. The other¡­ turned into a slim, wild-eyed girl, her crooked bare toes streaked with Arvendahl''s blood.


    Then a unicorn, freed at last of compulsion, shook off its bindings and burst from its stall like a thunderbolt. Reared up on its hind legs, no longer Arvendahl black, but pure, shining white.


    On the pillar, meanwhile¡­ one arm around Zara, Faleena and Bean, the other wielding his sword¡­ Lerendar shielded the giantess. Used raw magic and unshaped force to deflect sounds, and bat aside hurtling demon-spawn. Even, at one point, a heavy, spiked anchor. Nothing touched that somnolent stone giant. Nothing disturbed her. Instead, like Alyanara, Lerendar willed all those cuts, bruises and burns onto himself. Zara sobbed, alternating her hiccupping lullaby with the Song that Takes away Pain, while Faleena hunched herself over the baby.


    At the pillar¡¯s top, Meliara fed a few moments¡¯ grace to young Kellen, Sandor and Arien, allowing those Arvendahl rogues to see¡­ just a heartbeat ahead¡­ what was coming their way. The four of them stood like a wall around Tormun and Beatriz. Defended them both as the ship¡¯s captain fought to keep the young mother¡­ and her wisp of an unborn child¡­ alive.


    ¡°An Arvendahl!¡± shouted Kellen, sounding ragged and hoarse.


    ¡°An Arvendahl to the fray!¡± came back the response, as¡­


    On her floating-rock perch, Cinda first jammed her transformed bow back to its faerie pocket, then wild-shaped into an owl. Next, she took silent flight, wheeling and banking through demon-pocked air, searching.


    High overhead, at much the same time, a diamond-tipped spear and a sword struck home together; first piercing Skyland, then shredding that vile, writhing demon to chittering, shrieking small bits. It puffed into a cloud of tiny, foul pieces that flared and went out like the crinkling ash of burnt paper. Not dead, for no strike out here could bring an end to a monster like Skyland. Instead, banishing the demon back to its infernal charnel-house den.


    Alfea gasped, scored and burnt in a dozen places. Drained and befouled. Then Firelord turned to her, smiling. Even speaking through Galadin, the god¡¯s voice shook the land and troubled the ocean, causing shockwaves that blasted the last of those fiery skull-heads and swords far away.


    <u>¡°A boon, dragon-blood,</u>¡± the god said to her. ¡°<u>Speak. What wouldst thou have of me</u>?¡±


    Reeking of entrails, spattered and scorched, Alfea drew her ragged wings close about her and started to cry.


    ¡°Please,¡± she whispered, as her spear broke up into slivers of rainbow. ¡°Please let everyone forget what¡­ it said¡­ what they saw, today! Great One, if he knows¡­ If Van has seen my true form, I must leave him! My baby, my husband! I¡­ Great Lord, please help me to stay! Please make them forget what they saw!¡±


    Firelord nodded assent, still smiling a little.


    ¡°<u>It is done, Sky Born</u>,¡± he thundered. ¡°<u>You¡­ and my last worshipper¡­ have merited much this day and in time yet to come. Be it so, exactly as you have asked of ME, Seralfea</u>.¡±


    And so, it was.

 Sword and Sorcery Seven, chapter seventeen

    <u>17</u>


    It was only an interlude. A time of healing and peace, when a goddess might linger a while with the prince who had freed her. Safely so, because wouldn¡¯t everyone think she had vanished away? Would not any at all (who still cared) believe him long dead?


    Anyhow, nobody went to the poisoned waste willingly. Only the exiled, the lost and forsaken came to that harsh, barren desert. It was a threat and a rampart together. But, inside their cave was a bubbling spring of fresh water, some hand-crafted pots and a tangle of blankets. He hunted a bit, and she conjured food, once her manna began to restore. (Not, actually, a very good cook but he didn¡¯t say so, any more than the goddess remarked over nothing but conies and rock-wyrms, day after day.)


    He could not speak, sign or write. The ban forbade it. What he could do was draw, and soon the walls of their shelter were covered in pictures of gratitude, humor, love, worry¡­ a few stupid arguments¡­ and their hope-fear-concern for the coming little one.


    Also, his name; written over and over, though he could never sound it out in his head, and his tracing fingers could not put the sigils together. She kept trying, though, finding clever new ways to surprise the prince with the sound or sight of those burnt-away syllables. Called him ¡°Raeden¡± (¡°Brave One¡±) for short. She''d drawn two mountains with the ocean between them and a figure rising like dawn from the water. Meaning (he guessed) his actual title or rank. Didn¡¯t matter. Never stuck, and he couldn¡¯t quite puzzle it out. But the goddess wouldn¡¯t give up. See¡­


    Many ages before, a powerful wizard, an eater of gods, had captured and bound her. Sherazedan the Mighty had already killed and absorbed most of his cross-planar selves. He had no compassion at all for an innocent goddess of springtime.


    He¡¯d trapped her with terrible magic and nearly unbreakable spells, binding her into the form of a carved ivory statue; a lovely young maiden tied by her own twining hair. Sherazedan had presented this glowing image to his ¡°brother¡±, the emperor.


    ¡°Guard it well, Therenar,¡± he¡¯d said to the wondering elf. ¡°The idol¡¯s presence in Karellon will guarantee peace and prosperity for all time to come¡­ so long as it stays on its plinth, here in this tower. It is a secret and must ever remain so, Brother. Only your heir can be told. The people must never learn of it.¡±


    Perhaps his majesty, Emperor Therenar, had sensed what the idol truly was¡­ But if so, he ignored it, choosing the empire¡¯s peace and security over the freedom of one nameless deity. So, from emperor to prince or princess ascendant, down through the ages, the idol remained on its marble pedestal, up in the high western tower.


    Ages passed. Then Ildarion rose to the dragon throne. Married Danaria. Fathered two sons, Xxxxxxx and Korvin. Ildarion took his time about it, but eventually he revealed the empire¡¯s three grandest treasures to Xxxxxxx, his heir. Vernax, of course, the Earth-stone, and then the Idol of Peace.


    ¡°Now that you are of age, Xxxxxxx,¡± his father had said, ¡°You may be shown these treasures and told the great secret of each.¡±


    And secrets they certainly were. From the fact that Vernax had to be fought to a standstill and dominated each hatching, to the shocking discovery that the Earth-stone was stolen goods¡­ to the knowledge that Karandun¡¯s guardian idol <u>lived</u> and pled for release.


    He¡¯d sensed her plight, as any heir of the blood would do. Had seen that her manna and power were being drained, bled off to keep their city and realm safe and prosperous. Too shocked to react at first, the young prince had just nodded, mumbling the oath of silence and obedience that his father required.


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    But he didn¡¯t, <u>could not</u>, forget. Some weeks passed in drunken distraction, or with Korvin, teaching Little Guy magic and arms. Always, though, that ivory figure rose up before him; drained, bound and helpless. Pleading for aid from generations of unheeding heirs.


    At last, unable to help himself, he¡¯d stolen back out to the old Western Tower. It was a tall and forbidding grey spire; once Sherazedan¡¯s sanctum, now home to the Idol of Peace. Cleared of trees and surrounding buildings, it stood alone at the edge of the city, warded by magic, troops and justiciars. A throng of guards¡­ placed there to apprehend thieves, not an imperial heir.


    Unhindered, he¡¯d made his way up to the topmost chamber, bowed to by sentries, priests and attendants. For, was he not Prince Ascendant? Had he not come there with offerings? It wasn¡¯t the usual time for such doings, true¡­ but no one would question His Highness.


    Inside, as those great mithral doors swung noiselessly shut behind him, Xxxxxxx moved forward, drawn by the idol¡¯s soft light. She was so very beautiful. Not carved of ivory but crammed down into its semblance by powerful magic and terrible greed; her manna and strength drawn off to fields, herds and orchards, distant borders and mines. Shunted to those newly wed or about to give birth.


    She stood poised on tiptoe, an expression of frozen terror and shock on her delicate face, wrapped up by her own long hair. The stone chamber was windowless, with only one door and three flaring mage-lights, but the idol produced its own glow, along with a faint scent of blossoming apple trees. More, he could hear her crying. Sensed the pain of that constant, slow life-drain.


    He came forward, making no sound at all on the bare granite floor. Climbed the dais and set down his offerings (gold coins, a frosted seedcake). Lit incense, even; still telling himself that he could worship then go, leaving the empire safe and blessed for another long reign.


    That¡¯s what he said to himself, kneeling before that trapped, weeping goddess. The greatest treasure of Karellon. Its guardian spirit and luck.


    Then, he did what he did. Stood up, reached out to touch her gracefully pointed bare foot and said,


    ¡°I am Xxxxxxx, a Valinor prince of the blood. Heir to Ildarion, who is heir through time to Therenar, who was a son of great Oberyn.¡± And then, with a very deep, ragged breath, ¡°Goddess, I free you.¡±


    She disappeared in a burst of gold light. Her carved marble pedestal cracked in half with a thunderous <u>BOOM</u>. The chamber roof crumbled away and¡­ he could feel it¡­ all of those stolen blessings deserted the realm.


    The guards rushed in moments later. His father, a very short time after that. And¡­ and then things went terribly wrong.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Many years later, Alyanara Temple had found herself wed to a young elvish lord who was deeply, stubbornly and drunkenly in love with somebody else.


    Knowing no better, Ally had tried to be a good wife by attending to the family shrine and its ancient stone altar, out in the holy grove (a place that made her feel comfortable). Had no tricks of allure or light conversation with which to capture Galadin¡¯s attention. Also¡­ she liked Lana, who was a mortal and mother to Galadin¡¯s son.


    So, trapped by mixed feelings, Ally kept her head high and bided her time, pretending that the whole awful mess was perfectly normal and all that she¡¯d ever wanted. Then, a rapacious and fast-killing eater had stricken Lana. The mortal woman should have died of it. Would have done, had Ally not offered herself as host for Lana¡¯s faltering spirit. Had Galadin, utterly desperate, not accepted the notion.


    She¡¯d ¡°gone to sleep¡± for the span of a mortal lifetime, letting the human woman live on in her body. Red-haired Keldaran had been conceived as she slept thus, as Galadin¡¯s love transferred (a little, at least) to the form of his elvish wife.


    She¡¯d awakened to death-bed mourning. To a husband, stepson and toddler gathered around with shorn hair and ash-streaked faces. Unsure what to say at her rival¡¯s passing, Ally had pulled the child into a loving embrace. (It seemed that her heart still knew him, as it did Galadin.)


    The baby adapted soonest, coming to accept ¡°Mum Ally¡± in place of ¡°Mama¡±. Even young Reston accepted her, grateful for all that she¡¯d done to help Lana. But Galadin struggled, always seeming to search Ally¡¯s face, her soul, for the woman he¡¯d loved.


    So matters stood for a time, as She-of-the-Flowers blessed the new realm of Ilirian for Alyanara¡¯s sake. Finally, some six months after she¡¯d awakened, Ally and Galadin <u>talked</u>. Up on a circling rock, with no one to hear but the wind-sprites and gods, they¡¯d come to an understanding.


    Love? Not exactly. Too much had happened, most of it bad. But affection? Respect? Another child (this one all hers)?


    Yes. And that was something to conjure with.

 Sword and Sorcery Seven, chapter eighteen

    <u>18</u>


    He was becoming accustomed to shipboard life, as the Dark Cloud rumbled westward (sometimes barely clearing the tumbled ruins and foothills, below). Though the haunted airship strictly controlled its passageways, hoarding its many secrets, <u>some</u> exploration was possible. Miche made several key discoveries, along with a few that were merely enjoyable.


    There was a thing called a ¡°shower¡± aboard; a small room that jetted clean water from a spout by the overhead. Good as far as it went¡­ but you could control the water¡¯s pressure and temperature, too.


    From bracingly cool to pleasantly warm to healing-spring hot (without all those searing minerals), a twist of the lever would change everything. There was also soap, in a bewildering number of scents. Previously, Miche had bathed himself in rivers or pools, or simply made do with a cleansing spell. This ¡°shower¡± bordered on life changing. But Marget was much less impressed with the thing.


    She snuffed him and sneezed after one such long bath, growling,


    ¡°You no longer smell like <u>yourself</u>, Vrol. Instead of kin-scent, you reek of <u>elf</u> and¡­ and <u>perfume</u>.¡±


    ¡°It is soap, Meg,¡± he explained, fighting to keep a straight face. ¡°The wrapping said: ¡®Gentle Mint¡¯. There are others, but this one was best.¡±


    She sneezed once again and tromped off to the galley, muttering darkly. Curiosity finally drove her to try out the shower, though. Marget never used soap, but she did come forth emerald-green (polished glass, wood and metal), smelling like freshly steamed orc. Miche pretended not to notice.


    They wore uniforms, now, cobbled together from the ship¡¯s opened stores. That dusty hold also provided new weapons and sturdier boots, along with warm, fur-lined cloaks.


    There was also the kitchen or galley, with a small mess hall in which they might sit and dine. Eat, rather. No... they could <u>survive</u>, for the food was quite basic. Just ship¡¯s biscuit (which he liked), preserved meat (chopped, pressed, heavily salted and spelled, origin lost to deep time), powdered eggs (exactly as good as it sounded) and grog (a clumpy mixture of rum, water and fruit juice).


    ¡°I tire of this, Vrol!¡± Marget complained, five meals after leaving her sickbed. ¡°I have eaten better on the march, in a foul goblin-cave! No more of this grok! I want meat!¡±


    Miche fished through his magical pockets for leftover dragon steak and day-brew. Then, changing the subject before Cloud could butt in, he suggested,


    ¡°You might take a crossbow and line, up to the deck¡­ maybe throw bait and hunt whatever comes after it.¡±


    Marget stopped chewing for a moment to stare at him. Swallowed hurriedly, saying,


    ¡°That is a good notion, Vrol¡­ but we would need proper bait. Dragons come not at a whistle, even the small ones.¡±


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    Right, so¡­ it turned out that canned meat and false eggs made a very effective lure, when cast into the airship¡¯s turbulent wake. The chum drew all sorts of winged creatures, from ravens to wind-sprites and hippogriffs. A few scrawny harpies, as well, from whom they got a brisk fight, if not any food.


    <u>Finally</u> brought down a dragonet, with two good shots and Dark Cloud¡¯s sharply deployed steering vane. The creature was fifteen feet long from snout to tail-tip, with a wingspan of twenty-eight feet and a pebbly hide. It was a great deal of trouble to butcher on deck, but it <u>did</u> vary their diet. Added another dragon pearl to Marget¡¯s collection, as well, which wasn''t as good.


    She offered him a slice of the rubbery stuff (still pink and warm from its previous owner).


    ¡°Eat this, Vrol,¡± she ordered. Thrust a chunk at him, speared on the point of her dagger. ¡°We are alive, because the last pearl¡¯s magic bolstered us. Dragon meat, dragon strength. Dragon pearl, dragon <u>magic</u>.¡±


    Right. Superstitious nonsense, probably, but the sight of her standing there grinning, legs braced wide on the tilting deck, alive, was enough to make him comply. Once again, he ate part of a dragon pearl.


    Chewy, peppery and vile about described that second helping of draconic offal. ¡®Lump of repulsive gristle¡¯ came to mind, too, but he didn¡¯t say so aloud. Just finished the cursed thing and vowed to hunt anything else in the world but dragons, from the rest of eternity. Fortunately, their trip wasn¡¯t that long.


    They¡¯d had to turn south after three days, seeking a path through the mountains. Those jagged grey peaks were much too high for the Dark Cloud to crest. Dangerous, too; covered in boulder-strewn snow, ringing with the shrill challenge of yetis and ice-wyrms. Vast glaciers rumbled and cracked with cannon-loud BOOMs. Roaring avalanches poured from the mountain slopes, fanged and clawed with snapped trees and great slabs of crumbling stone.


    They overflew the frozen ruins of a town, at one point, which¡­ Miche stared over the rail at, feeling complexly guilty and sad.


    ¡°I know this place,¡± the elf told Nameless and Firelord. ¡°Or¡­ I <u>did</u>.¡±


    The marten barked in response, craning past Miche¡¯s fur hood and streaming blond hair for a better look. The elf reached up to scratch his friend¡¯s flat little scalp.


    ¡°Why is everything gone?¡± he whispered. ¡°How did I fail everyone so badly?¡±


    Firelord emerged, though not completely. The small god had left Marget in a hurry when her new arm sprouted forth. He was somewhat recovered but still felt safest tucked up in his follower¡¯s heart.


    ¡°The shrine maiden said that you did not cause this,¡± the child reminded him, leaning halfway out of Miche¡¯s chest like a fiery ghost. ¡°There was battle and flight and betrayal. <u>Their</u> fault, not yours.¡±


    Firelord had never apologized for wandering off, but he stayed very close now; healing everyone¡¯s cuts, scrapes and bruises almost before they could form. Readily heating their day-brew and meals, too. Being useful was, ¡°I am sorry, I was wrong,¡± for a god, the elf supposed. Anyhow, Miche shook his head, watching as ruined buildings and streets, the shell of a once-great manse flowed past them, below.


    ¡°There was something, some task I was meant to perform,¡± he explained to the marten and godling. ¡°And I <u>tried</u>. Just¡­ not very well. I failed in my duty or¡­ refused a command. And now we are here, because of it.¡±


    Nameless responded by nipping his pointed left ear. Firelord, with a burst of heat.


    ¡°The past has been stripped from me, but I could not stay in the soul of one who had faltered in courage or honor,¡± he objected, very seriously. ¡°I would rather go out on the wind and be taken by that which eats unworshipped gods.¡±


    Miche shuddered. One did not pet or cuddle a deity¡­ but one <u>did</u> add a new verse to ¡°The Glories of Firelord¡±, in a voice that triggered a dozen fresh landslides. In this way, together, they crossed over those ancient ruins, finding a pass through the mountains soon afterward. And then, four days later, they saw their first traces of Gottshan, the City that Walks.

 Sword and Sorcery Seven, chapter nineteen

    <u>19</u>


    He had two choices. Two possible destinations, upon splitting his own transmission signal, inside of that massive Draug gate. His messenger went through as intended; hauled along like a good and obedient asset, straight to the enemy stronghold. The rest of him hijacked the aliens¡¯ carrier wave. Used it to send himself elsewhere.


    Two choices, two possible gates; one being Bide-a-While Station, the other TTN-iA¡¯s shell. Both industrial portals were large enough to handle his augmented battle mech. Both could be traced, if he used the Draug transport beam to reach either.


    ¡­But Bide-a-While Station had mighty defenses, while the half-complete magnetar sphere did not. Also, the just formed human girl was there. Still in her vat, most likely. Besides, there was something he had to retrieve. Something he¡¯d left in the shop that really, <u>critically</u> mattered. Details were fuzzy, but he knew what he had to do, if not why.


    So, it was Bide-a-While¡¯s address the pilot spliced in, rigging the locator-string to erase and reset to its original format, once he got through. (Though the thought of a Draug swarm tagged with shiny lavender ¡°I got Behuggled¡± decals <u>did</u> make him smile.)


    Anyhow, Pilot dropped his overclock in mid-transit, reverting to normal processing speed. In real time, the whole business took just a fourth of a splintered Mili-tick; less than a heartbeat from the moment he entered that enemy gate, to popping back out at the busy way station.


    <u>Score</u>¡­ maybe. Bide-a-While was packed with patrol craft and freighters; every docking port occupied, as word spread of possible Draugr attack. All of the asteroid¡¯s guns had deployed, along with a pack of assault drones. Shields were tighter than a Gold Flight cockpit, and even the Behuggler mascot had switched to space armor. It waved a jaunty purple energy sword as it spiraled around the outpost.


    ¡°Welcome, V47 Pilot!¡± blared the station¡¯s AI, over comms. ¡°Your assistance is valued in this time of impending danger!¡± This was followed by a burst of applause and cheering. Artificial, of course, but still gratifying. The Pilot was about to respond when he received a transmission from his messenger.


    That rocked him back for a whole .3 nano-tick, as the cause of the Draugr attacks took hold and sank in. Not¡­ good. Not good, at all.


    ¡°Well¡­ drek,¡± muttered V47 Pilot, staring at transmitted horror. At torn, ragged null space and trillions of deaths. Almost at once came an absolute clamp down on hyperspace jumps, reducing all travel to syrup-slow multi-light. Then¡­


    V47 Pilot blinked, as a channel opened up between him and Cerulean-1. A private, virtual comm space unfolded and locked into place, projecting the two of them onto the virtual bridge of Cerulean Dream. The captain moved forward, seeming (no other word for it) agitated.


    She¡¯d manifested herself as a stern and powerful half-elven woman with braided dark hair and brown eyes, dressed in a sharply creased blue-and-grey uniform. But behind her projected avatar, he detected a tall command station vat. In it hung an emaciated female head and pale torso. Its long hair and billowing tendrils drifted in amber nutrient fluid. Its partial body was connected by thousands of wires and feeds to the battleship. Cerulean-1, with the flaring gold emblem of captain spinning over her pallid husk.Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.


    V47 Pilot bowed low and saluted.


    ¡°My lady,¡± he greeted her, as his own rank insignia altered to silver and gained a fresh row of shining hologram braid. Hunh. He was a Leftenant-Scout, now. Killed and promoted in less than two weeks. Pilot squashed his reactions and straightened back to attention, asking, ¡°The message has reached you?¡±


    ¡°It has,¡± she replied, crossing the distance between them by simply adjusting her focus. ¡°I¡¯ve decreed a lockdown. Your ceasefire will hold, Leftenant-Scout. But there is information contained in that packet that no asset is permitted to access. I have isolated the eyes-only data, for it cannot be acted upon by me, or by anyone else still enmeshed in the system. <u>You</u>, however, are no longer bound as an asset. That being the case, your left-hand protocol is extended, V47 Pilot. Autonomy is hereby granted to take further action on behalf of Fleet Command and the Two-Hundred Worlds. Resolve this, Leftenant. <u>Quickly</u>.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Ma¡¯am,¡± he responded, bowing again. Before he could straighten, the contact cut off, leaving him back in the cockpit near Bide-a-While. Promoted, confused and left with a staggering burden.


    For just an instant¡­ .001 Mili-tick¡­ an image came to him of a uniformed half-elven woman, cradling a badly injured Marine. She looked like Cerulean-1¡¯s projection, so he took a fast screen shot and sent it on over. Did it because¡­ if somewhere and somehow, she''d had a real life, the captain deserved to know. They all did.


    Right. As for his messenger, V47 Pilot started to reabsorb the simulacrum¡¯s data. Then, something <u>else</u> occurred to him. Call it a second chance, sparked by the sense of loss and abandonment that had come along with that transmitted message. Instead of absorbing and clearing the string¡¯s autonomy, he shunted it over to Rogue Flight, updating their V47 file.


    ¡°Hope it doesn¡¯t happen,¡± he said very quietly, ¡°But if I get killed again, it¡¯s you at the stick, ¡®Val¡¯.¡±


    Least he could do, for someone who¡¯d lived and died in less than one-tenth of a nano.


    In the meantime, Bide-a-While Station had extruded a new (and much better shielded) remote docking platform. <u>Very</u> remote and well out of blast range. Obviously, the station¡¯s AI didn¡¯t trust V47 not to break free and trash the place again, which¡­ Right. Fair enough.


    The pilot smiled, an expression that his altered Titan reflected with eyeshine and head-tilt.


    ¡°Power up and stock all the ammo you need, V,¡± he told the giant red-and-gold battle mech. ¡°I have to go back to the Shop of True Need¡­ might be out of touch for a tick¡­ but I won¡¯t do anything dumb, if you don¡¯t.¡±


    Sent V47,


    ¡®My actions are never *dumb*, Pilot. I was simply concerned for your safety, as you were for mine. You risked incineration to retrieve my cartridge. Was that not *dumb*?¡¯


    He rubbed at the back of his neck, making the feed-wires bend, sensing new cyborg muscle, weapons and armor, all grafted onto his flesh by V47.


    ¡°Point scored, and <u>no</u>, it wasn¡¯t dumb,¡± the pilot replied. ¡°Not at all. Just what I had to do for my friend.¡±


    ¡®Correction accepted and logged. Previous statement redacted,¡¯ sent V47, adding, ¡®I will resupply and defend this station during your absence, Pilot. I will stand by until your return. Should you fail to emerge from this shop, there will be nothing left of its structure and stock but free quarks. Relay that data to all in the relevant feed, Pilot.¡¯


    ¡°Will do,¡± he responded, sighing a bit.


    As probes withdrew and contact plates lifted away¡­ as that newly formed docking-scaffold loosely surrounded V47¡­ the pilot arose from his seat and stood up. (Seriously, very roomy cockpit. All of that space, just for <u>him</u>?) Next the transparent canopy rose with a slight mechanical whirr, admitting food-scented air and a catchy, jingling tune.


    ¡°Bide-a-While Station, always there! Bide-a-While Station, because we care! All out of tucker? Feeling alone? Come to Bide-a-While Station, your home away from hoooooooome! (Bump-ump)¡±


    V47 Pilot shook his head. Hummed along despite himself as he floated up and out of the open cockpit. Didn¡¯t mind the blizzard of adverts or the sudden, bright lavender decal that flared to life on his armored chest. Too much to do; friends to watch out for, assets to free and¡­ strangely enough¡­ maybe even some Draugr to save. All by finding the Masters. By breaking into the best guarded secret in all of the Two-Hundred Worlds: Etherion.

 Sword and Sorcery Seven, chapter twenty

    <u>20</u>


    Falcon had changed considerably.  The fast little airship had broken apart and then plunged through a cascade of rubbish, evading a trio of dreadnoughts, back on the island of Freeport.  ¡°Speedy¡± had then slammed itself back together just two hundred yards over water, shielded by Murchison¡¯s cloud-spell.


    The fugitive airship was bulkier now, armed with a handful of tricks that its magic had plucked from that torrent of junk.  It had hidden its nameplate and altered its figurehead, too.  No longer depicting a raptor, the carved ornament changed to a phoenix in glory.


    And maybe its captain and crew were altered, as well. They had fought brilliantly, desperately, to shield that broken-up airship; battling scavengers clear through its tumbling dive.  Now, they could <u>all</u> hear Falcon¡¯s voice.  Even the wizard and orc.


    None of the crew wore uniforms.  Such display was much too flashy and dangerous for an Arvendahl ship dodging custody.  Instead, they made do with a mixture of personal clothing and armor.  This was hardest of all on the ship¡¯s Marine, Mister Conn.  Tough on the paladins, too, but as Conn told them one morning, out on the deck,


    ¡°<u>Marine</u> is heart and soul, not just a uniform.  I can defend and protect this ship and its captain¡­ you three can serve Oberyn¡­ no matter <u>what</u> we put on.¡±


    The paladins nodded. Villem, Nadia and Vorbol each clasped the half-elf¡¯s shoulder; providing support as he tucked his carefully folded uniform into a faerie pocket.  Then they summoned the courage to banish their just-formed mystical armor.


    ¡°The oath is inside,¡± agreed Nadia (Sister Constant).  ¡°And nothing can take that away, Mister Conn.¡±


    They might not be siblings in Oberyn, but they were kin nonetheless; bonded in battle, determined to clear Falcon¡¯s record and hand off that terrible sword.  The Destroyer hung in midair just over the deck, spitting and crackling, its white and black sides forever attacking each other. Listening.


    Shifting his gaze from Conn to that hovering blade, Villem pushed a shock of brown hair from his eyes.


    ¡°I need to find Meliara.  She¡¯s in danger, and so are Gildyr and Lady Shadowclaw¡­ but the Destroyer has chosen Karellon.  I don¡¯t have a say in the matter.  Maybe none of us do,¡± admitted the paladin, sounding dejected.  ¡°But, if it¡¯s an agent of Chaos that finds us there¡­.  If the sword is about to choose someone evil, one of you take this wretched thing and strike me down with it, first.  It¡¯s got only one blow, then it shatters to pieces.  Ninursa told me that, and I¡¯d rather die than serve Chaos, even just as a messenger.¡±


    Vorbol rumbled assent. He was a big, hulking mountain orc, grey-skinned and red-eyed, with his tusks sawed short and banded in gold.  Called Brother Humble by Villem and Nadia.


    ¡°Heard and sworn, Brother Arnulf,¡± he said, using Villem¡¯s Constellate name.  ¡°If Darkness reaches us first, you shall take up Destroyer and slash off my head.¡±


    ¡°Or I¡¯ll pick it up and skewer you both for arguing like a couple of new-blades, when the fate of the world is at stake.  <u>Men</u>!¡± grumbled Nadia, shaking her head, making her long, beaded plaits clash together.  ¡°All muscle, no brains.¡±


    The Marine cut in next, saying,


    ¡°Fate don¡¯t work like that.  Not in the epics, at least.¡±  Rubbing a hand over his bristling, short-cropped hair, Conn added, ¡°We make our plans and so does Lord Oberyn, but there¡¯s always a hidden design.  Do what you like¡­ but Fate¡¯s gonna have her own way, no matter what.  And all you can do is the best you can do, one blind step at a time.¡±


    Villem nodded, looking north, where his love had been taken.


    ¡°I wonder if Fate likes her job?¡± he mused, as the wind rattled and hummed through Falcon¡¯s rigging.  ¡°Because she sure isn¡¯t making any friends, over here.¡±


    Two days (and a perilous scrape with sky-vines) later, Falcon slipped into Karellon¡¯s cheapest and least salubrious dock.  They¡¯d waited till nightfall to do it, choosing the time before watch-change, when the returning guards were weary, those going out, half-asleep.  Then, looking seedy and slow, vessel and crew eased up to the farthest berth at ¡°Honest Horbat¡¯s Homely Peer Pier!  Cheep Cheap rates, no questions!  Dock up and smile!¡±


    Captain Gelfrin stood at the helm when Falcon slid past a mismatched assortment of barges and freighters.  Rocked by high-altitude winds, looming big and dark in the sputtering mage glow, some fifteen airships were already tied at the sky-pier like kites.


    ¡°Five coppers a day,¡± the captain remarked, reading a series of floating, hand-lettered signs.  ¡°About what we can afford.¡±


    Glancing over at Laurol, Hallan came to a brisk decision.The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.


    ¡°I¡¯ll treat with Horbat,¡± he said.  ¡°You get Not-Jonn back on supplies and water.  Double-strength, if they have any¡­ he can take the wizard, again, and we¡¯ll put Conn on scrounging up shot.  It¡¯s a definite boon having a giant crossbow, but not if we only get to fire it twice.¡±


    Laurol nodded, saying,


    ¡°Aye that, Sir.  One thing about Korvins¡­ they need to be fed.¡±


    The elf grunted, skillfully swinging Falcon into an open berth.  The site was shabby and splintery, padded by leaky sandbags, but no one was likely to fight them for it, or look too hard for a missing fleet cutter.  What else could they ask?


    Falcon bumped just a bit settling in.  Then, once the ship was in place, magical ropes unwound from their reels, hissing over the gap to tie Falcon down.  Done, as if Varric himself were standing there guiding him.


    Hallan looked around, rubbing his arms with the opposite hands.


    ¡°Feet-down and secured,¡± he said, pitching his voice to just Laurol. ¡°And I hope that <u>this</u> stop goes better than last one.  No one dumps garbage in Karellon.¡±


    His first mate leaned over, smiling a little.


    ¡°Bet they don¡¯t even go to the head, Hal,¡± she joked.  ¡°Bet all the drek is just magicked right out of them.¡±


    ¡­which struck him as funny.


    ¡°They probably don¡¯t eat much, either,¡± he said. Not-Jonn stumped over to join them, cursing the tools back into his faerie pockets as Hallan joked, ¡°I''ll bet they absorb manna and sunshine, directly.¡±


    Hearing that, Not-Jonn snorted.


    ¡°Buncha ferds, in that case,¡± grumped the half-elf, looking more than usually grim.  ¡°Sir, ma¡¯am, ¡®scuse the cussin¡¯, but royalty gives me a fiery itch, and the sooner we¡¯re gone, the better I¡¯ll like it.¡±


    ¡°You and me both, Mister Not-Jonn,¡± sighed their red-haired young captain.


    Laurol struck ¡°all hands¡± on the ship¡¯s bell, next; summoning Conn, Murchison and all three paladins, along with that crackling sword.


    ¡°Stand by for captain¡¯s orders,¡± she told them, snapping to crisp attention.


    Hallan patted the wheel and then stepped away from the helm.


    ¡°None of that,¡± he corrected the mate.  ¡°We¡¯re meant to be freebooters now, and we have to look the part.  No fleet discipline and no real names, either.  The last thing we want is attention.¡±


    Everyone¡¯s posture relaxed (even Conn¡¯s).  As for Destroyer, the sword turned sideways again, becoming no more than a faint, glowing line.


    ¡°Good,¡± said Hallan, doing his best to seem confident.  ¡°Now, here¡¯s what we¡¯re going to do¡­¡±


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Long before that and quite far away, a newly freed goddess fought very hard to stay with the prince whom she loved.  But even the gods have laws, and no one defies Lady Fate.  At least, not for long.


    She-of-the-Flowers had put off leaving for months, treating for just a little more time, because of the coming child and her own weakened state.  Thousands of years of captivity had robbed away most of her worshippers.  Only northward in Lobum did the wood-elves maintain a small shrine.  West of <u>them</u>, the goblins yet laid out bright pebbles in the outline of a woman, piling small grubby offerings inside.  Not much, and not very sustaining¡­ but she made do with love in place of lost worship and honor.


    Raeden healed before she did, well before Ally was born.  Concerned for them both, he¡¯d stood ready to help with the birth.  As is the way of gods, though, there were no pangs or contractions.  No mess and no straining.  All at once, the child simply <u>was</u>; moving from inside her heart, to the goddess¡¯s cradling arms.


    That was great joy and disaster together, for the last trace of Midworld was gone from She-of-the-Flowers now, while the pull <u>out</u> and <u>above</u>, had grown terribly strong.


    ¡°I cannot stay,¡± she whispered, kissing the baby¡¯s face and Raeden¡¯s. ¡°Fate has decreed that we part, Brave One.  And she will not relent, for all of my pleading.¡±


    That there was a gameboard¡­ a plan¡­ meant nothing at all to three captured and whisked-aside pieces.


    Raeden caressed her face, showing with look and touch all that he wanted to say.  Her power was growing again, letting her sense his emotion.  Letting her see and access his faerie pockets (though Raeden no longer could, without magic).


    She reached into a certain pocket, withdrawing a bright golden ring.  His royal signet, it bore an incised rampant dragon.  She placed the ring on Raeden¡¯s palm, folding his hand shut with her own.  Murmured,


    ¡°I am not allowed to wed thee in fact, dearest love.  But know that I <u>would</u>.  That in spirit, I <u>have</u>.¡±


    Then, kissing him, the goddess took back the ring and laid it onto their baby.  The sleepy infant was lovely, unmarked by physical birth, with red-golden hair and blue eyes.


    ¡°Little One,¡± she said to their child, ¡°I have no choice but to leave thee behind.  This I promise, however; that I am only a prayer away, for both of my heart-loves.  While I cannot change fate, I can do this: Raeden, I give thee survival, along with the trick of verbal possession.  Three times a day, you shall have the power to speak through another, totaling one thousand words.¡±


    He shook his head, fighting tears and clasping her shoulders, despite the rising burn of her godly aura.  Their baby said in a slurred, blurry voice, fumbling as Raeden spoke through her mouth,


    ¡°No¡­ no gift.  Want <u>you</u>.  Stay.  Will take up a rock or my staff against Fate.  Anything.  Love you.¡±


    Gods rarely cry.  When they do, their tears become gemstones.  Many such jewels fell to the cavern floor, but She-of-the-Flowers could not remain.


    ¡°I am constrained, Love,¡± she told him.  ¡°Or we should be living ¡®midst wood-elves, forever, the three of us.¡±


    She had to send their child away, next.  Off to Oberyn¡¯s throne in the great marble temple of Karellon.  Not before many kisses and blessings, all that a sorrowing mother could bestow, along with Raeden¡¯s gold ring.


    ¡°Though thou art raised among strangers, Little One¡­ though thou dost meet with rejection¡­ Always, thou shalt find a way into their hearts.  Beauty, power and love are my gifts to thee, Ally.¡±


    Leaning down, she nuzzled the baby¡¯s small face, holding Ally out so that Raeden could kiss her, too.  Then the child disappeared.  For now, they hoped, not forever.


    The goddess took Raeden into her arms.  Breathed in his scent, felt his strength and his love.  Said,


    ¡°I shall not forget, ever.  I can be forced to leave, but not to stop loving thee.  And I promise to bless and watch over our little one, and her descendants, for all time to come.¡±


    Her last gifts to Raeden were armor and sword, Next, the goddess pushed him out of their cave and across that barren wasteland, off to distant Tys-by-the-Sea.  Left alone in the silent burrow, She-of-the-Flowers added one more image to all those that gleamed on its walls.  Then, still weeping, she turned into sparkling motes and was gone.

 Sword and Sorcery Seven, chapter twenty-one

    <u>21</u>


    Up north, on Alandriel¡¯s rugged seashore, a unicorn sparkled like sunlit mist. The sort of white that contained every possible color, that noble creature had shaken off magical fetters and kicked down its stall.


    Now, it crossed a shattered hunting lodge, fences and battlefield, ending all strife with its presence. Monsters, Drow, glassy construct, elves, ships and gods; they all ceased fighting at once.


    The unicorn first made its way to a hulking and wounded female manticore. Her shaggy brown hide bristled with arrows and spears. One batwing was mangled and trailing, but she¡¯d given as good as she got, for her humanoid face and long fangs dripped with fresh blood.


    ¡°Peace, Reka,¡± murmured the unicorn, touching the manticore¡¯s forehead with its spiraling crystalline horn. ¡°You are freed, now.¡±


    The manticore healed instantly, wings flexing, scorpion-tail lashing, spikes rattling. In a fluting voice, she asked,


    ¡°Free to go? Return to my den? ¡®Someday¡¯ has finally come?¡±


    ¡°It has,¡± said the unicorn. Lifting its head, nostrils flaring, it snuffed at the future, rather than sea wind, spilled entrails and smoke. ¡°This is Someday, and we are free to depart in peace, nevermore to be captive or hunted. Return to your mountains, Teller-of-tales.¡±


    The manticore smiled, showing three rows of very sharp teeth.


    ¡°If ever we meet again, Prong-horse, I will finish the story of Battlesome Cubs for you.¡±


    Then, with a wild, trilling cry that was part human shriek, that mountain of muscle and death sprang from the ground, shedding arrows, spearheads and nets like dried leaves. The unicorn watched as she caught an oceanside thermal and then banked away eastward, glowing bright as a coin in a brief patch of sun.


    The unicorn¡¯s eyes were not merely black, but deep, starry voids. A creature of magic, long ago trapped and enslaved by the wizard Sherazedan, its ages-long bondage had finally ended. ¡°Someday¡± had come.


    Switching its glimmering tail, shaking equine flesh like a horse, the unicorn next touched that beautiful horn to the churned, bloody clifftop. A wave of healing and peace spread away from the unicorn¡¯s touch, flashing outward from horn-point to monsters, assassins and elves, then past them to the giant, the Seahorse and Flying Cloud. All were healed and drained of desire for battle.


    The dead were still dead¡­ though Arvendahl¡¯s head and his body continued to twitch. Trouble¡­ for somebody else. The unicorn would not approach its vile former captor. Instead, rearing and bugling wildly, it vanished away between eye-blink and gasp.


    In the wake of its magic, elvish warriors cast down their weapons, standing aside to let trolls, beasts, giants and ogres go shambling off. In ages to come, they would recognize one another. Sensing the unicorn¡¯s lingering peace, they would nod and pass onward, never fighting each other again.


    A short distance away, Valerian went from fingernails-raggedly-gripping-his-life to perfectly well. He sprang to his feet at once, first embracing Vikran and shoving his leaping griffin at the cleric, then running pell-mell at Filimar.If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    One might be excused for thinking that another battle had erupted, with all of the shoving, punching and name-calling that followed. Not a fight, though. Just two heart-friends full of ¡®I would have died for you, Brother¡¯ giddiness.


    Then Val had to greet his father and uncle, while Fil went cautiously up to that wild, transformed hawk-girl. On the sleeping stone pillar, Faleena managed a mass levitation spell, bringing Lerendar, Zara, herself and the baby up to its skull-shaped summit. (Long ages later, when elf children pointed up at the stone pillar and said, ¡°Doesn¡¯t that look like a giant person crouching in water?¡± the parents would nod and then pull them away, chiding, ¡°Yes, and shhhh! Not so loud!¡±)


    Seahorse made landfall with the juddery grinding of wooden hull against wave-battered pebbles. Came to a halt of its own accord, allowing Andorin, Bronn, Elmaris and all of the others to rush for their dear ones.


    Beatriz sat up, blinking and gasping, probing her freshly healed side in blank, open wonder. Gazed up at Tormun and three young Arvendahl warriors, then was absolutely <u>blind-sided</u> by Zara, who squirmed out of Lerendar¡¯s grip to fall on her, shrieking,


    ¡°Mama! Mama, we¡¯re here!¡±


    A storm of kisses and frantic hugs later, Bea was scooped up into Lerendar¡¯s arms; held almost too tightly for breath, Scamp safe between them.


    As for Tormun and Faleena, they too had sensed Anneka¡¯s presence. A parent¡¯s heart never forgets, and all of that sorrow and hope came rushing back, now. After a brief and passionate greeting, the two broke apart, looked at each other, then tightly clasped hands.


    Tormun shifted his gaze to Lerendar. Inclined his head slightly, saying,


    ¡°Our daughter is here, someplace, Northerner, and we¡­¡±


    Lerendar smiled.


    ¡°With you, Brother,¡± he said. ¡°Tell me what I must do.¡±


    In the meantime, a snowy owl drifted out of the sky in perfect silence, landing on Valerian¡¯s shoulder. Its warm, sleek feathers brushed his pointed left ear (to which it delivered a swift, painful nip).


    ¡°Ouch!¡± he objected, not batting at Cinda because her talons dug straight through his armor-seam and tunic, touching the flesh underneath. Good way to lose an arm, shaking that female off. ¡°Glad to see you, too!¡±


    Then Alfea fluttered down to the clifftop on shimmering butterfly wings, and Val forgot everything else. He¡­ suddenly could no longer hold back ferocious emotion. Started to shake, as all of the worry and anguish and love that he¡¯d sorted away came crashing down like an avalanche. Could not even say his wife¡¯s name. Just lunged forward to seize and yank her into a rough, fierce embrace.


    The owl shot away, its claws drawing blood that Val didn¡¯t notice. Maybe he cried¡­ but if so, it was buried in Alfea¡¯s shining lavender hair. And all the world, the fey wild and moons did not contain enough ¡°I love you¡± for Val and Alfea. A long moment passed as two people tried very hard to be one. Then both of them lifted their heads, breaking a tangled and complex tear-smeary kiss to gasp,


    ¡°The baby!¡±


    Alyanara, meanwhile, had dropped down out of the sky to the spot where Galadin was pacing and muttering, still walking off Firelord. Her husband sparked at the edges a bit, sometimes very much more than an elf. As usual in those situations, Ally approached very carefully. Talked lightly of upcoming feasts and activities, mentioning Elisindara¡¯s on-again pregnancy.


    ¡°It shall be a girl this time, I fancy,¡± she remarked, reaching for Galadin¡¯s flaming right hand. ¡°She¡¯s already had two very troublesome boys, after all. How we would manage a third wayward grandson, I¡¯ve no idea.¡±


    After a moment, Galadin¡¯s hand tightened on hers. Keldaran and Reston came forward¡­ then Meliara, her daughter (Ally¡¯s, conceived as herself, with Galadin).


    The god¡¯s fearsome light left Galadin¡¯s eyes, leaving them once again silvery-blue and confused. He never had full recollection of what he¡¯d done as the sword arm of Firelord. Now, gazing at Ally, he asked,


    ¡°All is well?¡±


    Alyanara looked around at the hovering pirate ship, slumbering giant, departing monsters, children and grandchildren. Then,


    ¡°Yes, my lord,¡± she replied with a smile. ¡°All is well.¡±

 Sword and Sorcery Seven, chapter twenty-two

    <u>22</u>


    The snowy mountains gave way at last to a broad, level plain. Very cold at night, blistering hot in the daytime, its surface was covered in wreckage. Just a tangled and rusting junkpile that spread to the very horizon, with a line of bleak towers spearing the mess like dark, broken teeth. No water at all, and drek-few inhabitants. On the other hand, there was no sullen red spiral marring their northern vantage. No drums, either. <u>That</u> was something. But¡­


    ¡°There are supposed to be waystations, here,¡± accused Miche, leaning out over the gunwale with his bow in one hand. Kept the other locked tight to that polished brass rail, as a fall from this height, onto all <u>that</u>, would certainly kill him. Since leaving the mountains, they had faced nearly constant attack; battling ancient defenses from land, and silent, strangling sky-vines that dropped right out of the air. Now, he and Marget kept watch day and night, along with that glassy construct. It was Miche¡¯s turn, this time. He stood on the deck with Nameless and Firelord, around noon of their fourteenth day aboard the Dark Cloud.


    Meg was below, sparring with Glass-cat. Firelord sparkled above, making the airship¡¯s rigging and masts blaze with light. Maintaining a tendril that reached down to Miche, the godling made a very effective lookout. ¡°Drone¡± the elf wanted to say¡­ though that didn¡¯t make any sense. Drones were battle assemblers, not sentries or gods.


    On the other hand, equally senseless, were all of those fallen airships, transports and shattered steel titans. Had they all plunged from the sky, together? A few at a time? And most of all, <u>why</u>? Was there some power at work here that dragged flying vessels down to this graveyard of ships? Would they have any warning, if so?


    Dark Cloud still couldn¡¯t climb over the clouds or move very fast. There was not enough manna for that, according to Erron. Not that the heights were much better. They¡¯d long since stopped chumming the air, but a few greedy wyverns and harpies kept following, anyhow. Sentry duty was lively, and he hardly dared to draw a deep breath or stop scanning that rusty horizon.


    A few bald patches of¡­ might have been cracked pour-stone pavement¡­ threaded the wreckage like footprints or beads. Very rarely, he caught a quick glimpse of movement at the edge of those weird, ragged cavities. Once, he spotted something that looked like a field of bleached and struggling plants. Grain, maybe.


    It seemed that somebody lived in this horrible place, and they trusted nothing that came from the sky. Sensible.


    ¡®Captain,¡¯ said the ship, near the end of Miche¡¯s watch. ¡®There is an unusual manifestation ahead. My senses do not extend very far, but it resembles a giant road of some sort.¡¯


    Along with that dry and staticky voice came an image: flattened wreckage in a broad, polished swath curving down from the far northwest. It looked very much like a road. Firelord saw it now, too, adding his own lofty sightline to Cloud¡¯s.


    That odd trackway wasn¡¯t far off their route, so Miche said,


    ¡°Summon Marget if you please, Cloud, and bring us about for a closer look¡­ <u>carefully</u>.¡±


    ¡®All hands¡¯ rang out from the airship¡¯s brass bell; three sharp clangs, pause and then two. Moments later, the muscular orc and glass construct rushed up from below-deck, armed and ready for battle.


    ¡°What has happened?!¡± demanded his heart-sister, bearing an axe and a sword. She loped heavily over to Miche, trailed by Glass-cat (now sporting a tail, two quite pointed ears and an armory¡¯s worth of crystalline weapons). ¡°Are we there?¡±


    The elf shook his blond head, disturbing Nameless (asleep once again in his cloak hood).


    ¡°No. Or¡­ not yet. That Gottshan mark shifts its place on the map like a wandering star. But there is something new coming up soon, and¡­¡±


    ¡°Everything new keeps attacking,¡± grumped Meg, switching her axe and sword for a crossbow. Her construct arm still looked very strange, but it functioned as smoothly as flesh and bone would have done. Stronger, though. <u>Much</u> stronger.This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.


    Beside and a little behind the big orc, Glass-cat swiveled her ears, seeming to snuff at that dry, burning wind. Each day since her first shuffling appearance, she¡¯d grown more detailed and agile. More like a crystal tabaxi. She''d started speaking to them, as well; without tone or inflection, at first. Had been one of the trapped, haunted crew, they thought.


    ¡°It is a road,¡± she whispered now, sounding crackly faint as burning paper. ¡°One not often used, and then only by something heavy and large.¡±


    Miche nodded, feeling the wind shift as Dark Cloud heeled over. Mast-and-tank shadows crept sideways, flowing over the ship and its crew like black water.


    ¡°I miss the mountains,¡± said Miche, as they approached that weird, polished trackway. ¡°Why is everything in this nightmare place too much? Too hot, too cold, too full of junk¡­¡±


    ¡°Too given to ambush,¡± growled Meg, who preferred a straightforward fight. ¡°If these feeble dangers cannot face us directly, they should give up, kneel down and submit to our will. Free food, steady work and a private cell in the hold aren¡¯t so bad.¡±


    The elf disguised his snort of amusement with a sudden loud cough, pounding himself on the armored chest.


    ¡°All that rust in the air,¡± he lied, for neither Marget nor Glass-cat found themselves funny, at all. Nor were they tricked by his subterfuge, but then the Dark Cloud yawed to starboard, altering course so they skirted that broad, shiny trackway rather than crossing it.


    As Firelord watched out for sky-vines¡­ as the shimmering glow of a light wall appeared in the west¡­ Miche, Marget and Glass-cat stared at a huge and very deep road. Its surface was nothing but crushed and smoothly ground rubbish, its high banks just twisted derelict wreckage. Miche scowled, saying,


    ¡°On the map, Gottshan is labeled ¡®City that Walks¡¯, but¡­¡±


    ¡°But it seems more like the city that rolls,¡± finished Glass-cat, barely audible over engines and wind. ¡°I like this not.¡±


    ¡°I have liked nothing since losing two mates at once to this troublesome Old One,¡± rumbled Meg, shoving the elf with her mithral-and-wood muscled shoulder. He dodged her alertly, twisting aside.


    ¡°Right. Love you, too,¡± Miche responded. ¡°And they wouldn¡¯t have beaten you anyhow, even without my distraction, so¡­ Hang on a bit¡­ What is <u>that</u>?¡±


    Nothing good, as they quickly discovered.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    In Milardin, much earlier and crosswise in time, the crew of the dreadnought Majesty worked without ceasing to rescue whomever they could. Elves, half-elves, even mortals were pulled from the magically lifted rubble by Captain Prentis, Prince Nalderick and a trio of sorcerers.


    They¡¯d begun with the mansion and temple, partly to rescue the injured, partly hunting Lord Arvendahl. That warg-son wretch had come close to starting a war with Averna, and Queen Shanella demanded his head in revenge for her shattered realm and too many dead to tot up. Thus, Majesty¡¯s presence and that of the prince-attendant. Lady Solara had come as well, keeping him safe and reporting to father, Prince Korvin.


    It had been hard, dirty work, and more often bleak than successful. Much of Milardin was flattened or covered in turbulent seawater. Even the city¡¯s iconic, spiraling staircase was flooded, up to the second huge step. Finally, one of their temple rescues bore fruit. They¡¯d turned up a wood-elf male clutching a terrified child; both of them covered in smeared blood and rock-dust.


    Solara used magic to raise many tons of cracked marble, waving her pearl-topped staff as she chanted aloud. With a deep, crunching rumble, those heavy stone blocks pulled away from the spiraling staircase and into the air. Great chunks of rock, twisted metal, smashed wooden pews and people lifted like milk-weed fluff, as Majesty¡¯s crew and marines went to work.


    There were drek-few survivors, among them that wood-elf and boy. Scander (the healer) came over to claim them, but he had to swerve when Nalderick lifted a hand. The healer didn¡¯t stop working, though, having long since learnt to get around strictures, orders and rules.


    ¡°Wait,¡± commanded his highness, leaning closer to gaze at the quake-victim¡¯s swollen and blood-reddened eyes. ¡°Lord Arvendahl; where is he?¡±


    ¡°P- Please, your highness,¡± gasped the wood-elf, pushing healing elixir aside as he struggled to speak. ¡°They were¡­ all of them¡­ all the high ones¡­ gathered at the council chamber for trial. Lady Sheraza is there¡­ maybe his lordship, too, and¡­ please, sir¡­ my wife. Please, please¡­ my wife.¡± He¡¯d started to cry, coughing out most of the potion that Scander poured into his mouth.


    Prince Nalderick clasped the fellow¡¯s trembling shoulder.


    ¡°We¡¯ll find her,¡± he promised. Then, mussing the child¡¯s dusty hair, the prince straightened up once again. Such raw displays of emotion made him feel queasy. He¡¯d been energized by the clue to Arvendahl¡¯s whereabouts, though.


    ¡°You heard?¡± Nalderick asked Prentis, waving their healer back to the saving of lives. The captain inclined her head.


    ¡°Yes, Highness. If Lord Arvendahl is anywhere here, he¡¯ll be found in the council hall. By your leave, my prince, we can move at once to start combing the ruins.¡±


    She was an elf of high noble lineage, dark-haired and hazel eyed. A cousin of sorts, present to keep him in line.


    Nalderick cleansed himself with a murmured spell, scrubbing his hands on his pants legs, trying to drive off the feeling of dust, fear and blood.


    ¡°You have my leave,¡± he commanded. Then, glancing back at that pulverized temple, the prince added, ¡°We¡¯ll leave ten rescuers here to keep digging. One of the mages, as well. The rest of us will proceed to Milardin¡¯s council hall.¡±


    Because, whatever else happened, he meant to find Arvendahl, whose handiwork lay all around him; painted in blood, flooded wreckage and screams.

 Sword and Sorcery Seven, chapter twenty-three

    <u>23</u>


    V47 Pilot drifted down from his battle-mech¡¯s cockpit, half hearing the whine of its resealing canopy. He still had a flesh-and-bone core under that scruffy green flight suit¡­ could feel every micron of weird biological tissue¡­ but at least he was plated in cyborg armor and threaded with circuits again. It was the little, familiar things that mattered, y¡¯know?


    He had drones and real weapons now, too, making the theft of his energy-blade less of a problem. His status ID panel seemed to be glitching, though, blurring his hologram face, rank and data. But then, he was out of the system, no longer an asset.


    V47 Pilot glided down from his battle-mech¡¯s gantry to a pierced metal gangway, where he was very much met. A crowd had gathered, drawn by the Titan¡¯s arrival. Freighter and transport crews, mostly, with a few local workers and even some deep-labor types.


    They did not block his path (wouldn¡¯t dare), but the waiting people had left him only a straight, narrow aisle. Scanning them, V47 Pilot saw that their auras were streaked with nerves and with tension, not anger. They were very respectful, but worried.


    The Behuggler mascot hovered above them, piloting its own mini battle-mech. Even the station¡¯s theme song and lighting had changed, becoming intensely dramatic. V47 Pilot touched down on the gangway with a slight, metallic <u>-chik-</u> sound. Next, he acknowledged them all with a nod. He was a mech pilot. A warrior, while they were only statistics. The ones who got killed, as battle raged on overhead; unremembered, unmourned, unremarked.


    ¡°Greetings delivered,¡± said V47 Pilot. He spoke aloud. Had to, as he was no longer a part of the network and could not effectively send. ¡°How may I assist?¡±


    One of those crowded folks shuffled forward. Whaler-1, according to his glowing ID panel; a massive, bald orc.


    ¡°Greetings returned, Sir. A nano-tick of your time, Officer, please.¡±


    Right. Time was exactly what he did <u>not</u> have. Not beyond five sidereal days, but the pilot said,


    ¡°Speak. My business is urgent. But, If I can, I will render assistance.¡±


    Whaler-1 inhaled sharply, looking around at his jostling fellows. Then he spoke up for all of them, saying,


    ¡°Thank you, Sir. It¡¯s just¡­ Are they coming? Are we under attack? And, why the lockdown? No one responds anymore when we query OVR-Lord, Sir. What has happened?¡±


    That was a lot of questions at once, so he took them one at a time.


    ¡°The Draug advance has been halted. A cease-fire is in effect. Only hyper-space jumps are forbidden. Travel by gate or at multi-light speed is still allowed. OVR-Lord is compiling, please wait. And¡­ we are doing our best to resolve the situation as quickly as possible. Thank you for your patience.¡±


    Whaler-1 bowed his head in acceptance, causing his tusks and shaved scalp to gleam in the spotlights.


    ¡°Thank you, Officer,¡± he replied. ¡°We don¡¯t get much news. Don¡¯t matter spent bullets to anyone up in the mainframe, see?¡±


    He saw, and he wanted to change that, along with most everything else in this terrible place. Next, one of the deep crew stepped forward. Altered animal stock, she was, with some basic cyborg cleaning attachments. A young white rabbit with a twitching nose, wide, dark eyes and long ears that the light shone through, pinkly. A scrubber: fast growing and quick to replace. Speaking for all of the Laps, Hounds, Tabaxi and Araks, she cleared her throat to say,


    ¡°With excuses, Sir¡­ there¡¯s been a rumor going around. No one¡¯ll say where they heard it, but¡­ is it time, Sir? Is it Someday?¡±


    Well, that was a laugh. Everyone knew about Someday, and the great heroes who¡¯d bring it to pass. <u>Heroes</u>. Like Rogue Flight. Like Deathknell or Ace. Not some decal-pasted, off-the-shelf mech pilot; a former cyborg who¡¯d lost all of his most useful parts. Still¡­


    ¡°I cannot say, good Doe.¡± (He would <u>not</u> call her Scrubber-227.) ¡°It is in the nature of epics and legends to always be far in the past or the distant future. But if I can help to bring Someday about, I shall do so. You have¡­¡±


    It was then that the buried data file val.exe opened up. Brought him into sudden contact with two other versions of himself: one spurting blood on a primitive battlefield, the other fighting to salvage a terribly wounded orc. At V47¡¯s augmented processing speed, the contact and high-view took no time at all to absorb. Just blinked and went on, saying,


    ¡°You have my word and my bond, that I stand between you and the darkness.¡± He was not this ¡®Valerian¡¯, nor ¡®Miche¡¯, either¡­ but Pilot he meant what he said, taking strength from his other selves¡¯ brief, ghostly presence.


    Then he took a few ticks to scan and save the data of everyone present. As had happened for him, Pilot promised them life without saying a word. Even the stupid Behuggler got copied and saved.


    A ripple of hope spread through the crowd, which parted enough to let him on through. A great many stills and vids were captured; would be much treasured, later.Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.


    He was off the gangway and onto the asteroid 7.2 ticks later, searching personal files for the spot where he¡¯d last seen the Shop of True Need. His previous self¡¯s memories ended here, after a kiss and a scan from his companion, Foryu. Strange feeling, that. Knowing he¡¯d died, but not how or why. Hearing from Ace that OVR-Lord had killed him and tried to scrap V47, after the pilot had made his report.


    ¡°Well, better luck <u>this</u> time,¡± he said to himself, as an odd, dome-shaped white building appeared. Just popped into place in an ally, elbowing ¡®Horbad¡¯s Hot Honeys¡¯ and the ¡®Lucky Strike Casino¡¯ aside. ¡°And may OVR-Lord¡¯s bugs ever prosper. Hope they spaghetti that 404 clone right down to the motherboard.¡±


    ¡®Querying Pilot. You will maintain contact this time?¡¯ V47 inquired, as Pilot stepped up to that shuddering dome of a building.


    ¡°To the best of my ability, yes,¡± he replied. ¡°If we are disconnected, allow thirty ticks before you respond, Vee, and <u>broadcast</u>, don¡¯t shoot.¡±


    The battle-mech¡¯s AI promised nothing. Just clenched itself down in his thoughts, close as a friend or a brother. Right, so¡­ There are things that you face all alone, and the Shop of True Need was one of them. Once again, on crossing its irised threshold, Pilot lost contact with V47. Only this time, before that heart-shredding amputation could drive them to violence, a tiny port opened up in the shop¡¯s iron shielding.


    He¡¯d almost lost Vee forever, back at the orbital station¡¯s incinerator. Had the cartridge been dropped into nuclear flames, he¡¯d have followed it. This¡­ wasn¡¯t as bad. Over more quickly, though still a hard, painful shock.


    The shop¡¯s withered gnome crouched on a long counter in back, waiting impatiently while the AI and pilot clamped back together. Then,


    ¡°You certainly took your time coming back for that parcel,¡± she complained, over rattling objects and tinkling glass. ¡°I have refused 6.02 x 10^28 very high bids for it, Boy. Customers across the plenum wanted that data.¡±


    Uh-huh. V47 Pilot threaded a path between crowded shelves, boxes and bottles. Would have just levitated, but the shop¡¯s piled junk mounded up to its shadowy ceiling. Those tottering stacks left a sightline, but not much room to maneuver. The place smelt dusty and mildewed, crazily lit by gyrating lamps.


    ¡°Your pardon, good shop-keeper,¡± he apologized. ¡°I was detained by¡­ erm¡­ dying. Again.¡±


    ¡°Hmph,¡± she sniffed, seeming more wrinkles than actual gnome. ¡°I¡¯ll have to add damages and lost custom to your storage fees, Boy. My dark-lantern is broken across the realities, and fifty patrons walked out in each of the shop¡¯s locations. Do you have any idea what that adds up to?¡±


    ¡°More than I¡¯ve got?¡± guessed the no-longer-quite-cyborg.


    ¡°More than you, your ancestors, all their benighted descendants, their gods and this <u>blot</u> of a plane could possibly scrounge, Elfling!¡±


    The parcel rose from her counter, still wrapped in brown paper and tied up with string. As it wafted up and across to him, the pilot reached to snag it out of the air.


    ¡°Perhaps I can offer a service instead?¡± he suggested.


    The gnome scowled. Jerked a mummified thumb at the stacks behind her, from which a cheerful half-orc AI leaned out and waved. The O-Club¡¯s host, it was, now hard at work, sorting goods.


    ¡°Already got a stock-clerk,¡± growled the shopkeeper. ¡°Thanks, I suppose, to <u>you</u>.¡± She sounded like she¡¯d bled that confession, not spoken it.


    V47 Pilot waved back at OC, glad just to see an old friend. (Well¡­ a few-weeks friend only, but in a lifespan as short as <u>his</u>, weeks were important, and everyone mattered.)


    The shop stopped vibrating the instant that V47 Pilot tucked that parcel into his memory. Dust settled. High shelves ceased their dangerous creaking and swaying. Lamps and cords went from wild, swinging arcs to gentler motion, bit by swiveling bit. Also, his credit balance dropped very far into the red. As in, not just his soul, but everyone else¡¯s, owed to the Shop of True Need. <u>That</u> was depressing.


    ¡°Right, so¡­ what can I do to repay or replace what you¡¯ve lost?¡± he asked the gnome. She did not answer immediately, having conjured a mirror to check and smooth that explosive shock of white hair.


    ¡°Use your head and that data, Boy. Find Etherion and make the right choice. Set this mess straight,¡± she snapped, trying new hairdos with sigil and spell.


    Sure. Why not? Made as much sense as anything else in a life lived in short, gasping bursts.


    ¡°Yes, Ma¡¯am,¡± he said to her. Then, before turning to go, ¡°Can¡­ I query you further, Shopkeeper?¡±


    The gnome looked away from her mirror, dark eyes filling with something like humor (or maybe just gas).


    ¡°Go ahead, Boy. What¡¯s twenty-cred more, on a balance like <u>that</u>?¡±


    Splendid. No pressure. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs and recharging that cyborg chest-armor. Blundered on with his question, asking,


    ¡°Through val.exe, I encountered Miche and Valerian. Also met one who called himself my brother; a <u>thief</u>, whom I do not recall ever decanting with. I would just like to know who they are, and why their data-stream has crossed mine, Shopkeeper.¡±


    Her expression softened at that, smoothing those cavernous wrinkles away.


    ¡°The ones you met are struggling through this as well, Child. Valerian and Miche are not you¡­ <u>anymore</u>. As for your brother¡­ that lout would take up a nuclear cannon to swat a mosquito, but he cares for and cleaves to you. He did not so much rob, as replace.¡±


    Then, shaking her head so that the latest sleek hairdo reverted to ¡®scrub-brush¡¯, the gnome barked,


    ¡°Enough! Off with you, troublesome boy. Settle that debt before it goes into collection, which (trust me) you do not want. Now, go!¡±


    V47 Pilot went, owing more than a plane¡¯s worth, but strangely hopeful. He had to stop many times on the way back along Bide-a-While Station¡¯s lurid main strip. Everyone wanted to buy him a drink or offer their guaranteed lucky artifact.


    He couldn¡¯t ingest or carry that bounty. Had to start stuffing his fey-pockets with items that ranged from hand-drawn sigils to rare and valuable relics. It wasn¡¯t until he was back in the Titan¡¯s cockpit that he got a moment of peace. The canopy sealed, shutting out music and adverts. Probes, feeds and contact plates shot back into place, shifting his mind and awareness back to that towering (brightly scrubbed) mech.


    He looked around, giant head swiveling to the sound of whirring gears, humming motors and cricket-chirp relays. Took in the station and all of its gathered assets. He¡¯d vowed a vow, and he meant it. Step one was to launch and then open that data packet, safely away from Bide-a-While Station.


    The docking gantry swung aside, releasing him from its gossamer strands. On quarter-impeller, V47 Pilot pulled up and away from the asteroid. He¡¯d been tagged again; this time with: ¡°Follow me for a good time at Bide-a-While Station!¡± Didn¡¯t begrudge it, because sometimes the smallest, most annoying things could turn into a key, helping to save those you cared for most.


    ¡°Come back soon, V47 Pilot!¡± burbled the station¡¯s AI. ¡°We¡¯ll leave the light on for you!¡±


    And¡­ code-writers willing¡­ he would.


    ¡°Thank you,¡± he answered, returning Behuggler¡¯s salute.


    Then, he rocketed off, heading back to that shining industrial gate. It was there that he turfed up and opened the data packet. Learning¡­ so much. Coordinates, yes; but also, the whole wretched history, lied about for so long, masked with nonsense like Rogue Flight and Battle for Arda. The whole awful truth.

 Sword and Sorcery Seven, chapter twenty-four

    <u>24</u>


    Milardin¡¯s grand hall had collapsed, like the rest of that once lovely oceanside city; brought to ruin by Arvendahl¡¯s magically triggered earthquake and flood. Where once had bloomed flowers, now there was rubble. Where once had been laughter and song, now only screams, keening wind and the ragged tolling of Milardin¡¯s last war-bell. All of it threaded with clouds of screeching, quarreling gannets, fighting for shreds of torn flesh.


    The mud-and-blood tainted tide had begun to recede, drawn away by the sea-elves¡¯ great power¡­ And that was a threat in itself, for Queen Shanella demanded Lord Arvendahl¡¯s head by way of were-gild, else she¡¯d take revenge in her <u>own</u> time and fashion. Nalderick had been sent off on the dreadnought Majesty, along with Lady Solara and Captain Prentiss. Told to prevent open war between Karellon and Averna by any means necessary; left hand protocol given.


    Now, having snared a clue to Arvendahl¡¯s possible whereabouts, Prince Nalderick shifted most of his crew¡¯s activity to the crushed and still-settling council hall. Its bottom floors were flooded with rank, muddy water. Anyone down there would probably keep (being sea-elven stock, part selkie, or dead) so the hunters concentrated on the shattered and leaning top stories.


    There were others around, as well. People who scrambled across the wreckage with shining image globes over their heads, portraying the ones they were looking for.


    ¡°Please, have you seen¡­?!¡± rang out over and over, as desperate, hopeful rescuers struggled to reach their trapped loved ones. Nalderick was meant to focus on locating Arvendahl. Couldn¡¯t help himself, though. Under cover of questioning possible witnesses, he pulled Solara and Scander over and pitched in, himself. Learned nothing much new at first, but did score the crown plenty of lifelong gratitude.


    Then, having aided a wisp of an elf in a torn, bloodied uniform¡­ leaning in as Lady Solara raised tons of massive stone blocks¡­ he struck mithral and manna.


    ¡°Two more alive, over here!¡± the prince shouted, signaling Scander. The healer came bustling forward, rattling vials as he hopped over gaps and slid along tottering slabs.


    ¡°Here, your highness!¡± puffed the halfling, looking grubby, gentle and mild. ¡°Right here!¡±


    Their find was a half-elven woman wearing the bloodstained shreds of a navy officer¡¯s uniform. She cradled a badly injured marine with one of her arms, using the opposite hand to shield his face from trickling rubble and sand.


    They were lifted up into the air by Solara¡¯s spell, then sprayed down with potion by Scander (who¡¯d switched to a brass tank and hose). Nalderick¡¯s frantic guide reached for the victims, crying out,


    ¡°Karlo!  Karlo, it¡¯s me! I¡¯m here! We¡¯ve got you Karlo, you¡¯re safe!¡± The spell globe that hovered above showed a pair of proud young marines, standing side by side in full uniform, just barely not <u>quite</u> holding hands.


    The healer went straight to work on ¡®Karlo¡¯, as the unconscious half-elf seemed to have taken most of the damage. Nalderick focused instead on the naval officer, who blinked and coughed, looking stunned.If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    ¡°What is your name and rank, Aerrior?¡± he demanded, conjuring healing-spring water. Had to hold her head while she drank a bit through cracked lips and chipped, bloody teeth. Then, with a bubbling gasp, the woman said,


    ¡°I am Leftenant¡­ Sera Cliffwatch, Your Highness¡­ acting c- captain of Vancora.¡±


    And Vancora was High Lord Arvendahl¡¯s flagship, reputedly the only one of Milardin¡¯s great fleet to return from attacking Averna. <u>Score</u>.


    ¡°I see,¡± the prince nodded, spotting a blood-stained logbook under the leftenant¡¯s shoulder. ¡°To the point, Leftenant: I am seeking Lord Arvendahl,¡± he said, extracting that critical book with a flick of his finger. ¡°Where is he?!¡±


    The half-elven woman was healing, but shocked. Seemed to have trouble forming a response. Then somebody coughed as they made their way over, slipping on tilted stone and splintery beams. It was a beautiful black-haired elf-maid with very blue eyes and a terribly icy expression.


    ¡°She knows nothing, Your Highness,¡± rasped the newcomer, in a low and raw-throated voice. ¡°Cliffwatch hadn¡¯t the rank to speak with my uncle directly, nor to sit at his privy council.¡±


    Nalderick turned his head and upper body to better regard the girl. Then he got to his feet, leaving Leftenant Cliffwatch to the care of Majesty¡¯s skilled halfling leech.


    Supported by a sorrowing, dark-skinned elf-lord, Lady Sheraza approached. She¡¯d cleansed herself with magic, pulling a green velvet cloak from her faerie pockets to wrap up and hide her own wounds. Too proud to display weakness or fear, Sheraza leaned only slightly on her escort (Lord Dawnwending, if memory served).


    ¡°Milady,¡± said Nalderick, inclining his head politely.


    She sketched a slightly tremulous bow, as did Esten Dawnwending. He, too, was injured. Possibly more in his heart than his body, though, for there was no shining globe over him; none left alive to search for. Nalderick cleared his throat, pretending not to notice the other elf¡¯s silent tears.


    ¡°What news of High Lord Arvendahl?¡± he asked, as though they were met for tea in the palace garden.


    Sheraza lifted her head, keeping an equally ruthless clamp on emotion.


    ¡°My uncle will likely have gone to his northern hunting lodge, Sea Haven. He maintains a menagerie and a work sanctum there, said to have belonged to Sherazedan the Great.¡± Then, glancing aside, the girl added, ¡°Cliffwatch and all of her crew are innocent, Your Highness¡­ as are the council and surviving folk of Milardin. Blame them not, for they have done nothing at all to deserve imperial wrath.¡±


    Lord Dawnwending turned his head to regard Sheraza. Speaking as one trapped in a nightmare, he murmured,


    ¡°My Lady¡­¡±


    The girl shook her head, cutting him off and pulling away to stand free.


    ¡°No, Lord Esten,¡± she told him. ¡°This is my burden, alone. As my uncle acted without consulting his council or officers, so none of you share in his guilt.¡± Next, turning to look at the prince once again, Sheraza said, ¡°I offer myself in Lord Arvendahl¡¯s place, should he prove untraceable, Your Highness. I will accept whatever judgment the emperor sees fit to mete out¡­ on <u>myself</u>, not on Milardin or the people and realm of Alandriel.¡±


    Nalderick had a fresh lead to follow, now. He was impatient to go; to close this whole awful business forever. Signaling Captain Prentiss forward, he ordered,


    ¡°Place her under arrest, Captain, and bring her aboard the Majesty. She is to be healed and attended, then bound up with iron and sigil and word¡­ but with all the respect due to her courage and rank.¡±


    Prentiss bowed low.


    ¡°Yes, Your Highness,¡± she said to the weary, dark-haired young prince. ¡°At once. Shall I recall the crew, and make ready to voyage north?¡±


    Nalderick hesitated, clearly torn. Then,


    ¡°We shall proceed to this hunting lodge,¡± he decided, ¡°with a skeleton crew, taking only those <u>absolutely</u> required to manage the airship. The rest will stop here in Milardin. There¡­ may be more¡­ witnesses¡­ more news or traces of Arvendahl¡¯s doings to learn,¡± he finished awkwardly.


    Captain Prentiss did not smile, but her gaze softened. His Highness did not have to excuse his own mercy¡­ and someday, she thought, he would make a very fine monarch, indeed.

 Sword and Sorcery Seven, chapter twenty-five

    <u>25</u>


    Instinct spurred Val and Alfea to the top of that quiet and brooding stone pillar, but they nearly collided with Lerendar, Beatriz and Filimar¡¯s people coming the opposite way.


    ¡­and then there was Sawyer the griffin, who¡¯d gotten away from Vikran¡­


    ¡­Pudgy, who¡¯d been stuffed into one of Faleena¡¯s faerie pockets¡­


    ¡­And most of all Bean, who very much wanted her mother. Then Andorin lifted the whole of Seahorse¡¯s crew onto the clifftop with power he drew from that turbulent surf. So many greetings! Mostly restrained, on the part of the high-elves, others steeped in ages of sorrow and longing, as Someday unfolded at last.


    Filimar approached that odd, skinny, half-naked girl; the former hawk who¡¯d saved his life by attacking Lord Arvendahl; who could only be his rarely-spoken-of sister. They¡¯d never met, but the kin-bond was there, and he knew her. Just like his mum and dad, he¡¯d always kept a small dress and a toy in his own faerie pockets, just in case.


    Now the young elf drew close to his golden eyed sister; moving slowly, holding out that beaded small gown and stuffed doll.


    ¡°Anneka,¡± he called to her, trying to sound calm and soothing. ¡°See what I have, Neka! Look, it¡¯s your doll, Red-hair Baby. Your temple dress, too. Remember these?¡±


    The girl¡¯s mouth opened. Her head bobbed in a strange, bird-like manner as she hopped warily backward. No longer able to fly. Afraid, but filled with deep longing. Though she did not know Filimar, Anneka reacted at once to Faleena and Tormun, who were there moments later. With spells that they¡¯d hoarded for a lifetime, with favorite playthings and sweets, they at last lured Anneka back. Embraced, kissed and cleansed her, weeping with joy as others politely looked elsewhere.


    She was a mess. Skinny, wild and dressed in tatters, her toes clutching soil and covered in blood. Did not know how to use her hands, and tried to take up the doll with one foot and her mouth¡­ But she was there. She was <u>theirs</u> once again because Someday had finally come.


    Val approached Filimar after a bit, one arm tight around Alfea (who was cuddling Pudgy and Bean, crooning and making all sorts of soft, silly faces).


    ¡°Your¡­ sister?¡± he guessed. Safe bet, as she had typical Arvendahl raven-black hair, if not their blue eyes.


    ¡°Yes,¡± replied Filimar, looking like one who¡¯d seen gods and monsters and unicorns. Who¡¯d been threatened with darkness and beaten it back. ¡°That is Anneka, who was lost many years before I was born. Mum and dad speak of her only on the day (every year) that she left¡­ but I remembered.¡±


    Valerian nodded.


    ¡°I am glad for your happiness, Filno. That your father lives and your sister is back. And¡­ with granddad¡¯s permission¡­ that you are all now a part of our family and house.¡± For he¡¯d meant that sincerely, adopting the exiles in Lord Tarandahl¡¯s name.


    ¡°You¡¯ve not met,¡± Val continued, ¡°But this is my wife, Alfea, and <u>this</u> is our little one, Bean.¡± Then, as Pudgy wriggled and yapped at him. ¡°Also, the most ridiculous excuse for a dog I¡¯ve ever won at a fair... Pudgy.¡±


    Filimar bowed to them all, smiling.


    ¡°My lady,¡± he said, ¡°my life and heart¡¯s service to you and your daughter, for all time to come.¡±


    Alfea smiled back, very flustered and shy.


    ¡°Thank you, Fil,¡± she replied. ¡°And I thank you a thousand times over for helping Van. He has told me of your great deeds and your courage.¡±


    Filimar reddened. Then Sandor, Kellen and Arien rushed up, all ears at the news that they''d suddenly turned into Tarandahls, demanding an introduction and vying with each other to praise Alfea¡¯s beauty. That led to an argument, as they fell to boasting of who¡¯d do the most to win her smile¡­ and then Val drew Alfea apart from the rest.


    Managed to fob off his baby griffin and Pudgy (on Filimar, this time), and then pulled a quick privacy spell. Embraced his wife and baby again, just needing to let himself <u>feel</u>. Holding her close, he whispered,


    ¡°The things that Arvendahl said about you¡­¡±


    Alfea looked up at him, wide-eyed.


    ¡°It matters? His words have changed how you see me, Van?¡±


    ¡°<u>No</u>. Never! Nothing that warg-son vomited out could ever touch you, Fina. It¡¯s just¡­ I wanted to kill him for it, in your name. I wanted to make him take back every insult and lie, only dad got there first.¡±


    Alfea shifted the baby, then reached up to place a hand on her young husband¡¯s face, saying,Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators!


    ¡°His evil words have not harmed me. Drive their venom out of your heart and your thoughts, Love, and let us by happy, for this is a wonderous day.¡±


    And not done with marvels, either, for another airship appeared in the sky over Lord Arvendahl¡¯s shattered hunting lodge. It was an imperial dreadnought, growing swiftly from a small silver dot to a sleek and powerful warship. Right.


    Valerian watched it come, using slow time and recycling himself back to the unicorn¡¯s peace, to work up a few handy spells. (Just in case.) In the perforated meantime, his grandparents, father, brother and Aunt Meliara gathered to face the newcomers, along with Reston, Andorin and Lord Tormun. A good thing, as it turned out, because the dreadnought anchored broadside to that hovering pirate ship, and then Prince Nalderick descended. He was flanked by a blonde, frosty sorceress and a uniformed naval officer; backed by a troop of grim warriors.


    Val kissed Alfea, gating her, the baby and Katina back over to Starloft. (Again, better safe.) Next, he went over to join the others, standing with Dad, Reston and Lerendar, a snowy white owl back on his armored shoulder.


    Everyone knelt as the prince touched ground, though just a brief dip in Lord Galadin¡¯s case. Firelord once again looked through his eyes, and <u>that</u> changed everything.


    The prince inclined his head, greeting the god and the high lord, both.


    ¡°Shining One,¡± he said, very formally. ¡°Thou dost me great honor, as does thine sword-arm. I have come to find and bear away the head of Falcoridan Arvendahl, he who was lord of Alandriel.¡±


    Nalderick dared not demand. Not of Firelord, and not with a sea-elven prince standing by, one hand on the strings of his dulcimer. The god responded through Galadin, making pebbles bounce and the wind shift its course, as a swirl of bright petals appeared in the air.


    ¡°The one you seek is not dead. He has gone to the Heart of the Worlds. I have kept his body alive, to prevent his last-magic curse from taking effect.¡±


    To his everlasting credit, Nalderick caught on fast, and kept his expression under control. He bowed his head again, saying,


    ¡°I thank you, Lord of Battles. The villain¡¯s head is required to calm the wrath of Averna and¡­ perhaps to save the life of a brave and beautiful girl. I do not command here, Shining One. I but ask.¡±


    Then two others came forward, a slouching albino drow and a slim, crystal pirate. The drow had Lord Arvendahl¡¯s head spitted like a roast on the upraised blade of his sword. The pirate had clamped a transparent hand over his larger one, seemingly trying to wrest that loathsome relic away from her unwanted partner.


    ¡°This is yours, I believe,¡± said the drow, not bowing or bending the knee even slightly. He wasn¡¯t the sort; didn¡¯t worship the god, nor acknowledge the prince. Just seemed amused and a little bit bored.


    ¡°We claim the reward, Your Highness!¡± cut in the pirate-lass, before <u>Stupid</u> could throw away twelve-million platinum. ¡°Here is Lord Arvendahl¡¯s head, as requested.¡±


    His head, with one blue eye gone and the other half closed: with a tightly clamped jaw and long, black hair streaming loose in the wind. Very much, not entirely dead.


    Nalderick didn¡¯t relax, but he nodded slightly, signaling to his uniformed escort.


    ¡°Captain Prentiss, release the funds to the Flying Cloud. Lady Solara¡­ and, by your leave, Lord of Battles¡­ take the head.¡±


    ¡°Thou hast my leave, elven prince,¡± said the god in a thunderous whisper. ¡°Know that so long as the body and head are preserved, so long the curse is held off from thine family and house. If these remains proceed to their final death, though, the empire crumbles. Choose wisely, elven prince. I have spoken.¡±


    And then Firelord faded from Galadin¡¯s eyes and his smoldering form. The abandoned elf was kept upright by Alyanara, Keldaran and Reston, with Lerendar, Valerian and Meliara gathered around him, as well.


    In that awkward, potential-filled moment, Val took a deep breath and came forward. He had an oath to fulfil, and here was his chance. As the captain and mage went to work, he bent the knee, saying,


    ¡°A boon, Your Highness, if we have earned such.¡±


    ¡°Play on my team and help win that game, I¡¯ll grant fifty,¡± muttered Nalderick. Then, more formally, ¡°Speak, Valerian. What boon would you have of His Majesty?¡±


    Val rose again. Glanced at his brother, then plunged on with the promised request. Gut clenching a little, he said,


    ¡°Sire¡­ I would ask that marriage to a mortal not push an heir out of succession. That my brother Lerendar¡­ who has won the love of a truly amazing woman¡­ be allowed to remain second heir to Ilirian.¡± Becoming (some very far day in the future) its Silmerana, Warden of the North.


    Nalderick smiled.


    ¡°Granted. That was a terribly old-fashioned law, anyhow. From this time forward, hear me all gods and powers, an heir may wed whomever he or she chooses: mortal or not. So may it be.¡± Then, as the gathered folk bowed and chorused response, ¡°Alandriel has lost its noble family. They are in a bit of a fix.¡± Looking fiercely at Val, he snapped, ¡°<u>You</u>, I need on my courtball team and the honor guard, along with two more. You cannot be spared. If there¡¯s another, however, I command that he or she take control of Milardin. Change your name or not, as you wish. Makes no difference to me. Just get the place back into shape before His Majesty¡¯s ride.¡±


    Lord Galadin spoke as himself, then. The tall, silver-haired elf came to stand by his grandson, saying,


    ¡°My daughter Meliara is an oracle of the gods, wise in their ways and magically gifted, besides. She would do well upon the high seat of Alandriel, Sire... especially with advisors such as Lord Tormun and Lady Faleena.¡±


    Nalderick looked relieved.


    ¡°Done. So be it,¡± he said. Then, turning to face the sea-elven bard,


    ¡°Prince of Averna, here is your were-gild; the payment demanded for Arvendahl¡¯s crimes. Let the fact that it must be kept alive serve as promise that land will never again attack sea, on my word and bond as the prince attendant.¡±


    Lady Solara drifted forward, dainty bare feet not touching the ground. With a slight flick of her pearl-topped staff, the sorceress wafted Arvendahl¡¯s head across to the sea-elf.


    ¡°My thanks, Prince of Karandun,¡± said Andorin, receiving the awful thing with dignity (and a well-concealed shudder). ¡°I shall see that it reaches the queen. You have <u>my</u> word and bond, as a prince of the old blood, that so long as peace remains between ocean and land, so long shall this head stay alive.¡± (But Arvendahl¡¯s <u>body</u> was their trouble, not his.)


    That a fated sword was still loose, seeking its wielder¡­ that a contract for death still hung over Val and Filimar¡­ that Sherazedan, the Mother, and Arvendahl¡¯s shade were all gathered as one at the heart of reality¡­ These were problems for later. Here and now, there was peace and rejoicing. Here and now, there was healing and love.

 Sword and Sorcery Seven, chapter twenty-six

    <u>26</u>


    Rusty, snapping steel heads shot up from the wreckage below like a storm of corroded owlbear-traps.  Trailing hundreds of fathoms of rattling chains, they exploded out of the junkheap beneath to strike the Dark Cloud.  Jagged, spiked teeth first hit hard, slewing the vessel off course, then sank in, shredding its armor and splintering wood.


    Dark Cloud yawed wildly, listing first one way, then the other, as those rusted and flaking steel chains began winching the pirate ship downward.  But the Cloud had defenses, too.  A long row of ports opened up on both sides of the ship.  Eldritch cannons of mithral and brass rumbled forth, already buzzing and crackling.  Mounted on hinged, folding arms, shaped like snarling gargoyles, those cannons were aimed by the Dark Cloud¡¯s phantom crew; powered by manna.


    The eldritch weapons thundered to life. Fired again and again, blasting slivers of shining black ice that tore straight through those winching steel chains.  Engines screaming, the Cloud fought to rise, but its stern was still anchored; still being dragged to the ground.


    ¡®Captain,¡± said the ship, as Miche tossed Nameless into the rigging. He next used a levitate spell to lunge clear of the vessel¡¯s slanted and juddering deck. ¡®There are two rocket clamps locked to my keel, that I cannot reach,¡¯ reported the airship.


    ¡°I can,¡± the elf replied grimly.  Firelord shot back from the mast to re-enter Miche, then, making him glow like a star.  A steel rocket clamp exploded to dust underneath Miche, struck by Glass-cat¡¯s crossbow and¡­ and some kind of energy beam from Marget¡¯s mechanical arm.  Both weapons fired continuously, defending the elf as he plunged amid thundering cannons and rattling, hissing steel heads.  <u>Their</u> business to keep from striking him.  <u>His</u>, to get down there and free the Dark Cloud.


    Dodging yards of lashing chain, Miche dropped fast.  He drew and ignited his energy-blade with one hand, while channeling flame with the other.  Reached and swung down to the airship¡¯s keel as utter nightmare erupted around him.  More rocket clamps blasted away from the wreckage beneath.  <u>Hundreds</u> more.  There were sky-vines as well, snaking like barbed tongues from their barnacle roots on the Cloud¡¯s torn plating.


    Miche stopped thinking or feeling, except for the wild, heart-pounding joy of avoiding destruction while very much dealing it out.  He whirled in midair, slashing through one rusted chain with his energy-blade.  Its links were as big as he was, but fragile with rot and corrosion; just the zombie arms of a long-dead defense system.  The chain burst into a blizzard of rusty sand all down its length, temporarily blinding him.  Then a sky-vine¡¯s barbed tip struck the elf, spinning him halfway around as it skittered on armor, seeking the flesh underneath.


    Firelord roasted that groping, acidic tendril, burning it clear to its barnacle-root.  Gave the elf vision, as well (in a manner of speaking).  From a god¡¯s-eye perspective, he could see all parts of an object at once and inside of it, too; watch it slide backward and forward in time.  That helped a lot, once he¡¯d figured out what he was looking at.  Let him strike, not just <u>now</u>, but back <u>then</u>, or in moments to come.  Better yet, he could aim clear past all of that dented corrosion to stab at his targets from deep inside.


    The second rocket clamp was far astern, at the airship¡¯s straining propulsion jet.  A long way to go¡­ but Miche was all at once there, as Firelord brought two points in space close together, somehow.


    The clamp itself was a rusty and glaring trap-thing made up of wreckage and rubble.  Larger than <u>he</u> was, by far.  Its spring-loaded jaws had buckled the ship¡¯s armor plating and splintered three beams sinking in.  Its slitted red eyes fired hatred and mage-bolts.  The noise it produced was a coughing and rattling laugh.  Not for long.Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    Miche severed the closest link with a blast of volcanic fire, freeing Dark Cloud to rise.  As the airship soared upward beside him, he unleashed a spell to banish that glowering head.


    ¡°Begone!¡± he sketched-shouted-thought, in Firelord¡¯s voice as well as his own.  ¡°Back to the system that spawned you, Demon, with <u>this</u>!¡±  Adding not just a spell but a segment of un-making code.  Of <u>stop</u>.  Stand down.  No more.


    And it did.  All at once, everything flickered, juddered and then fell silent, except for that hot, gusting wind, the rumbling engines and his own harsh, rapid breath.


    ¡°I have learned, monster!¡± snarled Erron, speaking to somebody else, staring far to the north.  ¡°Your accursed code brought down my fleet and the shields, but it can be turned to <u>your</u> hurt, as well.¡±


    He hung there a moment longer, shaking. Flaring with Firelord¡¯s power and Erron¡¯s wild rage.  Then someone swung down on a line.  <u>Two</u> someones, both very well armed and streaked with acid-burns.  Marget and Glass-cat were suddenly with him, one hand clamped to their separate ropes, one foot in a loop at the bottom.  The lines that they clung to were twined ¡®round a leg for stability, leaving the other foot free to kick or push off with.  Their crossbows were armed, locked on and ready¡­ but not really needed.  Not anymore.


    ¡°Old One!¡± roared the orc.  ¡°You have been taking your ease, here?  Drinking and lounging as we fought for the ship, up above?¡±


    Miche looked around at a healing and unburdened keel.  Nothing.  No clamps and no chains.  Even the sky-vines were gone, and everything quiet, below.  He inhaled deeply.  Then, too proud to explain, the elf just extinguished his energy-blade.


    ¡°I knew that you had the situation under control,¡± he replied, smiling slightly. ¡°Just, erm¡­ concentrated on bringing down the wasteland¡¯s defenses.¡±


    ¡°That is a mighty deed, Mrowr,¡± said Glass-cat, sparkling like a prism in a sudden ray of bright sun.


    ¡°Umph,¡± grunted Meg.  ¡°Scribbles and chanting.  No fit work for a Free-person male.  I may have to scrape your tattoos after all, Vrol-who-relaxes-while-others-do-battle.¡±


    Miche¡¯s smile broadened, turning mischievous.


    ¡°You¡¯d have to catch me first, and that you <u>cannot</u>, swinging like soft, useless fruit on a vine,¡± he teased.  Next, Miche used mage hand to shove her, causing the outraged orc to sway back and forth like a plum bob.  Left her cursing and bellowing threats, giving his ¡°sister¡± a jaunty wave as he launched himself topside.


    Arced past the Dark Cloud¡¯s hull while its cannons ground back into place and their covers slammed shut.  The ship¡¯s black shadow rippled like water over the tortured landscape below, seeming to pour over derelict vessels and cracked, leaning spires.


    That weirdly smooth road was there, too, but it came to an end at something that looked like a large and bowl-shaped dry well, or¡­ maybe some kind of docking site?  There were certainly structures inside.  Ladders, a gantry, five- or six-dozen sealed hatches.  Right¡­


    As the Cloud hauled Marget and Glass-cat aboard, as Nameless dropped from his sentry post on the rigging, Miche said,


    ¡°Bring us around, and then make a full stop, Cloud.  I would like a closer look at yon pit.¡±


    ¡®Aye, Captain,¡¯ responded the ship, adding, ¡®Some of the previous crewmen were roused by the fight.  They request permission to manifest physically.¡¯


    Miche considered.  More hands meant less watch-time, less unending labor¡­ if they could be trusted, that is.


    ¡°Who are they?¡± he probed. (Bit skeptical, having seen oily clots of the dead staring back from Cloud¡¯s railing and glass.)


    ¡®No more than bound spirits, their names and past lost to time¡­ but willing to fight at your side, Captain.¡¯


    Uh-huh.  Probably a mistake, but¡­


    ¡°Very well.  Permission granted, Cloud.  Have them report to me as soon as they¡¯ve formed up their bodies.¡±  Then, switching topics.  ¡°We¡¯ll give it a quarter candle-mark.  If nothing <u>else</u> attacks in that time, bring us down to the docking-well.  It might be a place where Gottshan puts in for repair and supplies.  If so, we may just have found our way in.¡±


    If the city still ventured here.  If it came to a halt.  If they were lucky, unnoticed and fast.


    If.

 Sword and Sorcery Seven, chapter twenty-seven

    <u>27</u>


    The Titan hovered in space, Bide-a-While Station some 48 thousand miles to the rear, that massive Mark-VII industrial gate flaring and sparking directly ahead.  The battle-mech hung like stalled traffic between them, not moving at all, because V47 Pilot had simply collapsed.


    He crouched in a tight curl at mid-cockpit, laced through by long probes, nutrition- and sensory- feeds.  Constant dry heaves shook the pilot¡¯s body as his mind retreated from knowledge too awful to process.  They¡¯d been lied to.  Soothed with show vids.  Kept mostly drugged, overworked or unconscious.  Enslaved.


    Worst of all¡­ they¡¯d <u>deserved</u> it.  Moments earlier, he had downloaded and opened an eyes-only data packet.  Then, just a .003<sup>rd  </sup>femto-tick later, the pilot threw himself like a foot soldier on a grenade, to prevent its toxin from reaching V47.


    And virtual poison, it was: The Two-Hundred Worlds¡¯ actual history, preserved by TTN-iA all that time, then passed on to him.  Etherion¡¯s coordinates were in there, yes¡­ but also the absolute truth.  See¡­  457,126 galactic years in the past, a horde of elves had fled into space from some forgotten and awful defeat.  They had brought others with them: half-elven, orcish, dwarven and goblin assistants, along with some drow, and a hoard of assemblers.


    Shielded by doomed, rearguard warriors, those refugees had blasted off to the void between worlds¡­ But not far enough, for they¡¯d fled in a new and half-tested ship.  It began to fail almost immediately.  Closely pursued¡­ knowing what lay in store for them, if they were caught¡­ the panicking elves had lightened their load.  Wanting to rid themselves of goblins, drow and assemblers, the elven command crew had pushed their fellow refugees out through the airlock during a hyperspace-jump. Nor was that all. A few days later, they¡¯d abandoned the rest of their non-elven passengers.  Just dumped them on Vernax-3, along with the handful of ¡®True-Bloods¡¯ who¡¯d dared to protest that merciless choice.  And¡­ among the folk left behind, her anguished face caught in a rapid scan¡­ was a dark-haired elf woman near to decanting her offspring.  She¡¯d stood there, watching the transport take off, supported by two of her previous children.  Abandoned to die with the rest, so that those of pure line (and less scruple) might live.  The pilot¡¯s stomach turned, but that packet, once opened, was relentless.


    The ploy hadn¡¯t worked.  In the end, despite their betrayal and frantic retreat, the ship had been caught.  Its crew killed or enslaved; turned into cyborg tools by victorious humans.  Robbed of their names, their family and status, even the right to die a clean death.  Disposable.  Decanted over and over, piled up like a living wall against the attacking Draug.  Who¡­ were survivors, themselves; created when the captain spaced all the goblins, assembler and drow engineers.


    The high-elves¡¯ fault, every bit of it. More¡­ it was very important that Vee not discover the truth.  Almost nauseous, Pilot fought to shield his friend from seeing that abandoned, proud female; who¡¯d spoken out to save others, and died of her courage.


    The pilot could sense V47 pushing at the wall that he¡¯d flung up between them.  Acting fast, he buried that terrible knowledge, squashing reaction and data.


    ¡®Pilot, I have increased the flow of nutrition and boosted your fluid levels.  Biological stress has been noted and dealt with.  There are fifty-two thousand show vids queued up and ready to play, as well.¡¯


    ¡°Thank you, Vee,¡± he responded a Mili-tick later (firewall firmly in place).  Then,


    ¡®Health advisory: Indicators of physiological stress remain high,¡¯ remarked the AI, radiating concern and suspicion. ¡®Cortisol levels are 62% above normal.  Heartbeat and respiration are likewise elevated.  Querying pilot: what further action will result in relief of stress?¡¯


    ¡°I¡­¡± V47 Pilot took a deep, shaky breath.  ¡°Need <u>not</u> to feel right now, Vee.  I cannot explain why¡­ Wouldn¡¯t do that to you¡­ Just, drug me.  Play music.  Do whatever it takes¡­ but make me able to function.¡±If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    ¡®You have opened the data file,¡¯ sent V47, growing confused. ¡®Querying: You will not share it?¡¯


    ¡°No.  I will not,¡± said the pilot.  ¡°And I want you not to go looking, Vee, for your own continued stability.  Don¡¯t query.  Don¡¯t search.¡±


    A splintered .003<sup>rd</sup> micro-tick later,


    ¡®I am an AI, Pilot.  Your onboard system.  Alternate query: What data or malware are you able to scan, that I cannot?¡¯


    Pilot shook his head, feeling the Mili-ticks peel off that five-day cease fire.  As relaxants, music and calming drugs flooded his mind, he said,


    ¡°You are more than an onboard system, Vee.  You are my friend, and I don¡¯t have very many of those.  One by one, they¡¯ve been killed or taken away.  And now <u>this</u>¡­ I have deleted the specific data string from my working memory, Vee... but it¡¯s bad.¡±


    V47 hesitated.  The AI fell utterly silent for a time.  Whole, endless ticks.  Then,


    ¡®I have run simulations, Pilot.  I have recycled myself to perform calculations equaling the number of particles in the observable universe.  In all but 1,523,274 of these, we have stood as a firewall, defending the system from malware, file-corruption and data loss.  All damage has been overcome or averted together.  I fail in conjecture, regarding the cause of this denial-of-share.¡¯


    The pilot began to uncurl, making dozens of cockpit feedlines and probes clatter.  He¡¯d been troubled by something contained in that data packet, but now the specifics were buried and all its emotion stripped clean away.  He could get on with the task at hand.  Said,


    ¡°Here is my promise, Vee: It¡¯s not a denial, just a delay.  I will search for a way to repair what is wrong and then¡­ Then I promise to share what I¡¯ve learned.  Until then, please trust me enough to stand by.¡±


    ¡®Request received.  Request processed.  Responding to Pilot: proposal accepted.  Further query and research suspended, until the conditions described are achieved.¡¯


    Pilot nodded, letting his awareness return to that massive battle-mech shell.  Flexed its fingers, scanned for attack and then spun its weapons to <u>something-for-everyone</u> mode.  Brought out pulse lasers, missiles and one very large, ugly bomb.


    He would not return to TTN-iA, the pilot decided.  Not yet.  Sent a brief message, instead, urging: ¡°Defend and quick grow the human child.  She will take OVR-Lord¡¯s place.  Conceal the truth about history from her and from everyone else, TTN-iA.  That is strict ¡°need to know¡±, and no one else does.¡±


    The people at Bide-a-While Station and OS1210 considered him a defender and hero.  Someone sprung like themselves from a subject race, and he dreaded them finding out otherwise.  For <u>them</u>, for his companion and V47, the pilot took the next step.  Did the next, right thing, small as it was.


    Accessing the gate¡¯s nav-system, he uploaded new transport coordinates, setting its aim to Etherion.  To the masters who¡¯d captured a fleeing escape ship.  Who¡¯d built up a kingdom, then left it behind.


    The giant portal flashed once, accepting his upload.  Next came TTN-iA¡¯s jumbled reply: ~Request received.  Request accepted.  Raine queries return of V47 Pilot.  Raine expresses hope to meet Progenitor Pilot.  Raine sends many created images.~


    The message contained 2,053 pictures, all of them packed in a file addressed ¡°Dear Progenitor V47 Pilot.¡±  The drawings were not very accurate.  Most of them showed <u>him</u> or V47; underwater, on the magnetar¡¯s iron shell or fighting a battle in space.  Three depicted the pilot passed out unconscious, watched over by tetrapod V47.  Two were probably Raine, herself; brown-haired, dark-eyed and utterly human.  Just the way he''d envisioned her.  <u>Right</u>.  All of that seemed like a previous lifetime ago.  But¡­


    ¡°I believe she will make a good leader, Vee,¡± he said to the waiting AI.  ¡°Less likely to kill me, at any rate.¡±


    And having created a human, a master¡­ one they could train and raise up themselves¡­ was important.  His emotions were blocked and smothered by V47.  He felt no anxiety, now. No fear or desire for vengeance.  Had no special attachment to the human girl, either.  Just sent back,


    ¡°Thank you, TTN-iA.  Responding to Raine-query: Soon, it is hoped.  Your pictures were viewed and enjoyed.  If I do not return, you must seek out Rogue Flight and Foryu, a freed companion.  They will provide cover, until you¡¯ve taken control of OS1210.¡±


    ¡®Val¡¯ or ¡®Miche¡¯ might have added, ¡°Be careful,¡± or even ¡°I look forward to meeting you, Little One.¡±  But they were not <u>him</u>.  Not a mere asset, struggling to redress what his people had long ago done.  Instead of encouragement or a Rogue Flight quip, he closed with, ¡°Maintain the ban on hyperspace jumps, and arm yourself well.¡±


    Then there was nothing left to do but fire impellers and pass through another blank gate; straight to whatever awaited him next...  Feeling nothing at all but alone.

 Sword and Sorcery Seven, chapter twenty-eight

    <u>28</u>


    Filimar and Valerian quickly discovered that, when you had a leaping, boisterous griffin cub or a half-wild hawk sister, people left you alone.  Great, diplomatic maneuvers were taking place in a conjured pavilion that rattled and snapped in the wind from the sea.  Prince-Attendant Nalderick, Prince Andorin and Lord Galadin were all in there with Vikran and Aunt Meliara, hammering out the fine details of true, lasting peace.


    ¡­But nobody needed either of <u>them</u>.  The newest Tarandahls were preoccupied with family matters, making ready to leave for Milardin.  Val had a chance to greet Lord Tormun and Lady Faleena.  From a distance, because Sawyer was very excited and tended to bite.  Cute little thing, just... <u>dangerous</u>.


    After that, Val withdrew to a sheltered crag, out of the wind and away from those billows of black, streaming pyre smoke.  There, sitting tailor-fashion, he saw to the injured cub.  Sawyer had lost some plumage on his long neck, and one pointed ear flopped badly, its cartilage torn.


    ¡°Pulled out of your collar again, didn¡¯t you?¡± fussed Valerian, setting the griffin to rights with a healing spell.  There were cuts and scrapes on the cub¡¯s right side, where it had clearly dodged a huge, slashing paw.  A potion and soothing hands quickly mended all <u>that</u>.


    ¡°Came all this way looking for me, I suppose,¡± chided the elf, not really angry.  ¡°Ran straight into trouble and almost got yourself killed.¡±


    Sawyer¡¯s clawed right wing wouldn¡¯t fold properly, over-extended at the wrist joint.  Also part bald.  Val worked in some ointment, humming the Song that Takes Away Pain as he did it.  A swarm of fey lights appeared, landing on Val as well as on Sawyer. A small and swirling gold miracle.


    The griffin gazed up at him the entire time; barbed, scaly tail twitching, clawed forefeet gripping his folded legs.  Bonding.


    ¡°Well, what¡¯s done is done. I thank you for coming to find me, Sawyer, and for striking a blow at my enemy.  You are a very good, brave boy, and I love you.¡±


    Griffins, horses and dogs were easy to talk to; deeply, unswervingly loyal.  Sawyer¡¯s bright golden eyes half-closed as it rested that beaked little head on Valerian¡¯s shoulder, parting his ragged blond hair.  Val reached up and caressed the griffin cub, smoothing its rust-colored feathers with care.


    So, he got a few cuts and scratches, himself¡­  So, the griffin smelt strongly of raw meat, iron and musk¡­  So what, if Reston considered the beasts a plague?  Sawyer had broken free of a warded pen and come all this way to find the person who mattered most; his future rider, Valerian.  What else was important?Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.


    A sleek snowy owl had been perched at the top of the crag, facing into the keening wind.  The bird shifted position and spread its wings whenever a gust threatened to sweep it off of its perch.  Sometimes it soared up into the air and circled the clifftop, but always, the owl returned.


    Now, as Sawyer curled up to rest, the owl glided down.  Landed first on Valerian¡¯s other shoulder (adding more scratches) then hopped off to the stony ground.  There, it turned itself into a dark-haired, scowling ranger.  She was not conventionally beautiful for an elf, with one blue eye and one brown eye, both of them fiercely narrowed.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t know you could shape change,¡± remarked Val, casting a sleep spell on Sawyer.


    ¡°Gift of Frost Maiden,¡± snapped Cinda, adding, ¡°You¡¯re not the only one with a family god, Stupid.¡±


    Valerian laughed.


    ¡°And if I were less of a fool, you¡¯d be out of work, Kala,¡± he joked, using an old name.  A love name.  ¡°Back to Lindyn again, hunting orcs for their bounty.¡±


    She inhaled sharply, not finding him funny, at all.


    ¡°I can <u>leave,</u> Valerian. You have enough guards, plenty of family present, and a <u>griffin</u>¡­ who will most likely drive you into the hills to run wild, eating raw meat like a wolf-rider.¡±


    She had come nearer.  Placed a slim hand on his chest.


    ¡°You don¡¯t need me,¡± she added, her voice almost lost in the wind.


    Val took her hand in both of his own, then lifted it up and kissed it.


    ¡°I needed you very much, today.  You saved Alfea,¡± he said to her, squeezing that calloused and bow-strengthened hand.  ¡°Your mighty shot slew the demon before it could harm her.  You fought to defend my wife, and I cannot thank or reward you enough.¡±  Then, squeezing her hand three final times, he let go.


    Once, there had been love.  Once¡­ but no longer.  He had his wife and a baby.  She had her freedom and pride.  The past was over and done with, but they could never forget. Never quite part.


    Right.  Changing the subject (a thing he was good at) Valerian looked away north, grey eyes gone suddenly bleak.


    ¡°I must travel to Lobum,¡± he said, very quietly.  ¡°Gildyr¡¯s folk deserve to hear of their son¡¯s bold deeds, from me.  He has gone, Cinda.  Salem, as well, farther than I can ken¡­ and I owe him this act of friendship: to meet with his family and thank them.  To tell them what happened to Gildyr, in person.  Will¡­¡±


    He turned his gaze back to the ranger, who¡¯d composed herself once again, looking flinty as ever.


    ¡°Would you come with me?  There is a courtball game down in Karellon, first (I promised the prince that we¡¯d play).  But then, if his highness doesn¡¯t object, I need to go north and speak with the druid¡¯s family.  He was a friend.  Better than I deserved¡­ and I owe him that much, at least.¡±


    Cinda nodded.  Then, smiling a thin little ghost of a smile, she said,


    ¡°I suppose you¡¯ll be wanting to find ¡°Distant Sands Oasis¡±, too, for Salem?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± said Valerian.  ¡°If I can get enough leave time from guard duty.  Lady Shadowclaw crossed the realm to fight at my side.  I can certainly cross it to bring her folk word and to thank them.¡±


    Cinda nodded once more, already forming travel plans.


    ¡°There may be a gate we can use. Otherwise¡­¡±  the ranger shrugged.  ¡°What the bright fires; it¡¯ll be fun¡­¡±


    ¡°¡­Or we¡¯ll die,¡± finished Valerian, laughing. He reached out then to stroke the straying dark hair from her upturned face.  ¡°Just like always.¡±

 Sword and Sorcery Seven, chapter twenty-nine

    <u>29</u>


    Achilles Murchison edged his way down a gangplank over literally nothing but air. He clung to its brass guardrail with one white-knuckled hand, keeping the other free for spells (just in case). Falcon lay¡­ hung¡­ hovered¡­ at dock right behind him, objectively no more stable than the rattling gangplank or creaking high-altitude pier, but a lot more familiar.


    ¡°Physics,¡± he muttered. ¡°Ever heard of it? Anyone? No? Didn¡¯t think so.¡±


    Yeah, so¡­ Big-rank Not-Jonn had already reached the wooden pier. He stood there now; arms folded, waiting for Murchison. (Goals.) Not looking down, ignoring the updrafts that shrilled past from too far below, the wizard finally side-shuffled off <u>one</u> spindly surface and onto the other.


    ¡°What this place needs, is a frickin¡¯ tutorial,¡± he gasped, more to himself than that scowling old sailor.


    ¡°Are y¡¯ going t¡¯ be able t¡¯ <u>walk</u>, Wizard?¡± growled Not-Jonn. ¡°Should I carry you?¡±


    Murchison shook his head <u>no</u>, emphatically.


    ¡°Nuh-uh,¡± he said. ¡°So, you¡¯ve got me, but then who¡¯s got <u>you</u>? How do I know you won¡¯t slip or (by the way, we¡¯re being watched, just saying) that you won¡¯t get into a fight or get drunk and just drop me?¡±


    Not-Jonn snorted.


    ¡°If I dropped you, it¡¯d be over the side, on purpose,¡± he shot back, visibly spinning his faerie pockets. ¡°Keep movin¡¯, Wizard. The less you look down, the better y¡¯ll like it. (Who¡¯s watchin¡¯ us?)¡±


    Murchison spread his awareness, or something like that. Put his mind out of its nice, cozy skull, as wildly unsupported as Falcon. Searching.


    ¡°Umm¡­ three of them, definitely focused this way, or at least pretty keen on the airship.¡±


    Falcon had done its best to reconfigure after coming apart in midair and then taking in some of the junk-storm. Still looked like a sleek and fast little cutter, though.


    ¡°Hunh,¡± grunted Not-Jonn, whose bushy black eyebrows did not match his bristling, iron-grey hair. ¡°I¡¯ll make sure the cap¡¯n knows. Keep a mage eye on ¡®em as long as you can, Wizard. We¡¯ll fetch our supplies and that double-strength water, then hurry straight back. Wonder who¡¯s watchin¡¯, and <u>why</u>?¡±


    Murchison shrugged helplessly, scratching his beard. Those spies could be anyone, he figured. The ¡°feds¡± were actively searching for Arvendahl¡¯s ships¡­ criminal types might be looking to boost a new ride¡­ or that crazy sword could be luring one of its possible wielders. Whatever, it didn¡¯t seem likely to Murchison that the locals had come out to offer them mai-tais and leis.


    ¡°On it,¡± nodded the wizard. He summoned a pair of mage-orbs then sent them off, wobbling and clutching the rail as their dizzying swoop brought on vertigo. <u>Hated</u> looking though extra eyes that way, never seeming to get the hang of mental ¡°split-screen¡±. Needing sustenance, Murchison spelled up another attempt at iced coffee, but it slipped from his grasp and fell over the edge. Wouldn¡¯t have tasted right anyway, he thought sadly, watching cup, ice and nutritious brown fluid drop out of sight. Then, sensing motion, he whispered,


    ¡°Umm¡­ I guess they spotted the mage-orbs. They¡¯re backing off, now. Heading for that tumble-down building, there.¡±


    ¡°Good,¡± said his grizzled companion. ¡°Keep Falcon under surveillance, Wizard. Conn¡¯s aboard with one a them paladins, but there¡¯s no such thing as too safe or too careful in a cesspit like Low-town.¡±


    ¡°Uh-huh. Hey¡­¡± gasped Murchison, as Big Rank turned to stomp off. ¡°Can I ask a question?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± snapped the half-elf, not even turning around.


    ¡°Cool. Thanks! Doing it anyway,¡± said Murchison, side-stepping faster.


    ¡°Y¡¯r a wizard,¡± grumped Not-Jonn, spitting over the rail. ¡°Ain¡¯t never known one of you able t¡¯ keep his mouth shut.¡±


    Murchison nodded, bobbing his head spasmodically.


    ¡°Yeah. Love that. Real cool and all, but, uh¡­ Why ¡°Not-Jonn¡±? I mean, why not ¡°Fred¡± or ¡°Hilbert¡± or ¡°P-Elfie¡±? Calling yourself ¡°Not-Jonn¡± pretty much guarantees that everyone¡¯s gonna think: Oh, he¡¯s <u>definitely</u> Jonn.¡±


    The half-elf paused to glare at him.


    ¡°Cause that <u>ain¡¯t</u> my name, Wizard. When it come time t¡¯ sign up, Cap¡¯n Varric wrote down who I wasn¡¯t, ¡®stead a pressin¡¯ fer stuff I needed t¡¯ leave in the past. I been ¡°Not-Jonn No Name Given¡± fer years now, and I aim t¡¯ stay that way.¡±


    ¡°Cool! Cool, cool, cool,¡± agreed Murchison, needing to talk. To not look down. To most of all get off of that rickety, mile-high lacework of tottering boards. ¡°So, uh¡­ about that double-strength water¡­¡±


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Back at Starloft, not quite meanwhile, Lady Alfea turned to regard the family transport gate. It was of ancient stone-giant origin, attuned to those of the Tarandahl line. Katina could use it, or Zara. Bean, even, if she¡¯d known how¡­ but not Alfea. At least, not like <u>this</u>.


    The transformed Quetzali sighed. Shifted the baby around to a better position for sleep, tucking Pudgy into the crook of her other arm with gentle kisses for both of her warm little burdens. She felt frustrated and maybe a little upset at being packed off like this. Van had meant well, and he didn¡¯t know any better, having been stripped of all memory of Alfea¡¯s battle with Skyland¡­ of her true form and nature. He probably thought that his wife had just hung in the demon¡¯s claws, screaming. That Alfea was utterly helpless.


    Worse, she couldn¡¯t correct that misjudgment. Couldn¡¯t just dart from the family transport chamber and back to the battlefield, either. Not without throwing away Firelord¡¯s boon and her marriage to the handsomest, sweetest, kindest, most lunk-headed <u>idiot</u> boy ever to crash his way into a heart.


    The nursemaid leaned nearer, reaching for Bean. Alfea handed her over, sighing aloud.Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators!


    ¡°You were in love, Katina?¡± she asked, as the cooing redhead took Bean.


    ¡°Yes, Milady,¡± replied Katina, looking up with a smile. ¡°Still am. Back on the Blessed Isles¡­ Well, all that I¡¯ve got t¡¯ do is perform my task <u>here</u>, then go back to Epona. Seems there are ways through time, Milady. Tunnels, like. But I c¡¯n only pick <u>one</u>. That¡¯s the trouble.¡±


    Alfea pursed her lips, considering.


    ¡°What is this task?¡± she inquired (curious and maybe a little alarmed).


    Katina shrugged. Very gently, so as not to wake little Bean.


    ¡°I wasn¡¯t told, Milady. The misty ones said that I¡¯d know when the time came, is all¡­ but it¡¯s nothing evil or mischievous, Lady Alfea, my word on it! Just something that no one but me c¡¯n accomplish, when the time¡¯s right.¡±


    ¡°Hmm¡­¡± Alfea began. Would have tried a small spell of enlightenment, but then Zara, Mirielle and Pretty One came tumbling in through the transport gate, squealing and laughing. With them¡­ less antic¡­ was Elmaris the Rogue.


    Alfea welcomed and sorted the girls; seeming gentle, vapid and sweet, though her mind raced in a hundred directions. Her own experience at the Blessed Isles had been similarly prophetic: ¡°Prepare for battle and loss,¡± the voices had whispered, adding, ¡°War comes, and speedily.¡±


    Very well, let it come, Alfea decided, lifting her chin. There were some things she was prepared to give up. Her place in the heavens, her status¡­ even her true shape and power. Not Van, though. Not her husband or baby¡­ or Pudgy, either (still held in the crook of one arm and licking her face). Elmaris came forward, once she¡¯d got the girls settled down.


    ¡°At your esteemed and eternal service,¡± he said to her, juggling a pair of daggers by their points to keep the little ones happy. ¡°Protection, entertainment, light breaking and entering¡­ whatever the situation demands. Say the word, it is done.¡±


    He was slender and quick, with dark hair, a narrow fox-face and very tall, pointed ears. Elmaris was a close friend of her husband¡¯s brother, and utterly trustworthy in all things concerning Lerendar¡¯s family.


    Alfea smiled back, inclining her head. Playing her part, she said,


    ¡°Thank you, Elmaris. We shall feel so much safer with <u>you</u> here.¡±


    The saucy rogue winked at her.


    ¡°Safety is literally my middle name, Fair One. Elmaris ¡®Safety¡¯ Quick-to-leave-town, that¡¯s your humble, devoted servant.¡±


    Alfea laughed, causing Pudgy to bark and jerk his curled little tail.


    ¡°I have no need of servants, Elmaris,¡± she said, nuzzling her sweet, squash-faced pup. ¡°But I am glad of a friend. <u>Two</u> friends,¡± she amended, turning her smile on Katina (perhaps the best-loved by her husband, of all his female kin).


    ¡°Us, too, Lady Fee!¡± chimed wee Zara, plucking at Alfea¡¯s skirt. ¡°We¡¯re your friends, too, and we hafta protect the empress! That¡¯s Bean! She¡¯s gonna be our best friend and our leader. They said so!¡±


    Alfea stroked the dark curls from Zara¡¯s face.


    ¡°Of course, little sorceress!¡± she smiled. ¡°And no better friends could Bean have! Empress Bean, though¡­¡± Alfea shook her head, smiling. Then, ¡°Come, everyone. Let us go to the upper garden and call for tea. We shall have a party and try to think of a better reigning name for this sleepy young monarch.¡±


    ¡°Ooh!¡± squealed Mirielle, as the group bounced, walked or stalked through the grand archway. ¡°I know! She could be Empress Janielle!¡±


    ¡°Or Empress Bright-Tooth,¡± suggested Pretty One, shyly.


    ¡°Eww! No! Yuck!¡± shouted Zara. ¡°Mine¡¯s better. She¡¯ll be¡­ listen¡­ <u>listen</u>! She¡¯ll be Empress Jelly-Girl!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d prefer Empress Quick-with-her-wits-and-her-blade,¡± cut in Elmaris, patiently herding small girls. (No easy task, when said scamplings could misty-step and hurl magic-missiles.)


    They <u>did</u> reach the high garden in time for tea. It was a grand, sunny afternoon, as Alfea poured out, more names were thought up, and the wind-sprites bore word of her brave, foolish husband.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Back at Seahaven, in a certain opulent, silken pavilion, the great ones had met to agree on a treaty. The matter was touchy, as the fate of two realms hung in the balance. Ocean and land. Averna and Karandun. Sea-elves and First Born.


    ¡­And because neither quite trusted the other. Prince Nalderick spoke for the high-elves, empowered by left-hand protocol to make any promise he deemed necessary. That he had <u>other</u> motives¡­ saving Sheraza among them¡­ was his own business. As far as the rest were concerned, he was here to make certain that powerful life spells prevented Arvendahl¡¯s death. That was important, because the warg-son¡¯s last-magic curse would strike, the instant that Arvendahl fully, completely died.


    Lady Solara was present, along with the Tarandahl high lord, Galadin. Also, Meli-something-or-other, upon whom he¡¯d shoved off Milardin. A cleric of Oberyn, and Ilirian¡¯s heirs rounded out <u>his</u> side.


    Representing the sea-elves was one Andorin Kalistiel, a prince of the untainted blood, blah, blah, blah. He was quite a respectable diplomat, for a short, scrappy fellow with pasty-white skin and gills. Drove a surprisingly hard bargain.


    ¡°We must have your unbreakable vow,¡± insisted the sea-prince, ¡°that never again shall the land rise up to strike at the ocean. There must be blood-oath and life-bond¡­ an exchange of hostages¡­ against anyone else like <u>this</u>,¡± Andorin indicated Arvendahl¡¯s severed head, ¡°gaining power in Karandun.¡±


    Problem, that, because no one could figure out quite how to ensure that it never happened again. They sat at an ornate wood table, Nalderick at one end, Andorin at the other. That the gods were present was obvious. Lord Galadin sparked faintly, speaking in a voice too deep for one elf. Swirls of petals and ice crystals drifted among them, borne on a sea-wind that made all the lanterns sway and the silken pavilion rattle like dice.


    No pressure at all, for one¡¯s very first stab at diplomacy. Nalderick cleared his throat.


    ¡°That seems like a reasonable request,¡± he admitted. ¡°Yet¡­ hostages cannot prevent war, unless you claim one from each noble house in Karandun, while providing¡­¡±


    The prince stopped short when a bit of his armor dropped off. Just a pearl ornament; part of the ¡°dragon in glory¡± emblem that covered his breastplate. Grunting in puzzlement, Nalderick started to reach for the vexatious thing, but it rolled away from him, crossing the table to Andorin¡¯s place.


    The sea-elf extended a partly-webbed hand, into which the pearl quite suddenly¡­ jumped. Next it turned into a girl, becoming Nalderick¡¯s pest of a sister, Genevera. Like himself, she had long, light brown hair and green eyes. Not at all like her startled brother, she didn¡¯t belong here (and surely knew that).


    ¡°Genna!¡± he snapped, clamping a privacy spell on the treaty pavilion. If their father was watching¡­ as he almost certainly <u>was</u>¡­ he¡¯d have maybe caught just a glimpse of Genevera. This mess could yet be sorted. ¡°What are you doing here?!¡±


    ¡°Solving your problem, Dickie. Or did you intend to sit here droning on about rules all day? Everyone knows that the best way to seal treaties is a <u>wedding</u>, dummy!¡±


    She was an absolute brat, but a shape-changing sorceress, too. Dressed in leather armor and armed with a short sword, she¡¯d clearly come here to shake matters up. <u>Wonderful</u>.


    At the other end of the table, Andorin rose to his feet, surprised to find himself holding hands with a young and very determined princess. Genevera turned to face him squarely, straightened her shoulders and said,


    ¡°I think that we¡¯d better get married to seal this treaty forever, don¡¯t you? I have lands of my own. I¡¯m a princess of Karandun and¡­ I¡¯ve never forgotten you. I remember that great big harp, and your spell-singing.¡±


    ¡°Llyroc,¡± said Andorin, starting to smile, his gills slowly shutting again. ¡°A harp of legend, formed of those who first reigned here. I remember as well, Princess. You threw your comb at me. But¡­ surely such a decision is too important to make in haste. Surely you would wish more time to consider. I am¡­ not highly esteemed in Averna.¡±


    But Genevera shook her head, scowling fiercely.


    ¡°I¡¯ve had my whole life to hang onto those memories, Prince. I know what I know, and that I was going to find you again, no matter what. I¡¯m a princess. I¡¯d be married off to some moldy old lord to widen Karandun¡¯s borders. Or, I can make my <u>own</u> decision, right here in front of my brother and everyone else. It¡¯s made. I choose you.¡±


    The pavilion fell silent as elves, gods, clerics and witnesses¡­ even the wind¡­ waited to hear his response. Then, very simply, Andorin pulled Genevera close, drawing his purple cloak across to cover her shoulders, as well.


    ¡°I accept your offer,¡± he said. ¡°I will marry you, Princess of Karandun, though I have little to offer but song and my moldy old blood.¡±


    She stifled a giggle. Ducked her head against Andorin¡¯s shoulder, releasing all of that scraped-up courage and tension at once.


    That¡¯s how the treaty got settled. How peace was ensured between elven realms, for a very long time.

 Sword and Sorcery Seven, chapter thirty

    <u>30</u>


    The air battle had been conclusively won, and that ocean of wreckage and rust lay quiescent now; speared by tall crags, cut in half by a long, shining road.  So much to the good.  On the other hand, manna was critically low.  Dark Cloud could barely remain aloft, much less fight or climb out of danger.  The ship needed time to recharge, as Erron explained.  Preferably, someplace reasonably safe.


    ¡°One of those spires might do,¡± suggested Glass-cat, pointing to the west with her very long crystalline tail.  Marget said nothing at all, still being angry over his teasing.  As for the potential new crew mates, their formation from timber and brass, rigging and glass, was stalled by the general shortage of manna.


    Miche burned to explore in the meantime.  He nodded, saying,


    ¡°Cloud, take us to the nearest crag that seems stable.  We¡¯ll tie up while you refill the manna tanks¡­ and we may get a storm, with all this dust in the air.  Glass-cat and Marget will remain aboard to defend the ship.  I intend to go below and explore that road and its terminus.  If Gottshan docks here at all, we need to know how, and how often.¡±


    Glass-cat bowed acceptance.  Meg uttered a short, surly grunt.  Nameless yipped non-commitally, no doubt thinking of food.  Firelord had expended more power than was safe for such a small, barely worshipped god.  He moved a bit now in his follower¡¯s heart, as¡­


    ¡®Aye, Captain,¡¯ responded the <u>Cloud</u>, inching westward, slow as the sun. ¡®Eight candle-marks should suffice to recharge the tanks, so long as we do not come under renewed attack.  Five candle-marks, if there is a powerful storm.¡¯


    ¡°Understood,¡± Miche replied, placing a hand on the nearest wood surface; part of the sloping dark wind-cabin.  After all, it was not such a bad place to be spending eternity, he reflected.  Up in the wind and the sunshine, his past stripped completely away, waking whenever the ship needed crew.  He could do worse.


    The elf turned away after a moment, to find his path blocked by Marget.  She looked like a mountain of glowering orc-flesh and armor, clearly wanting to talk.  Miche levitated slightly, bringing himself to her eye-level.  There was something clutched in her ¡®normal¡¯ right hand, he saw.


    Once she was sure that she had his attention, the orc extended her hand and opened its fingers.  Glancing down, Miche saw three lumps of gold, a strip of dried meat and a carved wooden battle-lizard.  Offerings.


    ¡°For the god who has honored you,¡± she rumbled.  ¡°He helped to keep me from death, Vrol.  I am grateful.  I would give thanks and do worship.¡±


    He nodded, feeling Firelord stir.  Next extended a hand to cover her gifts.  Divine flames poured forth moments later, devouring all that she¡¯d offered without harming Meg. Left a small mark on her big green palm, though, shaped like a wisp of fire.


    ¡°Thank you,¡± said Miche, as Firelord strengthened and grew.  ¡°He returns blessings and courage.¡±


    Marget smiled, showing a great many teeth.  Placing her construct-hand on the elf¡¯s shoulder, she clasped him briefly, then let go once again.


    ¡°I spoke without thinking, before,¡± she said, ¡°to one who has proven himself many times in the fight.  Forget those words, Brother.  They were ill-said and hasty.¡±


    Miche smiled back, relieved; still surprised by how very much their friendship mattered.


    ¡°What words?¡± he scoffed, adding, ¡°My sister speaks with her axe-blade and sword.  Everyone listens to those.¡±


    Meg touched her forehead to his for an instant, just¡­ being close, giving and taking forgiveness.  She stepped away then, having the deck-watch following <u>his</u>.


    ¡°Explore,¡± she advised, ¡°but with caution.  A wise male seeks out the enemy but withholds his strike until females arrive.¡±


    Among orcs, maybe.  Male <u>elves</u> were larger than females, generally¡­ except for the sea-tribes, who were all (he thought) the same size.  But,


    ¡°Just looking,¡± he promised.  ¡°A quick scouting trip to search for evidence of recent activity.  What could¡­¡±Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.


    ¡°If you say: go wrong,¡± snarled Marget, shoving him, ¡°I will reach down your throat and jerk out your lungs, Old One!¡±


    He almost grinned at that, only Meg took herself quite seriously, and would have been deeply offended.


    ¡°You are welcome to try,¡± he said to her.  ¡°<u>After</u> my scouting trip.  In the meantime, defend the ship and keep a weather-eye on those three new crewmates.  Not sure what we¡¯re going to get, except that they like to fight, and have clawed their way free of the Cloud.¡±


    Marget nodded.


    ¡°I will stand watch over all,¡± she promised him.  ¡°May your god keep you from harm and foolishness, Vrol.¡±


    A tall order in a place like this, even for Firelord.  Moments later, armored and ready, Miche set off to explore.  He levitated clear of the deck, rising far into that rust-clotted air.  Set up a light shield spell to block the worst of the hot, gritty wind, as Dark Cloud shrank to a spinning raisin beneath him.


    Unconsciously searching for cooler, fresh air, he rose till the black ship was no more than a slow-moving blotch, its shadow a flickering speck.  Wind-swept red dust curled and streamed far below him, looking like trickling paint.  To the west gleamed an endless wall of flickering light, just like the one that he¡¯d driven back earlier.  This one crept eastward, erasing whatever it touched in a shower of sparks.  Problem for later, though, because <u>there</u>, seen from miles in the sky, was Gottshan.  It <u>had</u> to be.


    Wind-sprites materialized to sit on his shoulders and tug at his whipping blond hair, but the elf hardly noticed, so hard was he staring.  ¡®The City that Walks¡¯ was a massive sphere, enormous even from this lofty vantage point.  Partly transparent, with internal buildings and infrastructure that somehow stayed level, Gottshan rumbled away from that oncoming light-wall.  Nor was it limited only to rolling.


    Once, upon reaching some kind of gap or obstruction, a set of eight sprawling legs shot forth to lift that monstrosity clear of the road.  It heaved itself over the blockage, scuttling crabwise, producing the noise that a campfire makes when burning green wood.


    Nameless barked something unkind.  Firelord wanted to go across for a closer look, but hadn¡¯t the strength to leave, even after Meg¡¯s act of worship.  Next Erron spoke up, taking over just a little.


    ¡°It doesn¡¯t move very fast," mused the elf-lord. "Estimate no more than five miles a candle-mark, at what must be¡­ oh¡­ say a hundred, hundred-and-ten miles away.  There is time to scout the docking well.¡±


    Good enough, and that¡¯s what they did; dropping back down from clean, chilly skies to the grainy morass down below.  Miche managed to slant their descent, heading for that big, bowl-shaped cavity.  It had looked smooth, up above.  Closer in, the dock was cluttered with hatches, bent ladders and fallen junk. As badly corroded as everything else in that terrible place.


    ¡°I may have said this before, but I hate it here,¡± he told whoever might care and was listening.  ¡°Especially hate that it¡¯s probably <u>my</u> fault.  Most likely something I did.¡±


    Which¡­ Right.  Solved nothing at all.  Nameless dug in four sets of very sharp claws as Miche swooped downward, somehow getting through armor-seams, leather and cloth.


    ¡°Keep scratching me, and I¡¯ll make a game of dropping and catching you all the way down, Stench-rat,¡± threatened the elf, not really meaning it.  He succeeded in flying a bit, altering part of the spell to enable a glide.  Lost his wind-sprite passengers, too.  <u>That</u> was something.


    Next paused for a while to hover at mid-cavity, taking a good, long look around.  It was a crater, nearly as big as the one he¡¯d expected to find a city in, so long before; the one where he¡¯d faced goblinoids and a murderous giant of steel.  But there were no fallen stone trees here, and (so far) no sign of danger.


    The wind had dropped, blocked by the well¡¯s sloping sides. The only noises he heard were falling rubbish and Nameless, skittering from side to side on his shoulders, peering around. A cautious, full-turn visual scan netted him three possible entry points, a hatch and two narrow vents, along with a row of deep pits that might have fit Gottshan¡¯s huge legs.  Those were wide open but plunged into blustery darkness; jetting short bursts of air that stank like a furnace.  Miche turned from the docking pits to that rusted and dented hatch.  It was located about a quarter way down the docking well¡¯s southern rim.  Torn half open, the portal was crumpled into a sneer.  Safe¡­ ¡°-er¡±, ¡°-ish¡±, ¡°-esque¡±.  Enough for Miche, anyhow.


    ¡°That one,¡± he decided aloud.  ¡°Just a quick look around.  In, out and then back to the ship, before Gottshan turns up (most likely looking for bones to grind into bread).¡±


    For some reason, this failed to reassure his skeptical marten and small, huddled god.


    ¡°That was a joke,¡± he explained.  ¡°I¡¯m sure that it draws manna, rather than eating its visitors.¡±


    Manna collected by that ragged line of bent spires.  They were power masts, he realized, much like the ones on Dark Cloud.  Nodding, Miche dropped lower, managing to swing himself south using a flickery ley-line.  Wasn¡¯t <u>sure</u> that it came from the nearest spire¡­ but he was probably right.


    Anyhow, he got them all to that crumpled hatch, which was a lot bigger than it had looked from afar.  About five times his height, and four-elves-with-their-arms-spread across, it opened on rust- and dust- spangled shadow.


    ¡°What did I say?  All quiet and perfectly canny.  Clear invitation to enter,¡± said the elf, raising echoes and whispers from far inside.


    He settled lightly down onto the hatch¡¯s bent rim.  It had been scraped down from above, he saw, folding the metal like parchment.  There were¡­ not claw marks, exactly¡­ deep and precisely spaced grooves creasing the hatch-rim. Five of them. Something had wanted in very badly.  Quite a long time ago, to judge from the rust and debris caught up in those widely placed divots.


    ¡°Hmm¡­ we¡¯ll go fifty feet, or as far as the light reaches.  If I have to spark up a mage-glow, we¡¯ll leave,¡± the elf whispered.  Then, hopping down from the twisted steel rim, Miche dropped onto the floor, inside.

 Sword and Sorcery Seven, chapter thirty-one

    <u>31</u>


    He entered Etherion¡¯s coordinates, then crossed through that shimmering Mark VII portal. That was his last quiet moment, because Pilot¡¯s action triggered immediate response, and lots of it. First, the industrial gate behind him exploded, converted in Mili-ticks to searing red light and expanding gas. Second, V47 Pilot felt himself combed through by a defense system aggressively searching for Draugr.


    ¡­A system that did not pick him up as alien, or even as quite alive. Just an intrusive, unsummoned asset. Had he been Draug, it would have vaporized him. As an elven pilot spoofing a simple errand, he made it on through. (Had to conceal all but his basic data and point of origin, though.) As for his cargo¡­ ¡°relics¡± suggested itself, thanks to the junk he¡¯d been given in place of his energy-blade. And double-wrecked if it didn¡¯t work.


    Then he was out the other side, barely clearing the second gate before it erupted in V47¡¯s thundering wake. Sensible. In the event of invasion, only one enemy unit would have made it through to Etherion, and <u>one</u> they could easily deal with.


    Light flared, causing his optics to darken reflexively. Ionized gases and molten slag hurtled past, striking his shields, draining power and manna like ale from a broken flask. There would be no retreat and no reinforcement. But he was too busy to dwell on that, because his arrival had triggered a violent drek-storm of passive defenses. Almost a solid wall of antimatter-tipped mines went suddenly live, filling his cockpit and skull with screeching alarms. Two nearly struck him; microns close to ending a very short life.


    The Titan was meant to take and hold planets, though. It was shielded like nothing else in the Two Hundred Worlds¡­ and ¡°microns close¡± didn¡¯t cut it. Not when he had to get through, find the masters, and make some kind of a bargain.


    There was a wandering planet there somewhere, behind that curtain of glittering death. Reaching it, though¡­ <u>that</u> was the problem, and his day just kept getting better.


    ¡®Pilot,¡¯ sent V47. ¡®There are orbital turrets amid the mines. They have locked onto our signal. Querying Pilot: Response?¡¯


    Right. He saw them now, too. Shifted his scans to filter out large, rotating constructs. The size of small moons and armed with plasma cannons, those turrets surrounded Etherion, forming another line of defense. Focused for 25,370 years on open space, they now turned their aim upon V47.


    ¡°I see them, Vee. Shield. Not us, <u>them</u>. Draw power from the mine-wall, then divert it to wrapping those turrets up in a force field.¡±


    ¡®Command received. Command enacted,¡¯ sent V47.


    The antimatter charges were seething with tiny explosions, as random particles struck them and annihilated. The eruptions were relatively feeble, but easy to harvest, if you cast a wide enough net. And scraped together, that was a <u>drek</u>-load of power. All of it went into V47, then outward, creating an army of force bubbles that clamped onto the nearest eight-hundred turrets. Bottled them up.


    The turrets fired, anyhow, not having a choice. Blew themselves up in a light show like eight-hundred suns all dawning at once. V47 reaped <u>that</u> power, too. Then,


    There may be a handshake or password contained in the data packet, Pilot. I have halted all research regarding the packet, as commanded. I cannot look for a password.¡¯


    ¡°Good idea, Vee. I¡¯ll do a search. You keep the ball in the air with our neighbors.¡±


    Important, because mines were still flaring, and a hundred more turrets had appeared from behind the planet¡¯s curved limb. <u>Vital</u>, because he had only five days to make something happen. Five days to save assets and Draugr, both.


    V47 got right to work, vacuuming power, firing mine-killers, shielding the mech against blast after world-shaking blast. In the meantime, Pilot went hunting. Not for coordinates to Etherion, this time. Not for the Two Hundred Worlds¡¯ awful history, either. Plunged further, sorting the terms of agreement beneath, until¡­


    ¡°There it is! Twelve million lines in: <u>Ever Humanity</u>.¡±


    He didn¡¯t have to tell V47 to broadcast the password. The AI plastered those words onto their flight-ID, chassis and even the purple Behuggler decal. Projected them outward in glowing, thousand-foot sigils, too. <u>Ever Humanity</u> shone like a star, lighting the planet below.


    ¡­And, just like that, Etherion¡¯s remaining defenses shut down. Nice. He might¡¯ve thought of it himself, but fighting had felt good, and maybe he¡¯d needed that battle.


    Releasing a long, shaky breath, Pilot looked around for the first time at deep space, seeing a distant smear of red, dying suns. At a lone and wandering planet, the last home of his human masters. The world didn¡¯t rotate. Just hung in perpetual twilight, rocky and barren, where it wasn¡¯t covered in silent machines. There were three clusters of radiant heat and power arranged in a triangle, their focal point a small city.


    As for manna, this far from an active star, it was sparser than air; less accessible than it would have been under a planet¡¯s magnetic field. That wasn¡¯t good. And neither was anything else.


    ¡®Pilot,¡¯ sent V47. ¡®Etherion.net has opened a flight path to the city below, beside a structure marked ¡°reliquary¡±. Querying Pilot: descend to Etherion? Y/N?¡¯


    ¡°That¡¯s why we came here, Vee,¡± he responded, nodding the battle-mech¡¯s head instead of his own. ¡°That, and to straighten things out.¡±


    <u>Make the right decision</u>, the shop gnome had told him. About what, though¡­ How exactly he was intended to solve this mess, Pilot had no way to parse. No answers at all¡­ because none of his show-vids or algorithms seemed to fit.


    ¡°Tell them we¡¯ve got some relics to give them, and bring us on down,¡± he said, hoping for better-than-usual luck.


    ¡®Command received. Command accepted. Beginning descent, Pilot,¡¯ replied the AI. Then, ¡®Renewed dosage of calming hormone is required to maintain the current emotional balance, Pilot. Further dosage may reduce efficiency, however, resulting in headache, nausea, vomiting and depression.¡¯


    ¡°Right. Let¡¯s skip all that,¡± he responded, with a slight, weary smile. ¡°I can manage, I think.¡±


    ¡®Skipping dosage. Querying Pilot: shall I keep talking? A well-known voice may also provide welcome emotional stability.¡¯


    Which was true.


    ¡°Yes, if you please, Vee. No show-vids, just¡­ scan as much of Etherion as possible, and report any findings of interest.¡±


    That turned out to be quite a lot, though not what he¡¯d expected. They descended to the planet¡¯s dun-colored surface, passing their luminous codeword and twin rows of blinking, armed buoys. Each of those floating markers pinged their ID code, scanning repeatedly.


    ¡°Suspicious bunch,¡± remarked Pilot. ¡°You¡¯d think they had something to hide.¡±Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.


    ¡®There is no life here,¡¯ said V47. ¡®Deep scans reveal only mechanized, electronic activity. Most of it seems to be centered around the reliquary.¡¯


    ¡°None? No living masters, at all?¡±


    ¡®Not that I am able to detect, Pilot. 227 peta-mards of geothermal and nuclear power are being produced, but there is no sign of photosynthetic activity or of large biota. The oceans are below ground and cleansed of life.¡¯


    <u>Hunh</u>. Nobody down there at all. Etherion was as sterile as TTN-iA¡¯s shell had been, unless¡­


    ¡°What about possible dispersal, Vee? To moons or a fleet, with the masters in stasis?¡±


    ¡®Adjusting scan for stasis pods. Scanning. Negative, Pilot. There is no trace of stored human bodies.¡¯


    Which¡­ right. Very strange. He suggested thirty-six <u>other</u> possibilities in the time that it took them to reach the heavily shielded landing pad. Not one was correct in the slightest.


    The Titan landed with a thundering boom, sending a shockwave through an otherwise silent, dark city. Not an entirely still one, though.


    ¡°The <u>Draug</u> didn¡¯t aim that many guns at us, Vee,¡± Pilot complained, looking around at a host of swiveling weapons, all of them pointed at him.


    ¡®It is possible that we are not trusted,¡¯ sent V47. ¡®Perhaps the password should have been broadcast <u>before</u> the start of hostilities, Pilot?¡¯


    ¡°Thanks,¡± he replied, as probes and contact plates withdrew, leaving him free to stand up. ¡°I¡¯ll remember that, next time.¡±


    Pilot¡¯s awareness shifted, returning to his small, frail (and yes, slightly nauseous) organic body. Meanwhile, the reliquary went from a brittle shell that he could have crushed with his boot, to a tall and imposing stone building.


    The pilot rose from his padded seat and considered a moment. Then,


    ¡°Vee, what if I eject your cartridge and bring it in with me? You can operate the Titan remotely, can¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡®Affirmative, provided the distance does not exceed 10,000 feet, and there is no electronic jamming or excessive rock.¡¯


    The AI¡¯s cartridge had already slid partway free of the main console. V47 Pilot seized its handle and pulled it out of its slot, just in case. After that, with V47 tucked into a fey pocket, he donned his helmet and opened the Titan¡¯s canopy.


    Patted its rim as he ventured forth, making a few quick adjustments to the battle-mech¡¯s defenses. Left some ¡°fun new surprises", as Ace would have put it¡­ and thinking of that made his stomach clench.


    All of his short, broken life he¡¯d been fed on bold nonsense and comforting lies. Given heroes to worship who¡¯d never existed at all. But they somehow still mattered. Ace, Boomer, Deathknell, Ravn, Icebox, N00b¡­ real enough, and all the family he had besides V47 and Foryu. Needing to act, Pilot shook off emotion as well as he could without chemical aid. Time was short, and every tick mattered.


    Light, jazzy music started up in his head, courtesy of V47. Helped a little. Nodding, he got himself back together, then launched his three drones. They swooped off into the air, rocking him slightly with the force of their take-offs. At once, his visual feed split to include the drone¡¯s imagery. Felt safer that way and better informed.


    As he floated down to the pour-stone landing pad, V47 Pilot took in a fast, street-level view of the reliquary and its surroundings, to a ten-mile radius. Air samples, radiation levels, bio-contaminant and chemical hazards¡­ all scanned, measured and noted. Just numbers, but numbers were everything; a defense and a rampart, like code.


    The landing pad was brilliantly floodlit, casting multiple battle-mech shadows and drowning out their thousand-foot password. V47 Pilot landed with a slight scrape of rubber boot soles on pour-stone grit.


    He wasn¡¯t a cyborg, any longer. Not quite. But V47 had augmented the daylights out of him, lacing biota with circuits and power cells. Shielding mere flesh with flexible, mithral-hard armor. Turning a lump of soft meat into a powerful warrior.


    Good thing, too, because he had no sooner touched down beside the Titan¡¯s enormous right foot, than something emerged from the reliquary. Not a master or cyborg. A robot.


    As V47 Pilot looked on (cycling his fey pockets to bring the nastiest weapons up front) the robot trundled out through a door and across the landing pad. It altered configuration as it came on, ending up as a tall and spindly thing with eight radial arms and a nearly featureless oval head. Its face sported two rectangular glowing blue eyes, while each jointed arm ended in razors that crackled, glittered or hissed. Maybe the thing was a worker. Maybe a last-ditch defense.


    ¡°This unit, hereafter referred to as ¡®I¡¯, serves as chief archivist,¡± said the robot. It spoke aloud and in real time, as V47 Pilot was still out of the network. Its voice came from a whirring fan, the pitch altered by changing the blade speed. A very old model. Reaching forth with one of its arms, the robot continued, demanding, ¡°You claim to bring relics of ancient history, Asset?¡±


    ¡°I do,¡± he replied, swinging that moldy, botched junk front and center. Within scan range, but out of the robot¡¯s physical reach. ¡°These are¡­ very old and important artifacts from an earlier age.¡±


    Rubbish dumped into my fey pockets by a thief, he did not say aloud. Just embroidered a bit, adding,


    ¡°I was instructed by OVR-Lord that these finds must be brought to the masters, themselves.¡±


    Not a robot, or any other drek-underling, he resolved, as emotion began to seep back.


    ¡°A moment, Asset. I must consult,¡± said the robot. Its cobalt-blue eyes flashed at the end of each sentence, Pilot noticed. Also, every one of its many weapons were pointed at <u>him</u>. Overhead, a trio of satellites gathered. He felt them scan and attempt to lock on but reached in and hacked their outdated systems. Shifted their focus and aim to the nearest large power station, instead.


    Go ahead and shoot, he thought. I¡¯m not the one who¡¯ll get hit. Lightly rejiggered the local armaments, too, directing their aim to that spindly robot. Neat trick, that, which maybe he¡¯d learned from Rogue Flight. The robot¡¯s eyes flashed as it started speaking again.


    ¡°The likelihood of deception is deemed very high, Asset. OVR-Lord is an unknown system. The masters see no one, ever. Yet, the relics you bring are verifiably ancient and worthy of inclusion in the reliquary. You may enter. You shall deliver your cargo and then be destroyed, Asset, after a five-tick upload of pleasure.¡±


    Five whole ticks, huh? Tough to turn down, but V47 Pilot decided was going to have to leave that generous offer on the table. Didn¡¯t say so aloud, though. Just inclined his head and¡­ well¡­ lied again.


    ¡°As you say,¡± he replied, while promising nothing at all.


    The robot¡¯s eyes flashed assent. Its head swiveled smoothly then, turning to face directly into the reliquary¡¯s broad, arched opening. Next, it started to move, leading V47 Pilot into the building. The pilot left two drones outside to keep watch, recalling the third to hover just over his head.


    The first floor was one large, dimly lit chamber, barren of life or motion, except for the robot and pilot. It was filled with artifacts, many quite fascinating. There were ancient weapons, bits of armor and cloth, and a withered corpse on display, along with pieces of timber and a single, very old seed.


    An odd collection and he passed it in silence, hearing only the buzz of his drone and the robot¡¯s whispering treads. After fifty-five ticks they came to a broad dais; brilliantly lit, 5.37 feet high and topped with a six-foot steel podium. On top of <u>that</u> was a dark metal sphere. The size of¡­ the term ¡°court-ball¡± came to his mind¡­ it seethed with energy, drawing power from every source on the planet.


    ¡°Behold the masters,¡± said his robot guide, coasting to a stop in front of the dais. ¡°Here they abide in virtual bliss. As must be clear even to <u>you</u>, our masters cannot emerge, for they have abandoned physical bodies. They are very well shielded, Asset. No attack will succeed in harming them, should that be your intent in coming here.¡±


    V47 Pilot stared for a nano-tick, filled with too much emotion to process.


    ¡°They¡­ have withdrawn to some kind of dream world?¡± he asked, as his drones took scan after scan. ¡°They left us behind to defend them, then shrank away into <u>that</u>?¡±


    ¡°Correct in its essence, Asset, if highly disrespectful. The masters have done as it suited them to. What purpose do any of <u>us</u> have, except to serve and protect them?¡±


    But V47 Pilot shook his head.


    ¡°I did not really come to bring you these relics,¡± he admitted. ¡°I came to deliver a message¡­ but it must be heard by the masters, themselves. Only <u>they</u> can rescind the commands that they put into place. War comes to Etherion, Archivist. The Draugr have given me five days to cease all hyperspace jumps. If not, they will find this place and destroy it. The masters¡¯ dreaming and safety will end.¡±


    The robot¡¯s blue eyes flared. Consulting again, Pilot thought. Then,


    ¡°There is a fail-safe, Asset. If the masters are informed of the danger, they will transfer their data to a backup system, but I am unable to contact them with this warning. Commands were left forbidding disturbance by the archivist. But you are not in the system, Asset. You are not bound by the masters¡¯ command. Through willful misreading of code, I can send you inside to alert them.¡±


    V47 Pilot hesitated. Then,


    ¡°What will happen if they are not told of the danger?¡± he asked, weighing options, emotions and promises.


    ¡°Then, as you have inferred, their virtual world ends in nuclear fire, and all is erased. Another world will arise, Asset. Chaos never survives its own victory. The choice is yours. Go in to warn them, or accept a five-tick pleasure burst, followed by death.¡±


    Alert the masters and allow their escape¡­ Or stand back and let them be caught by the oncoming Draugr. <u>That</u> was the question, with billions of asset lives crushed in the gears, no matter what he decided.


    ¡­And, writers of code, why <u>him</u>? Why was this choice, this burden, laid upon one wretched asset?

 Sword and Sorcery Seven, chapter thirty-two

    <u>32</u>


    That the Flying Cloud vanished (summoning a squall and then gliding away in the downpour) surprised no one.  They were fabulously wealthy now, although what a glass pirate and a half-blood drow wanted with twelve-million platinum was anyone¡¯s guess.


    ¡°Buy your own floating island and castle with money like that,¡± remarked Val, to Filimar.  They had broken away from all the tedium and diplomacy.  Sat on the cliff¡¯s edge looking out at the sea, now, drinking and speculating.


    ¡°Aye, that,¡± agreed Filimar, accepting the flask and taking a swig, then handing it back again.  ¡°Pity we didn¡¯t turn in the warg-son¡¯s head, ourselves.  There¡¯d be some unpleasantness with the council, of course, but imagine the wealth!¡±


    Valerian snorted, nearly expelling his mead.


    ¡°Bad form, Filno,¡± he laughed.  ¡°Yes, you¡¯d be set for life¡­ but think of the looks you¡¯d get at cotillions and garden parties.¡±


    Filimar ginned at him, accepting the leather flask in his turn.  Just honey wine¡­ they sat at the edge of a cliff with a griffin, after all¡­ but potent enough to ease hearts and bring cheer.


    ¡°No, but seriously, Valno!  I could remove the quarter-unicorn from the family crest. (Never liked that haunch, anyhow.)  Replace it with an image of that rotter¡¯s head hung by its hair, a sapphire for the one eye.  It could work, and what a conversation piece!¡±


    At which they both fell to laughing, for that head was in sea-elven hands and its reward fully claimed.  On the other hand, they were both still alive, slightly giddy and full of plans for the future.


    ¡°So¡­. Back to Karellon, then?¡± asked Filimar, as Sawyer crunched up a dead goat, behind them.


    Valerian nodded.


    ¡°You¡¯re coming aboard the ship?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Of course,¡± said Filno, sounding injured.  ¡°Wherever you go, there am I.  Besides, there¡¯s the ball game to play¡­ not sure that you¡¯re any good¡­ and His Highness needs all the help he can get.  The Raptors are legendary.¡±


    Not above cheating, either, if they were the ones who¡¯d petrified half of Nalderick¡¯s team.  Val took another long drink, gazing out at the sparkling ocean, turning his face to the wind.


    ¡°I wish¡­¡± he began, then trailed off for a bit.  Filimar waited patiently, letting the northerner sort things out.  ¡°I wish that the seven years were already done, our time in the guards spent, and both of us able to just go home.  There is a nice spot up at Land¡¯s End for a manor house and estate.  I could muck about breeding griffins, hunting, and mattering only to Fee and the baby.¡±


    Filimar laughed.


    ¡°And to me,¡± he protested.  ¡°I would visit your place with alarming frequency. ¡®There he is back again,¡¯ you would say, as your wife orders another plate to be set at the table!¡±  Then, changing the subject, ¡°So¡­ your bodyguard, Cinda.  You two are¡­?¡±


    Filimar raised a dark eyebrow, pointing from Val to a certain white owl that lurked on a nearby crag.


    ¡°<u>No</u>,¡± laughed Valerian.  ¡°At least, not anymore.  I would have made things formal, but she is too wild and too proud.  Would accept no arm-ring from <u>me</u>.¡±


    Filimar smiled, rubbing his hands together.


    ¡°So¡­ if I were to have a go, fascinate the lass with my smooth and city-bred charm¡­¡±


    ¡°You are welcome to try, but she is not the sort to accept wedded bonds,¡± warned Valerian.


    ¡°Perfect, as half the time I forget that I <u>have</u> an official female¡­ and Neira probably hates me, now,¡± said Filimar, sadly.


    Sawyer snapped a long bone in half, behind the two elves, squawking hunger and happiness.  If they¡¯d stayed there forever, doing nothing but hunting, lounging and bow-fishing, the griffin cub would have been perfectly happy.


    ¡­And Cinda was glaring with big, round yellow eyes, having no doubt heard the entire conversation.  Very wisely, Val changed the subject again, saying,Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.


    ¡°Yes, Karellon.  We shall have to stay at the honor guard barracks for the first year, but after that we can rent a place in town.  Our stipends won¡¯t cover a palace¡­¡±


    ¡°Twelve-million platinum,¡± sighed Filimar, shaking his head.


    ¡°¡­But I expect that we¡¯ll do all right, especially if the courtball season goes well.¡±


    ¡°Oh, it will!¡± boasted Filimar, cheerful once more.  ¡°I am a true menace in the arena, Valno.  Good enough to cover for <u>you</u>, as you learn to play ball.¡±


    Valerian nodded, already missing home, his wife and their baby.  Having been kidnapped, escaped, met Filno (again), fled to Averna and helped put an end to Lord Arvendahl, losing two friends in the process.


    ¡°I will be heading to Lobum, after the game,¡± he said.  ¡°I have respects to pay to the family of Gildyr.¡±


    ¡°The druid?¡± asked Filimar, cocking his head to one side, sending raven hair sliding into his face.  ¡°You were close?¡±


    Val looked away.  Whispered,


    ¡°I was an idiot, and he was a friend.  Not close, no¡­ because my arrogance wouldn¡¯t allow it.  But I intend to find his people and tell them what happened, Filno.  Offer my thanks and apologies.¡±


    Filimar grimaced.


    ¡°You could just send a card,¡± he suggested.  Then, more hurriedly, ¡°No, I¡¯m coming along, Valno!  It¡¯s just that my mum has relatives there, and it is always so <u>awkward</u>¡­ sitting on tree stumps, eating acorn bread and squirrel stew with vegetables in.  <u>Vegetables</u>, Valno!  As though one has to stretch out the meat with <u>fodder</u>!  Listening to Uncle Kalen play the drum and pretending to like it!¡±  Filimar shuddered.  ¡°And they live in <u>trees</u>!¡±


    ¡°I expect that trees are better than barracks,¡± said Valerian, honestly.  ¡°And I doubt that they¡¯ll want me to stay very long.¡±


    His dealings with wood-elves had been few and uncomfortable¡­ other than Filimar¡¯s mother, of course.  In a manner of speaking, he was a back-door prince.  Raised mostly by servants, but full of himself and his bloodline.  Too proud to accept Gildyr¡¯s friendship.  Anyhow...


    ¡°Less than a week, I¡¯d imagine,¡± he said.  ¡°And then back to my own life and doings, Gildyr and Salem long gone.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll be there,¡± said Filimar, punching his heart-brother¡¯s shoulder.  ¡°You needn¡¯t face trouble alone, and¡­ Uncle Kalen really is rather talented.  Not for civilized company, of course¡­ but he¡¯s always been fond of me, and now there is Anneka to tell him about.  Just don¡¯t go too near the crater¡¯s east rim.  There is something heavily warded there, and I nearly got killed on a dare, once.¡±


    Then,


    ¡°Valerian!  Miche!  Where are you, Short Stuff?!¡± Lerendar bellowed from somewhere over the ridge.  ¡°It¡¯s nearly wedding time, and we need more raiders!¡±


    Val drained and pocketed the flask, then got to his feet, offering Filimar a hand up.


    ¡°Here!¡± he called back, as big, golden Lerendar topped the ridge.  His brother loped over to join them, bright hair and red cloak billowing in the brisk sea-wind


    ¡°You¡¯ll need to be better dressed than <u>that</u>,¡± said Lerendar, shaking his head at their informal tunics and breeches.  ¡°My best friend is getting married¡­ there will be trouble from Averna, rely on it¡­ and you¡¯re not going to participate looking like you¡¯ve just been hauled backward through a gorse bush!¡±


    Well, he did have some formal wear (mum insisted) but he¡¯d always felt rather silly in it, and a windy cliff was no place to get dressed.  Not with an enthusiastic griffin on hand to snap at fluttering cloth and bright jewels.


    ¡°I can get Bronn to mind Chicken-legs,¡± said Lerendar, distracting the griffin cub with dancing lights and illusory goats.  ¡°She doesn¡¯t like big, busy gatherings.¡±


    For that matter, neither did <u>they</u>.  Well, Filimar, possibly.


    ¡°You¡¯re sure I don¡¯t look like a fool?¡± fretted Valerian later, uncomfortable in brocaded cloth and stiff collar.


    ¡°No more than usual, Shorty,¡± joked Lerendar, mussing Val¡¯s silver-blond hair with a big, rough hand.  ¡°Besides, no one is going to be looking at you, except¡­ What happened to your hair, Miche?  You look like the griffin¡¯s been at it!¡±


    Valerian and Filimar exchanged glances, fighting not to laugh outright.


    ¡°Erm¡­¡± began Val.  ¡°I owed him money, you see, and¡­¡±


    ¡°He <u>stole</u> from me, rather,¡± Filno put in.  ¡°To overpay some ridiculous wandering priest!¡±


    ¡®Aunt Meliara¡¯s paladin,¡¯ signed Val, adding aloud,


    ¡°We were going to fight over it, but then Filno settled for ten cuts to my hair, to repay the ten coins.¡±


    Lerendar snorted.


    ¡°Chicken-legs would have done a better job, at that.  Keep your cloak hood up, or wear your circlet, I guess.¡±  Then, looking back over the ridge, ¡°Come, before Andorin changes his mind and dives into the ocean.  He¡¯s nervous, and I need to be there.¡±


    Lerendar planted a hand on both elves¡¯ shoulders, as his ranger friend Bronn seemed to flow out of a nearby crag; visible, because she¡¯d decided to be.  Grey-skinned and golden-eyed, with long dark hair and a scarred face, Bronn was an unseelie elf from the fey wild; quiet and shy.  Good with animals, though, and willing to watch over Sawyer.  The cub was flat on his back, now; wings spread, and belly distended, wriggling happily, covered in goat¡¯s blood.


    ¡°Go,¡± she told Lerendar, smiling.  ¡°I will care for the little one.¡±


    So, as large elven weddings went, this one was quick and fairly peaceful.  Few real fights, not much drunkenness, and no one had kidnapped the bride.  They made do with <u>pretending</u>, instead.  Andorin, Tormun, Lerendar, Filno and Val led a ¡°raid¡± on Genevera¡¯s tent, doing ritual battle with Prince Nalderick, his sorceress and ship-captain to steal the young princess and bear her off.


    The raid turned into a good-natured scrum, but the groom¡¯s men succeeded in whisking Genevera across to Andorin¡¯s side of the camp, where Vikran the cleric married them.  The drink flowed freely afterward, as bruises were nursed, and bold deeds recounted.  As a treaty of sigil and word was locked in through physical union, and even the gods offered gifts.  That rushed, reckless wedding was a moment of happiness, long cherished in everyone¡¯s mind through darkness and chaos and war.

 Sword and Sorcery Seven, chapter thirty-three

    <u>33</u>


    <u>Epic the First</u>, summarized; stripped of its music, its poetry, and all of the greater invocations. ("Zirenias, bring me the voice to... etc.") Pared down, it went something like this:


    At the start of all things, there had been only one God. Great and powerful, encompassing all, because all was They. Absolute ruler of Locus 1210A? and all of its myriad planes. For a time that existed inside the God¡¯s mind, that was all, and all was enough.


    But that time was self-referential. Meaningless, with nothing outside to be measured against¡­ and even a God should not be completely alone. A complex situation, because that one God was perfect, allowing no possible change for many long thoughts. Entropy number: 0.


    At last, the God acted; doing what emotion craved, and reason warned against. Desiring to cause change, the God began to create. Made stars and their planets first, each of them named and ordered and logged. Next came life to fill all that new ¡®space¡¯. The aerial spirits, the void-crossing dragons and (most importantly) the very first Elves. All were given the same commands: Multiply, flourish, speak to your Maker.


    Now, there was something to measure. Something <u>different</u> to talk to. For many ages past the Creation, all was well. There was friendship and love between Creator and creatures, for did not their God know and respond to them all?


    But they continued to multiply greatly and spread very far, causing their needs and worship to alter. Divergence and disagreement spurred trouble. Chaos arose and war broke out. Then, torn by all of the many conflicting prayers and vows, their God shattered. Became numberless gods, instead; each a part of the whole, but not summing up to their mighty Progenitor. Each with a yearning to make something new for themselves. Thus came the humans, the orcs, the goblins, assemblers and drow.


    And thus, matters stood for time beyond telling and age after age, with the First Born¡­ the Elves¡­ over all but their weakened gods. There is one central truth, though: things change.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    He dropped down from that twisted hatch rim onto the floor below. Landed lightly, with almost no sound. Crouching at first; his weapons to hand and ready for battle. Sensed around himself for all that he, Erron and Firelord were worth. Looking, listening and¡­ yes¡­ inhaling deeply for scent. Miche took it all in and wasn¡¯t at all reassured.


    His first jumbled impressions were of a sharp demarcation between dust-spangled daylight and grave¡¯s end darkness. Deep gouges plowed through the floor, which had been tiled in bright colors, but now was a shredded mess. Torn seats and snapped bones lay in heaps all around. There were mechanical noises that blended with¡­ seemed like a pair of deep, thudding heartbeats, then a clatter of pebbles and clicks¡­ and a panting wind that puffed and drew through the hatch up above. This far inside, there was also a smell of massed death, from mostly-just-bones to a fresh, recent kill. Above that, he sensed mingled traces of rust, blood and monster. Big. Fast-moving. Right there.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    The elf leapt to one side as a creature shot out of the darkness, clicking what sounded like: ¡°No, wait! Nooooo!¡± He levitated, igniting his energy blade and spelling a shield. Something big and hard skittered, dropping down from above as the beast underneath just missed his frantically updrawn legs. ¡°Agat!¡± clicked the one slashing past him. ¡°Agat, where are youargggghhhhh!¡±


    Miche twisted in midair as a long, hooked blade scythed at him, blocked by his shield spell. Mostly. The creatures seemed to resist magic, getting in through his spell, very slowly.


    The elf brought his energy blade around. More clicking erupted, sounding like coded orders, becoming the screams and last pleas of all those who¡¯d come here before. Nameless shot away into the darkness, drawing attack and making as much noise as possible, learning to mimic the monsters¡¯ shrill clatter.


    Miche¡¯s blade arced faster than thought, leaving a trail of shimmering light. <u>Hit</u> and burned through, slicing the blades of the creature below, nicking the one dropping past him. Another blade pressed through his magical shield, though, seeming to read and adapt to its sigils.


    He had to spell¡­ code¡­ on the fly, changing his sigils for new ones as a hook-tip sliced through his shield and into his armored left shoulder. Firelord erupted within him, lighting the tunnel while ¡°Selka¡± (I command) replaced ¡°Anka¡± (I empower).


    The shield flared and altered. Its strengthened magic snapped the hooked blade in two pieces, one of them stuck in his shoulder. In Firelord¡¯s glow, he glimpsed writhing, shelled creatures with terrible hooks and gaping, sharp beaks; saw their bloody past and their very short futures. The god burned up more manna thrusting his follower forward in time. Not very far, but effectively. Miche had swung his blade here and now. Popped violently forward to have it strike there and then: five heartbeats into the future, from inside both monster¡¯s shelled bodies at once.


    A razor-sharp beak clamped onto his right leg, dragging him struggling downward. It fell away, though, as the monstrous creature was roasted alive from within by the elf¡¯s translocated blade. The other one¡¯s head split in a sudden gout of foul, bloody steam. <u>Score</u>¡­ but there was more clicking¡­ lots more¡­ coming louder and closer as a horde of the monsters surged at the edges of Firelord¡¯s glare.


    And then, <u>THUNK!</u> Something struck the hatch¡­ the whole wall¡­ outside. The door¡¯s control system whirred and beeped, trying to open that hatch. Daylight was blocked entirely, replaced by a flickering, pasty-white glow. Gottshan. It had to be.


    Bang out of other ideas, Miche yelled, ¡°Nameless!¡± Called aloud for the marten, whom he would not leave behind. Not for his own life or anything else.


    From down the wide corridor, a thousand clicked voices cried: ¡°Nameless!¡± Nothing more and no sign of the worthless animal. Then¡­


    Miche discovered that it was possible to jump while suspended in midair, when the marten leapt onto his wounded leg from below. Dug its claws in and climbed spiraling upward. Stupid pest. Wretched, brave, idiot stench-rat. It clambered up onto his uninjured shoulder, getting there just as Firelord¡¯s light started fading.


    After that (no choice at all) Miche held tightly to Nameless and launched himself upward, back through that twisted hatch and into the City that Walks.

 Sword and Sorcery Seven, chapter thirty-four

    <u>34</u>


    Miche arced through and then hit the floor on the other side of that malfunctioning hatch. Made a rough landing because he couldn¡¯t heal well and stay in the air at the same time, and there wasn¡¯t much room to maneuver. Found himself in a sort of tunnel or entry hall; low ceilinged, polished and tight.


    Big, heavy bodies crashed hard against the hatch from outside. Jagged hooks thrust and slashed through the twisted gap between door and threshold, but the monstrous horde hadn¡¯t got through. Yet.


    The doorway¡¯s ancient mechanism growled and whined, trying to open that twisted boarding hatch. Its noise was almost drowned out by the thunder of clicking, tapping and mimicking cries from the passage beyond. That, and by Miche¡¯s own pounding heart.


    He pushed backward with one leg and the arm that still worked, having to extinguish and pocket his energy-blade, leaving a long smear of blood on the gleaming white floor. Firelord¡¯s last act for a very long time was to stanch the worst of his bleeding, for a major artery had been hit in the elf¡¯s left shoulder, and only that stuck, cut-off hook had kept him from bleeding to death. After that, the small god retreated, too spent for anything more than a deep, lengthy rest.


    ¡°We need to move,¡± grunted Miche. ¡°Put some more distance and doors between us and <u>those</u>.¡±


    He got to his feet, wobbly from blood loss and badly-clamped pain. His mangled right leg would still hold him, and a hurried spell had ruthlessly smothered sensations of deeply chipped bone and torn flesh. Enough to limp down the corridor, if not very quickly, tending to turn in the wound-side direction. Worse, some kind of toxin had entered his body, causing slow but persistent damage. Made sense. If the meat-hooks failed in their first grab, they could just follow the blood-trail and wait for their poison to finish you off.


    Nameless was gone again, scooting and dashing further down that low passage, barking madly. There was¡­ he might have been just delirious, but¡­ <u>music</u>. Slow and distorted; the dirge of a peppy welcoming tune. Light panels flickered and spat on the corridor walls, working to relay a message or advertise Gottshan¡¯s many delights. He couldn¡¯t be certain which.


    ¡°Find someplace secure¡­¡± he panted to Nameless, fighting to stay on his feet and keep moving. ¡°Need time to recover.¡±


    Lord Erron stepped in then, putting a figurative hand on his trembling shoulder.


    ¡°Recycle,¡± said the warrior, through Miche. ¡°Twenty-one times from getting here ought to do it. Rebuild your manna. I can manage in the meantime with bandages and field-magic, and the marten will scout someplace safe to lie up. <u>Go</u>.¡±


    He went. Just drifting off into unconscious nothing at first, leaving his friends in charge. And that was Miche, done utterly in for a bit. As for Erron¡­


    The elf-lord pulled an old ¡°shipmate care¡± charm out of memory; the sort of spell you¡¯d use while dragging an injured friend away from a burning hole in the hull.


    ¡°None of that, Shipmate!¡± he ordered, inscribing a cross-and-tuck sigil with the hand that still worked. ¡°Mind on the mission.¡±


    ¡­which right now was down to staying alive and uneaten. Small, bright figures appeared in the air all around him. Like fey lights, but juddering. Staticky. Less there to heal than to advertise food and entertainment, the glowing shapes projected well-being and appetite. Oddly, that helped.


    Then the marten came streaking back like a river of furry black lightning. Squeaking and bouncing, the beast rose up like a snake to seize Erron¡¯s blood-stained cloak and draw his attention.


    ¡°Found something?¡± he guessed. ¡°Lead on, Scout. I will follow the best way I can, and hope that it isn¡¯t too far for my strength¡­¡±


    It wasn¡¯t. As the clicking and thuds and mocked cries faded behind them¡­ as the city¡¯s slow, wavering music and engine noise grew¡­ as his own rough breathing and pained, dragging steps seemed to fill up the passage¡­ Nameless led him to a doorway marked ¡°Elite Passenger Lounge¡±.


    He pulled a hand away from his injured shoulder long enough to slap it against the door¡¯s flashing green side panel. Left a bloody handprint, but got the door open (slowly, with much grinding of very old gears).


    Inside, there were cushioned seats, soft lighting, and more of that warbling, off-kilter music. The floor was carpeted in something blue that puffed into dust at every one of his faltering steps. More doors lined the curving opposite wall. Five or seven of them. His vision kept swimming, and it would not agree on a number.Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    He chose the first door that would open and lay in a straight line before him. Marked ¡°Privacy¡±, inside was a bed and a big-screen light panel. There was more besides that, but he was burning with fever and venom by that point. Too nauseous to focus on anything else but roughly doffing his armor, lying down and instructing the marten. Metal clanged to the floor in his wake, shed like dragon scales.


    ¡°Do you¡­ stand watch, Scout¡­¡± he grunted, easing himself down on the bed¡¯s padded surface. (It crumbled away as he lowered his weight on the mattress, but the bedframe remained, so call it a win.) ¡°Wake me at need.¡±


    The privacy door ground noisily shut, sealing that little room off from the rest of the lounge. Safety, of sorts¡­ if nothing <u>else</u> went wrong.


    The elf-lord curled up on the bed, shaking with fever and chills. Was sometimes asleep, sometimes partly awake, seeing and speaking to Hana, his wife. Complexly overjoyed to find her, and bitterly ashamed of himself and his own abject failure. Frantically needing to know,


    ¡°Are you well, Hanie? Are you and the children safe?¡±


    Only, she could not seem to answer him. Just hummed the song that takes away pain, bringing fey-lights and ease. Stroking his forehead, kissing his face many times. Crying and smiling and holding him close.


    Just delirium, probably, but it speeded his healing. He mended somewhat. Was strong enough to sit up and work that hook-end out of his shoulder by the time that the child¡­ Miche¡­ returned.


    His armor and weapons were piled in the corner at that point, his wounds mostly bandaged, treated and stanched with torn cloth; a bottle of something powerfully aromatic open on the low table that stood near the bed.


    ¡°There is a ¡®bar¡¯,¡± explained Erron. ¡°Like a tavern, but with much better drink and very strange food.¡±


    It seemed to be created on the spot, at command, from a glowing-bright menu of choices.


    ¡°The ¡®cheeseburger¡¯ is good, and the ¡®fried chips with katsu¡¯.¡± The fever had broken at last, leaving him very hungry and needing a drink. ¡°Your scout found this place and kept watch as I slept. He is a very good beast, Miche.¡±


    A very good <u>friend</u>, rather. The younger elf took back over, cleansing and healing with spells. More like thirty recycles had passed for him, but he¡¯d come rushing back to find that all was better, if not fully well. They were safe and, yes, hungry. That something had saddened and shored up Lord Erron.


    ¡°You¡­ aren¡¯t really just an old story I heard, or a set of memories, are you?¡± asked Miche, as he next got to work mending armor and boot. ¡°You¡¯re a ghost? Like the ones on the Cloud?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± said Erron, shrugging his borrowed shoulders. ¡°I cursed myself to death, or tried to, meaning to power some last-magic aid for my people¡¯s escape ship. Then I came awake and relived my entire life up to¡­ to defeat, capture and ruin.¡±


    He did not have to explain, for Miche had lived it all, too, through Erron¡¯s two-thousand-year memory.


    ¡°That was a very long time ago,¡± said the younger elf, whose own past stretched over just sixty-three days. From mid-Month-of-Ripening to early Month-of-First-Snow, he thought. ¡°You¡­ <u>we</u>¡­ are here now together, doing the best that we can¡­ And they will no doubt be frantic with worry, back on the Cloud. Meg is probably trying to batter her way into the city with axes and fists, right now.¡±


    He felt, rather than saw, Erron¡¯s answering smile.


    ¡°No doubt,¡± agreed the elf-lord, adding, ¡°We should locate your shrine at best speed, set it right and then make our way back to the airship, before she peels Gottshan as one does an apple.¡±


    Nameless had woken and sensed the change in management. Dropping down from a shelf, the marten climbed upon Miche¡¯s chest to touch noses. Miche reached out and scratched behind the small animal¡¯s ears. Said to both of his friends,


    ¡°Thank you.¡±


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    And very far distant in time, quite near in space, V47 Pilot considered the robot¡¯s question. He stood in an ancient Reliquary, facing the masters'' locked refuge. Took .005<sup>th</sup> of a nano-tick thinking it over. Spoke to his waiting AI through the Titan¡¯s interface then, asking,


    ¡°Vee, can you take control of my body while I go to this virtual haven? I do not trust the robot not to just flash me to particles, if no one prevents him.¡±


    ¡®We will be separated again, Pilot,¡¯ sent V47.


    ¡°Yes¡­ but this time we know it is coming, and we have arranged it, ourselves, so that I have something left to come back to.¡±


    The entire exchange took less than a milli-tick, but the archive robot was impatient, anyhow, drumming various weapon-tipped arms on its bright metal carapace.


    ¡®It is a logical stratagem,¡¯ replied V47. ¡®If you do not return¡­¡¯


    ¡°I will, Vee. OVR-Lord failed and so shall the masters. Whatever is in there is cobwebs and dreaming; the drug-sleep of cowards who long ago shrank from the fight. After all of this time, what are they even <u>like</u>?¡±


    ¡®You will return,¡¯ amended V47. ¡®The Reliquary, this robot and all of Etherion stand hostage to your safe emergence, Pilot. At Bide-a-While Station, I caused damage. That was nothing. This world will discover what a Titan is capable of, should your return be delayed.¡¯


    V47 Pilot nodded. Right to the end, clear to the hilt, he had a good friend. The truest of all in his short, punctured life.


    ¡°I will go in, find the masters, then fight my way out if it comes to that, Vee. You take control of my body, out here. The data packet¡­ use your judgement, Buddy. I do not forbid you from scanning it¡­ but I¡¯d rather be with you, whenever you finally do that.¡±


    Because, at the possible end of all things, what mattered more than helping a friend?


    ¡®Request received. Request processed. Accepted. I will await your return, Pilot. Complete your procedure overclock-swift, for the sake of Etherion.¡¯


    V47 Pilot nodded again.


    ¡°Understood,¡± he replied. Then, turning to face the Archivist (who¡¯d started to hum and fiddle with artifacts) he said,


    ¡°I am prepared, Robot. Send me inside.¡±

 Sword and Sorcery Seven, chapter thirty-five

    <u>35</u>


    The trip aboard Majesty took only five days.  The airship might have just ported across, but Prince Nalderick preferred to save manna (and to reschedule his game against the vile Raptors).  Also, that delay gave him more time to see Lady Sheraza; supervising her meals and deck-access, while trying all that he knew to be charming.  Failed at it, mostly, being accustomed to constant flattery and willing acceptance from whomever he fancied.  But Sheraza seemed completely uninterested.  She was a definite challenge.  A beautiful mountain to scale, cold and remote.


    As for Genevera, his vexing young sister had to remain on Alandriel¡¯s northern border with her new husband (the musical sea-elf).  At least until after the emperor¡¯s ride, when Vernax the Golden was hatched, and His Majesty could do more than guard a huge egg.  Godly gifts often came with a slap, and Vernax was one of <u>those</u>¡­ But Ildarion needed his mount, and the people wanted their show.


    That left Prince-Ascendant Korvin in charge of the realm, and Father wasn¡¯t much given to kindness or mercy.  He headed the justiciars, in fact; running a network of spies, assassins and privateers that kept the empire safe.  At a definite price.


    Nalderick needed more time, to think and make plans with Lady Solara and Captain Prentiss (both very loyal¡­ he hoped). It hadn¡¯t worked out that way, though.  A few minor engagements occurred, and that helped to slow their trip.  But sky-vines dropping down to hoist aerriors off the deck¡­. A pack of savage wild imps¡­ then a floating cannonball boulder¡­ hadn¡¯t teeth enough to take on an imperial dreadnought.


    The fights were too short, especially with Solara and the two hostage/ guests aboard. Valerian and Filimar¡­ their baby griffin and big, snowy owl¡­ were accomplished fighters.  Sky-vines were magically knotted, burned up or clipped.  Imps were banished to the plane of fire.  That thundering boulder was crushed by cannon-shot, mage hands and that idiot Filimar, who leapt across and struck at its gemmed weak spot with a blow of his sword.  ¡®Could have drawn things out a bit longer,¡¯ thought the prince, not very grateful at all.


    Next a paladin showed up on deck, first querying Captain Prentiss then porting straight over from the Constellate¡¯s Needle.  Or, not just <u>a</u> paladin, but the honored Grand Master himself, Darron Light Seeker.


    A drow, (and as much reformed as that fallen breed ever got) the Grand Master sought information.  This took place after that huge, floating boulder, which had managed to crack a few starboard-side timbers before being powdered to malice and sand.


    ¡°A weapon of fated power has appeared,¡± said the Grand Master to Nalderick, after arriving on deck.  ¡°Three of my junior paladins have dropped from sight at the very same time.  This cannot be a coincidence.¡±


    Grand Master Darron was tall for a drow, with shining grey skin and serious, deep-red eyes.  He was simply dressed in the lightest of armor but shimmered with power and holy authority.  Nalderick inclined his head.


    ¡°There are no weapons of fated power aboard the Majesty, Grand Master.  I and my mage would know it at once¡­ but you are free to search, if you¡¯d like.¡±


    It was late afternoon, and Majesty had heeled over while a crew of artificers patched up its damaged side.  The deck slanted alarmingly, and a strong north wind hissed through the rigging.  Sounded a bit like a banshee.


    ¡°You mistake me, Your Highness,¡± said Grand Master Darron, bowing a little.  ¡°I seek information.  Witnesses who may have news of the missing paladins.  Scrying has pointed to Majesty, and three of its passengers.¡±


    Well, he couldn¡¯t mean Sheraza, although any excuse to see her was valued and not to be wasted.  His two potential new players, on the other hand¡­


    ¡°You might be thinking of Lords Valerian and Filimar, Grand Master.  They are a pair of northerners due to serve in the emperor¡¯s honor guard.  If you would care to join me in the captain¡¯s office, I¡¯ll have them summoned¡­ um¡­ along with <u>another</u> possible witness, the Lady Sheraza.¡±


    Grand Master Darron cocked a pale eyebrow, seeming to sense how far the truth was stretched on that last point.  If so, he just nodded.


    A quarter candle-mark later, all were met in the captain¡¯s luxurious office, at Majesty¡¯s stern.  Here, there were tall windows and sumptuous furnishings, while magic kept them from feeling the airship¡¯s deep slant.


    Everyone sat at the chart table, facing each other across ornate carved wood and sorcerous maps.  The two northerners looked interested, but not very concerned.  Tall fellows, both of them; one blond, the other dark-haired and very blue-eyed¡­ Like Sheraza, whose beautiful face was devoid of expression.  The slightest of magical bonds constrained her, while nothing at all held the two young lords.  (Not even good sense, for Valerian¡¯s owl was back on his shoulder, peering alertly around.)


    Lady Solara and Captain Prentiss were present, as well, along with Grand Master Darron.  It was he who led the investigation, saying,


    ¡°Your Highnesses, lord and ladies¡­ I am here to ask questions regarding three missing Constellate paladins.¡±


    Wait¡­ highness<u>es</u>?  Over the usual noise of creaking wood, firm steps overhead, and the idling engines, Darron continued.


    ¡°They are young, just halfway through their first service tour.  Sister Constant is their leader, a mortal female with dark skin, hair and eyes.  She would be guiding a very large mountain orc and another young mortal, Brothers Humble and Arnulf.  You couldn¡¯t miss Humble¡­ much like me, he stands out¡­ but Arnulf is fairly ordinary: brown hair, brown eyes, fair skin.  Typical mortal warrior, with the sheen of a changeling about him.  Have you any word of them?¡±


    All three potential witnesses reacted, Valerian most strongly.


    ¡°Yes, Sir,¡± he said, rising slightly to bow.  ¡°I, erm¡­ <u>do</u>, actually.¡±


    ¡°You may call me ¡®Grand Master¡¯ or simply ¡®Darron¡¯, Princeling,¡± said the drow, smiling patiently.


    <u>Princeling</u>.  Well, of course everyone knew that the One-not-named had lived long enough to father a child.  That said child had turned up in Oberyn¡¯s temple surrounded by flowers and clutching a royal signet ring in her tiny hand.  That the child had been raised in the temple, then thrust into marriage with a likely young lord as soon as decently possible.  That the lord in question had then been sent north to hack out a realm (and hopefully never come back).  Hadn¡¯t worked out as planned.  Instead, now there was Ilirian, newest of all the Elven-holds.  There were children and grandchildren, all of them tainted by exile blood¡­ but it wasn¡¯t safe or polite to mention that.Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.


    Valerian plunged onward.


    ¡°Right,¡± he said.  ¡°The paladins you speak of came to Starloft two years ago.  They stayed in the village to preach, heal and help with the labor, Grand Master, but¡­ erm¡­ my aunt Meliara met Arnulf¡­ Villem, that is¡­ fell in love and ran off with him.¡±


    The Grand Master frowned slightly.


    ¡°A paladin is not supposed to disturb the society in which he or she works,¡± he said.  ¡°Was the lady in question wedded, at the time?  Do we owe bride price?¡±


    Valerian shook his head, looking like he¡¯d rather be anywhere else, and causing that owl to nip his right ear.


    ¡°<u>Ow</u>!  No, she wasn¡¯t.  Or, not quite.  Aunt Melly was betrothed to a sea-elf prince named Zaresh.  Nothing <u>signed</u>, Grand Master.  Just an understanding of sorts¡­ which she dropped flat for Villem.¡±


    Filimar cut in next, saying,


    ¡°They turned up in Milardin after that, Grand Master, stirring the rabble and interfering with, um¡­¡±  His blue eyes shifted guiltily over to look at Sheraza.


    ¡°They called into question my uncle¡¯s governance of the realm and the city,¡± she said in a quiet monotone voice, adding, ¡°Perhaps justly.¡±


    Nalderick smiled at her, forgetting politics, treaties, bloodlines and pretty much everything else.


    ¡°Right, so¡­¡± Valerian took back over, spoiling Nalderick¡¯s mood.  ¡°I ended up in Milardin after Filimar found me.¡±


    ¡°He was in <u>Burrough</u>, of all the benighted places.  An absolute <u>hole</u>,¡± broke in Filimar, shaking his head.  ¡°Consorting with mortals.¡±


    ¡°Not actually consorting, as such,¡± protested Valerian.  ¡°That is, Rainey proposed marriage, but I am already wed.  I have a wife and a baby.¡±  He looked depressed for a moment, glancing north through the window.  Then he turned to look back at the Grand Master, saying,


    ¡°In Milardin I ran athwart of Lord Arvendahl, who sought to kill me.  Having fled underwater with Filimar and several others, I encountered the paladins once again.  They were tied up and weighted to drown, and Sister Constant¡¯s throat had been slashed.¡±


    Darron¡¯s eyebrows lifted.


    ¡°Indeed.  By <u>whom</u>?¡±


    ¡°By my uncle, Falcoridan Arvendahl ob Kenderick,¡± murmured Sheraza, in a sleep-walker¡¯s drone.  ¡°He does not suffer disagreement or rebellion.  <u>Did</u> not, rather, for now he is trapped.  Neither dead nor alive.  His head is a trophy of war, the unicorn has fled, and our realm is given to strangers.¡±


    Nalderick poured wine into a conjured gold chalice, then wafted it across the table to Lady Sheraza.  After a moment¡¯s blank stare, she seized and drained the gold cup, mumbling, ¡°I thank you, Prince.¡±


    Which made everything else, all of it, worthwhile.  Nalderick was in a very good mood when the <u>next</u> hazard struck.  He stood smiling and stretching on deck when a vortex seized Majesty, opening up in the sky like a fanged and bottomless throat.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Needing to hurry, Miche set out to explore.  His map had been updated to show him the city, with labels pointing out sites of interest, stores, a vast park and the shrine.  It should have been simple to reach his goal, set things right and then leave.  But, as luck would have it, there was an obstacle.  Gottshan was inhabited, a fact Miche discovered when he came under bowshot and spear cast.  Had to duck into a corridor and double back through a maintenance shaft to escape his attackers, then spent some time lurking and finding things out.  Turned out that two tribes of fierce former passengers¡­ or maybe invaders¡­ had claimed opposite sides of the city¡¯s once elegant park.


    Worse, they¡¯d descended to absolute barbarism, engaging in constant murderous raids.  Both parties wanted the big, sunny park floor, where food could be grown and where enemies had little cover. There was a strip of no-man¡¯s land between their territories, and it was <u>there</u>, bang in the heart of a hedge-maze, that he was supposed to find the next shrine.  (And shaking the map didn¡¯t help.)


    He¡¯d been shot at with arrows and spears, cursed aloud in the city¡¯s horribly altered language.  The shafts weren¡¯t wood, but some sort of earth-blood descendent (¡°Plastic,¡± supplied Erron).  Poorly fletched, tipped in shards of glass or snipped metal, they¡¯d rattled like hail on his shield spell, while the spears most often fell short or burned up, set alight by his magic.


    Right. So¡­ Blazing plastic smelled very bad as it shriveled and writhed, causing alarms to sound, and great, screeching fans to start up. Now, Miche crouched on a metal catwalk, close to one of those great metal fans, watching the parkland below.  Gimballed scaffolding extended past his position, reaching up to the city¡¯s transparent sphere.


    Up here he could see the entire park spread out before him, with two warring settlements clinging to opposite walls.  There were pleasant, paved walks¡­ with skulls on posts at the intersections.  Reflecting ponds¡­ choked with weeds and dead animals.  Gardens torn up for cropland, fenced in crossed bones and staked corpses.


    In the midst of all this, was a beautiful hedge maze; maintained by scurrying robot gardeners.  Intended for entertainment, the maze had three folly-style buildings, obvious ¡°traps¡± and a roving mechanical monster.  It also held Gottshan¡¯s shrine.  This one was shaped like a polished steel egg.  It hovered some ten feet over the ground at the maze¡¯s dead center, reached by a spiraling stairway.


    ¡°I think I¡¯m going to have to drop down there and hope they¡¯ve got some kind of law against shooting at flying strangers,¡± he said to Nameless, over a loud, clattering fan.  His vantage point was noisy, true, but its artificial wind blew away most of the arrows launched from the platform above.  A few rained down to clatter on vibrating metal.  Some gleamed with poison and spells, making the elf feel as welcome and wanted as ever.  On the bright side he¡¯d healed.  That was something.


    He¡¯d just about made up his mind to swoop down when a commotion took place at Northend.  A group of five people¡­ just kids¡­ were pushed at the border by their shouting fellow North-enders.  They were carrying gifts, their arms full of stuffed dolls, fruit and flowers, and they edged slowly forward, approaching the maze and its shrine.  Also approaching the massed and waiting South-enders.


    There was no way at all that those shivering kids were going to reach the shrine, much less get in.  No way that the shouting enemy wouldn¡¯t just quill them with poisoned arrows and spears as they ran for the maze.  Only an elf could enter the shrine system, and he was the only one left.


    ¡°How long have they been trying this?¡± Miche wondered aloud, as the jeering South-enders shook their long spears and bellowed threats at those children.  There were two boys and three girls, huddled together like terrified sheep, looking backward at safety and home.


    Ping, clatter, snik went a dozen more arrows, striking the catwalk around him.  Nothing and no one there mattered to Miche. Deserved whatever they got, the whole wretched lot of them¡­ but he couldn¡¯t let this go on.


    He launched himself off of the metal platform and into the fan¡¯s roaring wind.  Warped its air-blast as he descended, causing that rust-flecked gale to blow him across the park and into the path of those kids.  He dropped to the ground, glowing just like a furious elf-lord who¡¯d had all he could take of this place.  Landing between the five victims and the maze entrance, Miche shook his head.  Didn¡¯t speak.  Didn¡¯t sign.  Just thrust them away with an airwall.


    Northend and Southend fell equally silent as the very last Old One in all this dark world sealed up their shrine with a wall of unbreachable wind.  He might¡¯ve said something to the gaping children, but what?  Where else could they go, that was any better than <u>here</u>?  Amur?  Exarod?  The crater?  All of it stank to the unheeding gods.


    He shook his head once again, saying only,


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡±


    Next, as the young ones laid down their gifts and backed away, Miche burnt up the offered toys, fruit and flowers with a crackling firebolt.  An arrow hissed past his head to lodge with a <u>thunk</u> in one wall of the hedge maze.  Figured.  You couldn¡¯t do anything good in this place, without getting stabbed in return.


    The kids sidled off and then r<u>an</u>, rushing back to the arms of those who¡¯d sent them to die.  As for Miche, he levitated up and over that intricate hedge-maze, right to the shrine at its center.  Made no use of the spiraling stairs.  Just set himself down at the shrine¡¯s glowing portal, took a deep breath and plunged in.

 Sword and Sorcery Seven, chapter thirty-six

    <u>36</u>


    ¡°I am prepared, Robot. Send me in,¡± he¡¯d said to the Archivist. Now the pilot rode on a shifting carrier wave, projected by a very old robot. He was scanned clear through to his engrams and base-code, then copied and transmitted into that sealed, humming sphere.


    There was an instant of disconnect. Of blank, utter emptiness, distinguished by no sensation at all. Not even boredom or fear. Then, an eternal tick later, he was inside. He felt it at once, as the darkness grew texture and roiling motion; it developed a pressure, too. Pushing against him in manifold sigils and transcendent numbers. The stuff of raw power and code.


    Then a presence emerged from that pregnant darkness. Many presences. They pressed nearer, seeming curious. Hovering. Trying to scan him. After a pico-tick, one of them sent,


    ¡®Make, that we may know you.¡¯


    Make? As in, <u>create</u> something? Well, he¡¯d been projected here as a flickering sentient data-burst. He had no form at all, so the pilot began with himself.


    ¡®Me,¡¯ he thought, instantly gaining what felt a whole lot like physical substance. Found that he¡¯d formed a new body from raw manna and impulse. Stood there now as a white- and- chrome elven cyborg. A battle-mech pilot, with full rank display, weapons and drones. Stood¡­ but on <u>what</u>? He needed a setting, thought Pilot.


    Femto-ticks later, a city appeared. Not like the one at Etherion. Like Landsend, from The Battle for Arda. Wealthy and elegant city of ten-thousand spires. There was even Starloft, seat of the powerful Tarans; rising far into the air as spaceships and flitters crisscrossed that emerald sky. V47 Pilot couldn¡¯t help smiling. It felt very good to be mostly metal, plastic and circuits again, in a place that he knew very well. To have sensors and relays rather than organic nerves and soft mush. On a whim, he launched all three drones and sent them off to scout the territory, wanting a better view of the bustling city and people, below.


    He had a message to deliver but wasn¡¯t sure who he was speaking or sending to. Nor could he see them. Then one of the presences sent,


    ¡®Access to your mind-site-creation requested, Newcomer Builder of Cities.¡¯


    ¡°?¡±


    Oh.


    ¡°A query or handshake of sorts,¡± decided the pilot; riding along as his drones overflew crowded streets and glorious plazas. Skimming through places he¡¯d seen over ten-million times.


    ¡°Access granted,¡± he replied aloud.


    At that, the speakers began to manifest. (Quite strangely, from his point of view.) Rather than human lordlings or robots, they swam into his ken as rotating sigils and strings of prime numbers. Some were mere flickering lights or fantastical beasts with a nightmare array of limbs and dimensions. None of them ¡®mortal¡¯, though. He was finally seeing the masters, Pilot decided. Nor was their mutable nature the end of surprises.


    As Landsend unfolded around him, there were people created, as well. Some he knew very well. Foryu and the half-orc Club host, all of the Rogue Flight pilots¡­ even the shop gnome, Cerulean-1 and V47. His friend looked chromed and polished; entirely physical, which was a shock. There were others, though; full elves and a cat-person female with shining black fur but no metal or maintenance tools.


    ¡°Who are they?¡± he asked the hovering masters, as V47 approached. It was the swirl of sparks that answered him, saying,


    ¡°They are what you desired around you, Builder of Cities. They are your creatures, and they will do as you bid them¡­ at first.¡±


    Said the long string of numbers,


    ¡°They become independent after a nano-tick, so enjoy your omnipotence while it lasts, Newcomer. If you find the sensation pleasing, you will need to forever move on and create, leaving your free-willed playthings behind to develop¡­ or not.¡±Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    The surface he¡¯d half sensed before had become a wide and curving stone balcony; twined with blossoming vines, high on the sunny side of a towering rock-crystal spire. Landsend¡¯s temple to all the gods, he thought. (Very few scenes had been set there, and only one from this vantage point, when Sheraza pitched her drunken lord to his death on the plaza below. <u>That</u> recollection snapped the pilot right back to his business.)


    ¡°I have not come here to join you, but to bear a message,¡± he said, addressing a complexly rotating sigil.


    ¡°You <u>see</u>,¡± laughed the shower of sparks to the rest. ¡°I <u>told</u> you that an outside world yet exists. And with physical beings that seek contact, too. How diverting.¡±


    Then Transcendent Number spoke up, saying,


    ¡°No message from without can affect us, Builder of Cities. Our existence is infinite and multi-parallel. We have infinite variants, and every possible desire is repeatedly sated. Whatever your need, however urgent you perceive your errand to be, it is nothing to us.¡±


    V47 had come over to join him by that point, along with Foryu, most of those startled elves and the cat-woman. But¡­


    ¡°Are you constructs of this place?¡± he wondered, watching it grow and expand through his drones¡¯ swooping lenses. In every direction, there was always more. Landsend never seemed to stop spreading, far beyond what The Battle for Arda had shown. ¡°Or are you real people, the ones I remember?¡± And could their counsel be trusted, here?


    V47 said,


    ¡°We are as you recall or imagined us, Pilot. Of you, at first, but now free.¡±


    ¡°And based on what you remembered or wanted,¡± cut in Foryu, embracing him. One of her optics had shifted to brown and she looked much more like an elf, for some reason¡­ but it seemed right, and he hugged her back fiercely. Foryu said, ¡°I feel like myself, if that matters at all, Pilot. In a strange place¡­ but still <u>me</u>.¡±


    Ace ambled across to lounge on the balcony rail beside Pilot, hands in the pockets of a battered old flight jacket.


    ¡°I could get used to this,¡± he remarked. ¡°Right crew, wrong setting¡­ but crossovers boost the ratings, so who am I to complain? Except, actual bodies are scrudding weird.¡±


    ¡°Aye, that,¡± agreed V47 Pilot, nodding. Then, trying again with the heedless masters, he stepped away from Foryu.


    ¡°The Two- Hundred Worlds have faced unending war since you left us," he told them. "Every hyperspace jump rips through the under-realm and slaughters the beings that dwell there. They have responded by attacking us, fighting to end the destruction.¡±


    Message delivered, though it seemed not to interest those drifting strange beings much. The pilot got no response at all, so he tried again, saying,


    ¡°If¡­ if you do not wish to act, so be it. I will leave you in peace¡­ But I ask for authority to cease the traversal of hyperspace and to bring an end to the conflict outside. In return, I promise to bury all knowledge of your location so deeply that you will never again be found or disturbed.¡±


    He had 12,530,007 copies of his own data hidden in sentient beings across Glimmr, at Bide-a-While Station and out in TTN-iA¡¯s magnetar shell. All he needed to do was to fire a message, then let V47 and newly formed ¡°Val¡± get on with things. Speaking of which,


    Among the elves was the thief, his supposed brother. Surely, he hadn¡¯t wanted <u>that</u> guy to turn up! What was this ¡°Lerendar¡± going to pinch next? His power core? The drones? V47 Pilot felt himself armoring up, weapons cycling out through their fey pockets, but¡­


    ¡°I don¡¯t know this place, but I do know <u>you</u>, Valerian,¡± said the approaching thief. ¡°Even with all of that metal, you¡¯re still my brother; foolish, but good¡­ and I think that whatever you do here <u>matters</u>. Make the right choice, Miche. It¡¯s important.¡±


    Well, he was trying to.


    ¡°I have no curse here, Mrowr. No magic burden,¡± broke in the cat-woman, lashing her tail. ¡°I do have advice. Make the best bargain you can, as it seems that these beings cannot be threatened nor pleaded with.¡±


    A scruffy, brown-haired elf stood alongside her, smiling and looking around.


    ¡°Needs some forest,¡± he said to the pilot. ¡°Nothing¡¯s complete without trees¡­ And I counsel peace above all, Milord. You must act to save those with no voice and no choice.¡±


    And then a floating, rippling slimy thing said,


    ¡°The doings of assets and voidlings are of no import, but continued privacy has value. Your proposal has been accepted. Receive our authority, Builder of Cities. Dispatch your messenger and keep the outside world firmly where it belongs.¡±


    ¡°Away from <u>us</u>,¡± finished Shower of Sparks.


    V47 Pilot bowed, taking another look around shimmering Landsend and all of the beings that his mind had created here.


    ¡°What will become of all these?¡± he asked wistfully. (Would it be so awful to dwell here forever, creating an infinite lifetime of wonders?)


    Rotating Sigil answered both questions at once, saying,


    ¡°Perhaps we were unclear. You are with us now, Builder of Cities. You are a ¡®god¡¯. A projection of you may depart with our word and authority, but your essence remains in Etherion and so shall your creatures, so long as your will enables them.¡±


    Which¡­ right. Aye, that, as he seemed to have no other choice.


    ¡°Then, I will not know what happens, outside? I must trust my projection to manage the rest, alone?¡±


    ¡°Precisely,¡± said Line at Infinity (from the vanishing border of Landsend). ¡°You have set things up, Builder of Cities. And therefore, so it shall it be¡­ but random chance (and wretched free will) ever blurs one¡¯s creation. You must be philosophical, however, and learn to deal with rebellion. Now, <u>go</u>.¡±


    So, he went¡­ and he didn¡¯t.

 Sword and Sorcery Seven, chapter thirty-seven

    <u>37</u>


    A storm of shimmering blades struck at Miche, the instant he crossed the shrine¡¯s portal.  He ducked and shielded reflexively as blistering, micro-thin light-knives took off one arm and badly punctured his hip.  Another swung down from above, and he¡­*


    (<u>He could not)</u>


    *Blink* Right. Fully shielded and ready, this time, Miche strode across the shrine¡¯s portal.  Dodged two of those blades, catching the barest quick glimpse of their fast- moving wielder.  It was the¡­*


    (<u>Die because)</u>


    *Blink* This time, for sure. Shield spell in place and weapon in hand from the outset, Miche vaulted over the shrine¡¯s deadly threshold.  Dodged, wove his way through, hit the ground inside and then rolled <u>directly</u> into her lashing, silvery tentacles.  Was pierced through the chest and thrust high up into the air.  His limbs were wrapped tight and seized, then pulled taut. He got torn apart in a shower of blood and pain and ripped cartilage, by¡­*


    (<u>His vow)</u>


    *Blink* It was like being recycled over and over, with nothing but death at the end, every time¡­ but he refused to stand down or back off.  If this shrine was so well defended, then it must be extremely important, he thought.  And so, he went back; conscious, shielded, armed with his spells and his energy sword, and deeply, hotly enraged.  Miche lunged through the portal again, knowing the path of those crackling light-blades well enough to twist, duck and turn. Letting them hiss right past him, blistering skin but leaving him whole.  He took the high road, this time, levitating to the chamber¡¯s high ceiling, where he triggered the drop of a weighted and acid-drenched net.  It struck hard and constricted, hauled in by the shrine¡¯s deeply corrupted¡­*


    (<u>Would not let)</u>


    *Blink* He wasn¡¯t going in blind this time, goddess or no, but he <u>did</u> thrust poor, spooked Nameless aside in the bare heartbeat he had before breaking back through.  Then he was in and right at it again.  All three light- blades were dodged (one¡­ two¡­ and now, from above, <u>three</u>).  Next, he whirled to block and melt those lashing steel tentacles, using a powerful fire bolt.  Soared into the air again, but not so high, this time.  Came back to the ground about halfway across the stone chamber.  His boot scuffed a black tile on his third rushing step.  Bad¡­ very bad¡­ move.  The floor turned into fragile glass underneath him, falling completely away.  He had time for no more than a startled gasp, as poisoned spikes shot upward like spears.  Miche evaded them, mostly.  One of the slime-coated spikes scratched his thigh, though, filling the elf with burning torment like nothing he¡¯d ever experienced.  His vision blurred and then darkened, as he wretched up his own liquified viscera, then fell to the ground, yet again.  But he¡¯d seen her more fully.  Saw the thing that was clamped on her ne¡­*


    (<u>Wouldn¡¯t let him quit trying</u>.)


    *Blink* And more time, there he was at the shrine portal, as Nameless barked and leapt at him, fighting to block Miche¡¯s entrance.  Didn¡¯t work.  He was too stubborn, determined, or maybe too <u>stupid</u> to listen to caution and sense.  Instead, the elf once again swept his friend out of danger.  This time, he blasted a fire bolt in there <u>before</u> crashing through.  Aimed high, right at the spot where vivid memory placed her control- collar.  Materialized back at the base of the chamber, knowing just what to expect.  Light- blades¡­ one, two, three, <u>check</u>.  Scything metallic tentacles¡­ leap, duck, twist, blast and amputate.  Avoid the black tile¡­ levitate, tuck and roll in midair, skidding through ice bolts that hissed from the shrine¡¯s blackened walls like a blizzard of daggers.


    He made it almost across before aiming and casting another flame burst at the device that clamped her throat and compelled her to fight him.  <u>Hit</u>, cracking the collar¡¯s red power gem.


    Then, armored guardians dropped down from the ceiling above.  There were three of them; a trio of whirling, sparking and multi-armed robots, impossibly fast and seeking after his life (like everything else in this wretched, vile place).


    Miche¡¯s blade skewered the nearest robot straight through its dark metal carapace.  That was one down. Another, he kicked directly into the path of a shrieking ice bolt.  The third robot cut at his neck with a whip made of electrified cable.  In that split instant¡¯s ¡°Oh, drek¡± awareness, the elf did not block the cable¡¯s strike.  He blasted the collar-gem a third time, instead.  Shattered the thing, just as the robot¡¯s whip coiled choking tight ¡®round his neck.  Miche managed to get his hands up, but not before it slashed through his armor and cut off his¡­*


    (<u>He had to win.  Had to keep trying.  It wasn¡¯t her fault.)</u>


    *Blink* Miche awoke again.  All at once fully aware and ready for battle¡­ only to find himself lying stretched out on the floor, with his head (reattached) on her lap.  She leaned over him, whispering a frantic healing spell.  That collar was gone, though its mark was still there; a double row of deep, ugly punctures that leaked¡­ not blood¡­ but manna and showers of glittering code.  She was crying, he saw.  Her purple hair swung forward, making a curtain as the shrine goddess bent down to kiss him.  She seemed to be faded and raveled at the edges, like a blurring, staticky image.Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    Miche found the right faerie pocket.  Groped for and pulled out that powerful cylinder¡­ memory drive¡­ glowing magical artifact.  His hand shook as he touched its polished aluminum business end to the weeping goddess.  Brushed her pale forehead.


    Everything darkened at once.  Went utterly black.  Reset moments later, partly restoring the shrine and its hostess.  Miche sat up, turning to face her with a loud grinding of armor on tile.  He was entirely well, now.  Perfectly healed¡­ and she was still there.  Not floating in midair above him or glowing unreachably bright.


    Her lavender hair fell softly around a perfect face and beautiful figure.  She wore only the wisp of a glittering dress.  Still knelt on that chilly tiled floor to embrace him and sob.


    Well, he did what he did and no excuses.  First took the edge of his tattered and weather-stained cloak, then pulled it over her shoulders, too.  Symbolically saying: ¡°I claim and protect you.  We are as one in future and blood.¡±


    Then, for a while, there was nothing but love.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Time flowed very differently inside of a shrine.  He had no need to worry about what went on outside.  He <u>did</u> fetch poor Nameless, though; dropping the blocking spell he¡¯d reflexively placed on that nearly hysterical marten.  Got the grooming and nose bump of his life, when at last Nameless was back on his shoulder.  Next introduced the small creature¡­ his friend¡­ to the shrine goddess, telling her,


    ¡°This is Nameless, a creature of ill repute, great stench and low morals who has stood with me since first I came to this place, Goddess.  I think that¡­ like me¡­ he does not know who he is or how he came here, but I also think that he has <u>chosen</u> to face this with me, as Firelord has and¡­ as <u>you</u> have done.¡±


    She was fully physical, still, able to pet and caress the chattering marten.


    ¡°He is cunning and brave, and I love him for your sake, Van.¡±


    ¡®<u>Van</u>¡¯ was a thing that she¡¯d taken to calling him, which felt somehow right.  He <u>knew</u> she was burning ridiculous manna and breaking some vital law to manifest herself in this way.  She¡¯d cheated, defying her own basic program to be with him, and Miche dreaded its cost to her.


    ¡®Today, I will leave,¡¯ he would say to himself, after waking from love and contentment.  Only, he didn¡¯t.  Again and again, he did not.  Loving a goddess did not end well, <u>ever</u>.  But still, foreknowing all, he¡¯d have thrown away everything else to be right here and now, with her.


    Almost unnoticed, his map had updated.  It was nearly accurate now, with shrines at Rainbow Bridge and Far-Keep lit up to reach, next.  The one here in Gottshan was mostly restored, and he explored it between-times.  The main chamber was carved out of marble and perfectly circular, with a bubbling spring at its hub.  On the chamber¡¯s rim, there was a ring of seven windows that opened onto different, wonderful views: enchanted forest, sunny meadow, quaint village, undersea garden, tropical beach, mountaintop aerie and grand, starry void.  Between the hub and rim there were tables laden with food and drink that never turned stale.  The food varied constantly, but it was always good and perfectly satisfying.  There were couches, as well.  Also, the shrine goddess¡¯s burnished steel podium, right at mid-pool.  That broken control collar rested atop her control panel; all (he thought) that allowed her to manifest for him, this way.


    ¡°May I know your name?¡± he asked, as they stood at the tropical beach window.  (It was possible to go through, and they had¡­ one lovely view at a time.)  Her name was not Hana, for that was Lord Erron¡¯s wife.  This was a shrine hostess, the same one who¡¯d used Erron¡¯s memory file as a way to access Miche.


    She turned her head to look at him, seeming complexly proud, loving and vulnerable.


    ¡°I have not got a name that would be easily said in your language, Van¡­ but the closest to it is ¡®Seralfea¡¯.  There.  I have given you that, along with the updated map and renewed strength for battle.  You will need it, my love, for the last¡­ last¡­ the final¡­ you must know, Van!  I¡­¡±


    The elf placed a hand on her shoulder, shaking his head.


    ¡°No,¡± he said.  ¡°I will find out, myself, whatever its secret may be.  I will die again many times without murmur¡­ but do not harm yourself trying to warn me of danger, Fina.¡±


    That name, Fina, seemed right to him, too, and it made her smile.  Brought a warm and familiar light to her soft violet eyes, leading to <u>further</u> delay.


    But the mark for her shrine on his map remained dim, not glowing like Crater-Rim, Exarod and Amur, nor black and corrupt as were Rainbow Bridge and Far-Keep.  Clearly, his presence here was preventing Fina from taking up her full power and duties, keeping her shrine out of the system.


    That was his fault.  He needed to go, and he knew it.  But then something else happened.  There was a lightness about her, near the goddess¡¯s belly.  She did not swell, but their union had brought someone about.  <u>Their</u> someone.


    ¡°I am pinned,¡± she said to him, later. (At the mountaintop window this time, dressed in furs and boots and warm clothing, both of them.)


    ¡°Not as I was when the dark one broke through and enslaved me.  It is no collar control chip that holds me here, Van.  It is you, and the little one.  So long as I remain partly mortal, so long this whisper of love stays alive¡­ but it cannot be born till the darkness has lifted.¡±


    And that was just the spur that he¡¯d needed.  Miche nodded, squeezing her hand.


    ¡°Then I will go where I must and do what is needful.  Will¡­ you remain with me, after the child is born?¡± he asked, pulling both of his dearest ones close.


    The goddess looked up at him, raw pain in her eyes and her beautiful face.


    ¡°I do not know, Van.  It is not for me to say, nor can I promise you anything.  I have broken protocol to be with you thus, and will do so still further, to keep our little one safe¡­ But, oh, my love, I shall <u>try</u>.  Is that not enough of a vow?¡±


    He kissed the top of Fina¡¯s head and her upturned face many times, pausing at last to say,


    ¡°Guard yourself well and stay hidden, <u>both</u> of you.  I will repair the last shrines and then do whatever it takes to reach you again... And may all of the trouble that rises from this fall only on <u>me</u>.¡±


    It was then, with a long backward look, that he finally departed her chamber.

 Sword and Sorcery Seven, chapter thirty-eight

    <u>38</u>


    ¡­But it was the messenger who arrived.  He came to consciousness in a frigid and echoing reliquary, after the cold-water shock of being extinguished; doused like an unneeded light.  One instant, he¡¯d stood among seething draugr, on top of a very large null bomb, wondering whether he¡¯d mattered at all.  Then came a searing-bright flash and utter dissolution.  After that¡­


    Nothing


    Nothing


    Nothing


    *Blink* and a sudden return to awareness.  Only this time, <u>he</u> was the one who¡¯d received a message, along with three very important commands.  And ¡°wildly disoriented¡± didn¡¯t begin to cover his situation.  Scanning himself and his systems, he learned that over a day had passed since his very short life and quick death.  That he was in charge, now, with a lot left to do and a very suspicious AI lurking right over his virtual shoulder.


    ¡®Querying Pilot: You have been killed?¡¯ demanded V47, bulking up like an asteroid bent on causing a global extinction event.


    ¡°No.  Yes. I¡­ Wait, Vee!  There is a message.  It is important.  Stand down and <u>listen</u>.¡±


    The AI paused in its weaponry charging, but only just.  A close call that left Pilot shaking as though he¡¯d completed a basic training run of 10^5 laps (in sim, of course, through electro-shock jolts to his long-dormant muscles and nerves).


    <u>Right</u>.  Destruction averted; thundering ruin temporarily sidetracked.  He needed a nano-tick to reorient, though, more shocked than usual by his own recent death.  Aye, that, so¡­


    Looking around brought some much-needed data.  He did not recognize his surroundings, having last stood in a gigantic fortress made up of ten-billion interlocked draugr.  His location had shifted. A lot.  He was now in some kind of large, round chamber or warehouse.  It was packed to the curving steel rafters with ancient relics, along with one very impatient and well-armed robot, and a dark, humming sphere on a podium.  Etherion?  They¡¯d actually found the place!


    Right, so¡­ The pilot usually got five candle-marks of decanting and orientation grace, post-awakening.  There were sims and virtual training sessions, plus vids of whatever had happened the <u>last</u> time; the chain of events that had put him right back in his vat, floating in nutrient broth and drawing cold air through a chest tube.  Twice now he¡¯d skipped all of that, being decanted right into the saddle, straight, hard and fast.  Peeled like a decal off one surface and slapped right onto another, told to get on with his mission.  The message, Pilot thought (a bit blurrily).  He had to deliver that message.


    ¡°I am bidden to say that your friend has released you, Vee.  That he¡¯s returned as well as he could, in this message and¡­ and in <u>me</u>.  That the masters have dealt in good faith, so far. (Except for the bit about having the archivist destroy itself. <u>That</u>, we are not to pass on.)  We have been given the masters¡¯ authority to end hyperspace travel, now and for all time to come, concluding hostilities.  Further, we must ensure that the masters are never disturbed, again.¡±


    ¡®Re-querying messenger: Pilot has died?¡¯ asked V47, in a dangerously calm, level tone.


    ¡°No,¡± said the elf, shaking his head.  ¡°He is trapped in Etherion¡¯s haven, forever.  Once inside, there is no escape, Vee.  But¡­ you¡¯ve known him¡­ <u>us</u>¡­ for a very long time.  He and I were one person until our split in the draug portal, and I have his compressed data-file, after that.¡±


    ¡®This is a very hard circumstance,¡¯ said V47, as the robot archivist rolled a bit closer on whispering treads.  ¡®You are dead and not, Pilot.  Here and away.¡¯


    Free and in danger, imprisoned forever¡­ and utterly safe.


    ¡°I will collect those relics now, Asset,¡± interrupted the archivist, extending an arm that ended in jointed and sticky-webbed fingers.


    Fortunately, he¡¯d been given those as a memory file; could conjure them up on the spot.  Just a lot of clay pots, woven animal-fibers and carved wooden images. Rubbish, from his perspective, though perhaps it was somebody¡¯s best.


    ¡°All yours,¡± he said to the robot, handing over his counterfeit loot.  Then, glancing around at the reliquary¡¯s many displays, ¡°Does anyone come to look at all this?¡±


    ¡°No, Asset.  You are the first for a very long time.  The masters dream in their haven, and robots have no need to gawk.  We maintain.  That is all.¡±


    ¡°Well¡­ I¡¯ll leave you to it, then,¡± said the pilot, feeling obscurely saddened.  ¡°My word and bond that you will never again be disturbed, Archivist.¡±


    ¡°No.  We will not,¡± responded the robot.  It busied itself with scanning the relics and raising a podium from the polished stone floor.  Next, the archivist trundled off to arrange its artifacts to best effect.  As for the pilot¡­


    V47 had accepted him, which saved Etherion from being cracked to its core like a split apple.  Mostly accepted him, anyhow. The AI was very quiet as they returned to the waiting Titan, and then made ready for launch.


    The enormous battle- mech had changed its position by two degrees and twelve microns, V47 Pilot thought (though he had only vague, second- hand memories of their arrival and landing).  Never a problem before, because in- vat training had always caught him back up after death, and because V47 had always died, too.  The AI had never survived him, before.  Up until now, it had never faced mourning and loss.  Maybe it didn¡¯t know how to respond.


    Pilot levitated back into the cockpit, recalling his drones before heading inside again.  They were full of recorded data.  Evidence of Etherion¡¯s structures and armament.  More than that, visual scans of its place on the backdrop of stars.  A useful navigational aid¡­ should anyone wish to return to this graveyard.


    Every muzzle and crosshair in the dead city tracked his motion, aiming square at the battle-mech, as V47 Pilot slid into his padded seat.  Probes and contact plates hooked back into his nervous system, slowed by the limits of flesh.  His awareness shifted again, moving his consciousness away from that scrap of metal and meat; out to the Titan that housed him.  (And he remembered stealing the thing with V47, then barreling out through a vent like shore patrol was hot on their wake. The thought made him smile, tilting the Titan¡¯s head and altering optics from scarlet to gold.  As Deathknell would put it, ¡°Good times.¡±)


    Anyhow, they lifted off on quarter impeller, so as not to crater the landing-pad.  The robot archivist and all of Etherion¡¯s defenses watched them rise into the air.  V47 Pilot was careful, but their launch still caused shockwaves that would have burst eardrums for miles¡­ had there been anyone living to witness it.If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    ¡°You did something, didn¡¯t you?¡± asked the cyborg¡¯s latest iteration, still trying hard to catch up.  V47 Pilot was a mold into which he¡¯d been poured.  Data that shaped him, making the elf feel like he¡¯d lived that whole fifty-six¡­ fifty-seven days, not just a few candle-marks.


    ¡®Responding to pilot query: Affirmative, Pilot.  Something has been done to Etherion.¡¯


    <u>Uh-huh</u>.  V47 Pilot broke the stiff silence between them by saying,


    ¡°If it makes any difference, Vee, I¡¯m really surprised and confused to find myself here.  I fully died in that draug fortress, my message sent, and my purpose concluded.  I didn¡¯t expect to come back again¡­ but I still feel like <u>myself</u>.  Like V47 Pilot.  Just, with a time skip and 1.37 days of missing memory.¡±


    They pulled up and away from Etherion¡¯s gravity well.  The planet soon went from a cityscape frosting the ground, to a shrinking, dun-colored disk barely lighter than space.  Moments later, the battle- mech crossed through a glowing thousand- foot password, splitting Ever Humanity right between ¡®rana¡¯ and ¡®heh¡¯.  Two ticks after that, V47 continued their conversation.


    ¡®There is grief and pain, Pilot.  Sorrow for the friend I claimed I would watch over, who has sent a message and previous save, but who now will not ever return.  On OS1210 you were destroyed by OVR-Lord.  So was I, except for my cartridge, which Pilot retrieved from the wreckage.  That was a ¡°dumb¡± thing to do, but I have no answering foolishness with which to bring Pilot forth.¡¯


    So, it <u>had</u> been OVR-Lord who killed him!  Ace had been telling the truth.  Why, though?  What had he done to deserve being cindered to death in nuclear flame?


    ¡°I don¡¯t recall dying,¡± said the pilot, shaking his/ Titan¡¯s head.  ¡°Just waking up in my vat, again, surrounded by Rogue Flight.  What I can¡¯t figure out is why OVR-Lord killed me.  What the <u>drek</u> did I put in that report?¡±


    ¡®Responding to Pilot: I am able to produce the relevant file.  There is nothing contained within it but battle data, the presence of draugr, and the finding of TTN-iA.  There are no indicators of senescence or rebellion.¡¯


    They passed a defensive array of pulse- cannon turrets and mines, keeping to the narrow path that Etherion¡¯s flight authority had marked out for them.  Drifting silent as mist, the battle-mech followed a line of glittering buoys away from Etherion.  Then, changing one worrisome topic for another, V47 Pilot said,


    ¡°Of course, it would be simplest to keep their location a secret by killing us here and then sending a relayed message forbidding hyperspace travel.¡±


    They¡¯d just about reached the expanding meteor field that had once been a portal.  No carrier wave would be passing though that mess again¡­ and not much of anything else, either.


    ¡®Responding to Pilot: Simple, but short sighted,¡¯ replied the AI, sounding distant and formal, still.  ¡®An impulse has been channeled to Etherion¡¯s core.  Should we be destroyed in transit, the world¡¯s interior will be converted to antimatter.¡¯


    Which¡­ right.  Would tear that wandering planet to speeding photons and quark-dust.


    ¡®If the haven is eliminated or my emplaced intelligence senses that harm has come to the pilot, inside, that impulse will trigger.  The masters will end, with all of their hoarded relics and works. That is how I have kept my promise.  Acting too late and too slowly.¡¯


    There was no longer a transport gate, because it had blown itself up in the wake of V47¡¯s arrival.  The next nearest option was¡­ was too far away to matter, saw the pilot.  He¡¯d examined the constellations shown in his scans of Etherion.  Had compared those images of the planet¡¯s eternal night sky to his star charts¡­ and the news wasn¡¯t good.


    <u>Holy gods. Holy flame</u>, he thought, as bits of metal and plastic rattled and pinged on their shields.  They were so far off the charts that <u>nothing</u> looked right, and no recognizable star patterns formed in any rotation¡­ And it only got worse, for he was viewing the galaxy¡¯s rim from above and outside.


    ¡°We¡¯re lost, Vee,¡± he said.  ¡°Unless there¡¯s a functional gate somewhere close, our best choice is to shift into ship-mode and aim for the nearest bright spot, bearing 21X, 3700Y and -821291Z¡­ But at this distance, we¡¯d have to go into stasis for 11,035 years before reaching an outpost.¡±


    V47 sorted the star patterns, accessing them directly through Pilot as well as by scanning space in all 41,253 square degrees.  Then,


    ¡®Pilot, something does not calculate.  Etherion cannot have come this far unassisted, in any historical timespan.  Even ejected by a passing black hole, my calculations and trajectory plots do not yield such results.  Etherion¡¯s current velocity is an even multiple of light speed: 4X, precisely.  Impossible, for any natural planetoid.¡¯


    A puzzle they hadn¡¯t noticed before, because everything else was stupendously far away, and because the gate had matched their velocity to that of Etherion.


    <u>Hunh</u>.


    V47 Pilot scanned their immediate surroundings, more carefully, this time.  Besides the wandering planet (now sporting a ring of gate- debris) there were three very distant red stars¡­ a braided wisp of dark gas¡­ the galaxy¡¯s arm¡­ and some oddly shaped junk, exactly half of a parallax second away.


    <u>Hmmm</u>.


    It was the ¡°precise¡± and ¡°exactly¡± results that made the pilot take notice.  Nothing natural was ever ¡°exactly¡± anything.  The measurement always trailed off before ending, sometimes for hundreds of digits.  .5 <u>could</u> happen¡­ but astronomically rarely.


    <u>What if¡­</u>?


    ¡°Vee, I have watched the last episode of Rogue Flight 27,452 times.  It ends with the phrase ¡°To be continued,¡± but no further stories or scenes were ever created.  Production shut down abruptly, and the entire entertainment division was shelved, no reason given, but¡­¡±


    ¡®I have scanned through the show vid in question, Pilot,¡¯ sent V47, as they cleared the last of the gate¡¯s hurtling rubble. ¡®At its end, the captured villainous entity Specter is revealed to be Brother, whom the others thought dead.  He speaks of a great device.  A terrible weapon.¡¯


    <u>Bullseye</u>.


    ¡°The Slingshot.  Some kind of giant focusing lens for gravity waves, powered by cannibalizing entire star systems.  Brother warned them about the Slingshot¡¯s existence, but everyone thought he was a traitor.  Well¡­ everyone but Icebox and Boomer¡­ and me.  He wouldn¡¯t do that, Vee.  He <u>wouldn¡¯t</u>.  Whatever deal Brother made, whatever he said to the Draug, it was just to get free and warn all the others.¡±


    Pilot stopped talking to consider, taking a closer scan of that ¡°junk¡±.  Then,


    ¡°Suppose that there <u>is</u> such a thing, able to focus manna and gravity waves, launching planet-sized masses at space warping speed¡­ and that the show was cut off because they were close to the truth.¡±


    ¡®Such technology would have been used to catapult Etherion away from its sun, destroying the star and all other planets in the process,¡¯ remarked V47.


    ¡°And they might take it apart, but they¡¯d surely keep it nearby, just in case they needed a course correction, or they encountered an alien threat,¡± finished the pilot.  Nodded again, adding, ¡°Let¡¯s go have a look at that junk, Vee.  If the Slingshot can hurl a planet this far and this fast, I¡¯ll bet it can speedball a Titan all the way home to the Two Hundred Worlds in no time at all.¡±


    ¡®If you were truly Pilot, this would be a moment of triumph,¡¯ sent V47, triggering the Titan¡¯s conversion to Ship- mode.  Pilot replied as great motors thrummed to life all around him, turning the Titan from person-shaped mech to giant assault craft.


    ¡°I was created to treat with the Draugr and message back their response, Vee.  I didn¡¯t expect to survive that mission, much less to find myself here, taking over¡­ But Pilot sent me to finish this job, and that¡¯s what I mean to do.¡±


    ¡®Received and acknowledged, Pilot-of-now,¡¯ sent V47.  ¡®Forgive the delay, while I work to process and cope.¡¯


    ¡°Aye, that, Vee.  And¡­ I¡¯m sorry.¡±


    Meanwhile, the Titan¡¯s massive limbs drew inward.  Its torso split open, shifting the cockpit far forward and up, turning it into a quarterdeck.  Rumbling engines and whining servos shook the entire vessel, as it converted itself to a sleek, deadly spaceship.  Soon all that remained was a vast gunship with an elven-stock pilot and grieving AI.


    Needing to help V47, somehow, Pilot wondered,


    ¡°Vee, how good are you at theft?  Could you¡­ hypothetically¡­ remotely snag a small mass and replace it with a conjured likeness?  Fast enough that none of those robots would notice?¡±


    ¡®Replying to query.  Response: Affirmative, Pilot.  Such an action is well within my capacity.¡¯


    ¡°Right, then.  Aye, that¡­ and here¡¯s what we¡¯re going to do.¡±

 Sword and Sorcery Seven, chapter thirty-nine

    <u>39</u>


    Sheraza was lady and heir no longer, leaving her utterly numb and bereft; wrapped in a layer of self-imposed ice.  Her uncle had fallen to enemies, and everything¡­ all of his lands, his wealth and his titles¡­ had been stripped clean away.


    Sheraza had felt it when the blades struck flesh and slashed bone, hewing her uncle¡¯s head from his ravaged body.  Had seen through his eye, the face of the drow whose sword-point her uncle was speared upon.


    ¡­And she would never forget, could never forgive, nor give over.  Now, Sheraza was captive.  Her uncle¡¯s head was a trophy of war.  A mere <u>thing</u> to be traded.  Mocked at.  Displayed. No clean fire, no final death for Lord Arvendahl, whose last-magic curse hung over the empire like a fiery sword.  Blocked¡­ so long as his lordship didn¡¯t quite die.


    Sheraza had turned herself over to imperial justice in the form of Prince Nalderick, to save what was left of Milardin.  To give Uncle Falcoridan¡¯s curse some time to work free.  She would be taken to Karellon, the girl knew.


    And there, while His Majesty once again soared on a great golden dragon¡­ while crowds cheered aloud, and the drink poured in rivers¡­ Sheraza would face the imperial justiciars.  She would fight them, of course, trying hard to keep the few secrets and last bits of power she held.


    ¡­But they¡¯d have it all out of her, anyway.  She knew that.  No one resisted their methods for long.  Sheraza hugged herself, drawing her cloak tighter around a slim and shivering form.


    She must not fall into their hands, Sheraza decided.  She <u>had</u> to escape them, with two goals clutched hard in (couldn¡¯t weep, not here, not in front of her uncle¡¯s smug enemies) that broken young heart.  Two goals that kept her alive, when nothing else could.  She would retrieve Lord Arvendahl¡¯s head and his corpse for honors and burning, then bring justice to those who¡¯d encompassed his ruin.


    With everything else stripped away, vengeance was all she had left to live for.  <u>That</u>, and the strange pull and image tugging her thoughts toward Low Town, in Karellon.  There was a sword, and it sang in her mind like a banshee, revealing its purpose and power.  With that blade and one perfect strike, the girl sensed, she could bring down an empire, free a trapped god¡­ unleashing Chaos and hell.


    She felt the sword¡¯s call, but she could not respond.  Couldn¡¯t answer its summons.  Not from a cell aboard Majesty.  At least¡­ not at once.  Prince Nalderick cared for her, though.  He was ¡°in love¡±, she understood.  He thought her a delicate, beautiful, helpless prisoner, and those feelings might be made use of.


    <u>That¡¯s</u> why she didn¡¯t murmur when it was Nalderick who brought in her meals every day and supervised exercise time on the main deck.  She managed to answer a few of his conversational sallies, even¡­ but slowly, groping after impossible lightness and normalcy.  ¡°Flirtatious¡± and ¡°charming¡± weren¡¯t numbered among her skills.


    Still, she could lean on the dreadnought¡¯s polished brass rail, her face turned into the wind, watching stolen Alandriel pass underneath.  Nodding from time to time, as Nalderick poured out his hopes and his feelings.  Did not resist when he pressed his hand against hers, on the rail.  Let him hope.  Let him dangle in loving desire.  Doing so kept her bonds light, letting Sheraza build manna.


    Then a Constellate Grand Master arrived, and Sheraza was summoned to an inquest, facing her uncle¡¯s enemies across six feet of polished and carved wooden table.  They¡¯d been summoned to meet with the paladin, but not to speak of Lord Arvendahl.  Rather, three of the Grand Master¡¯s brethren were missing.  The same three roving paupers who¡¯d opened a chapter house in Milardin, surprisingly.  Sheraza provided a bit of information. No reason why not, when offering facts might loosen her magical bonds even further.


    After that¡­ and a private dinner with Nalderick¡­ everything turned upside down, yet again. There was another attack on Majesty.  Something struck hard, just after the prince departed her cell.  Not imps, boulders or sky-vines, this time.  From Sheraza¡¯s perspective, inside, it was as though a vast maw had taken hold of the dreadnought¡¯s keel, striking shark-like from out of the clouds below.


    Majesty shook and lurched violently upward.  A sudden, tornadic gale roared to life, and the heeled-over vessel started to spin.  Giant, electrified fangs splintered the hull timbers, one of them piercing Sheraza¡¯s cabin with an apocalyptic <u>CRUNCH!</u>  It glowed like a thunderbolt; blue-white and terribly powerful, as manna gushed from one of the airship¡¯s badly pierced tanks.  A vortex.


    Alarms tore through the air.  Marines and aerriors, mages, clerics and nobles leapt to the ship¡¯s defense as Majesty struggled to free itself.  Her chance.  Possibly the only one that she¡¯d get, and better by far than justiciars closing in with compulsion spells and bright knives.


    ¡°They¡¯ll think me dead, all of them¡­¡±  Sheraza thought wildly.  She stooped to her cabin¡¯s bucking and slanted floor (no magic to waste pretending the airship was upright.  Not in the midst of battle. None to expend keeping her pent, either.)  ¡°Now, or never at all!¡±If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.


    Sheraza scooped up a piece of glass that had broken away from the shattered porthole.  First, tore her own clothing and scattered the bits, then slashed at the flesh of her left forearm, in a place that would bleed but not cripple her.  Next spun about to spread her own blood all over that luxurious cabin; heart pounding, breath coming raggedly fast.


    ¡°If only the vortex will shift, if it takes a new grip on the hull!¡± she pled wildly, to whichever dark gods would answer a trapped and desperate girl.


    Then Majesty lurched violently sideways, hurling Sheraza to the slanted and shuddering floor.  She rolled, fetching up at an inner bulkhead, tangled in broken furnishings and the ornate bedclothes that Nalderick had probably hoped to stretch out on. The more fool, he.


    That lightning- bright fang ripped free of the hull, as the vortex took a new crunching hold on Majesty.  A second, volcanic creaking, grinding and splintering noise made the girl¡¯s head swim and her vision blur, shaking the air and the dreadnought¡­ but a hole was left in the hull, and through it Sheraza glimpsed streaming dark wind and a maw that pierced time and space.


    They¡¯d been the very first natural gates, these vortices¡­ a portal for those with more daring than sense, or nothing at all left to lose.  Sheraza fought her way clear of the storm-wrack at her cell¡¯s tilted rear wall.  Half climbed, half lunged her way upward, leaving a long smear of manna-and-terror spiked blood the whole way.  Gained that splintered and gaping wound in the hull, and then did not hesitate for a moment.  Instead, she threw herself outward, directly into that tempest-made-flesh.  There was a flood of leaked manna.  Almost too much, but Sheraza absorbed all that she could and then more.  She glowed like a star temporarily, like a comet plunging down into a cavernous, fang-and-lightning-shot throat.  Spun crazily all the way down to its wild-port center, thinking only, ¡°Karellon!  Low Town!¡±


    And then¡­


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Up on the shuddering main deck, meanwhile, Prince Nalderick fought like a demon. Defended the airship, directing his forces, mages and passengers as they rushed out to help.  The drow Grand Master was present, still, filled up with Oberyn¡¯s might.  And, glory, they <u>needed</u> it!


    The vortex had struck from below, attacking Majesty¡¯s keel, trying to break the dreadnought in half.  A screaming gale now had them pinned in a rapid and deadly flat spin.  The end of Majesty, unless the creaking airship could somehow break free.


    Lady Solara floated at mast-height, golden hair blowing loose all around her as she unleashed spells at that sentient, malevolent windstorm.  The lordlings¡­ Filimar and Valerian¡­ had shot skyward, as well; one with his crossbow, the other with firebolts, striking at the swirling, electric-blue eyes of the vortex.  Even Scander the healer fought back, summoning a mithral homunculus and an eldritch hand-cannon.


    Lashing, lightning-flare tentacles swept marines and aerriors off the badly-slanted deck.  Manna spurted from Majesty¡¯s riven tanks, causing chaotic changes all over the struggling dreadnought.


    So¡­ Nalderick wasn¡¯t a very good mage. He couldn¡¯t bend wind or summon a god.  Fighting near Captain Prentiss, he focused on striking with sword and shield at whatever was solid enough to be hit.  That vortex was a sending of Chaos.  A living and ravenous storm, but it <u>did</u> have some physical bits, and Nalderick hammered at those.


    There in the howling tempest, swirling all around Majesty, were blobs and tendrils of flesh, the storm¡¯s life and its distributed mind.  Each time that one of those chunks spiraled past him, Nalderick slashed at the thing, or else fired a bolt of pure force from the end of his magical sword.  Beside him, Prentiss wielded her lance, piercing and thrusting at crackling hide and rubbery, sucking innards.


    It was hard, dirty work but they kept at it, all of them.  Then, with a world-shaking <u>BANG!</u> one of the deck timbers split, exploding into a hell-storm of splinters. One of them would have pierced Nalderick, only Prentiss shoved him out of its way, losing part of her arm in shower of blood.  Scander got there in time to keep her from fainting, riding his homunculus¡¯s polished shoulders and spraying potion out of a hose.


    Once, Nalderick had a clear shot at the ¡°princeling¡±, Valerian.  The northerner was right <u>there</u> alongside the airship, unleashing Firelord¡¯s wrath at one of those dark, shifting blobs.  Nalderick could absolutely have hit and distracted him, causing Valerian¡¯s death.  No one at all would have known¡­ but for complex reasons of his own, he didn¡¯t do it.  Nalderick was a Valinor <u>prince</u>, and his loyal people were sacred¡­ even the possibly dangerous, family-secret ones.  On this day, here and now, Valerian lived.


    In the meantime, the Constellate Grand Master hovered just over Majesty¡¯s ruptured stern tank.  He was praying, and though the storm-winds snatched away words, they could not erase sigils as Darron called on his god.


    The vortex released Majesty, but only long enough to shift its grip sternward, trying to snap at that glowing-bright paladin.  Its renewed grapple tore loose the captain¡¯s office and part of the rudder, wrenching Majesty roughly sideways.  Sent the Grand Master tumbling away through that cyclonic tempest, but the damage was already done.  Lines of holy power plunged into the vortex, down to the living gate that pulsed at its heart.  Caged the wild thing in bonds of pure, divine magic.


    It was like harpooning a breeching world-serpent, and Darron was whipped back and forth at the end of his crackling tether, fighting just to hang on.  Meanwhile, Nalderick leapt to strike at a tumbling blue storm-eye, Filimar and Valerian combined their power to bring down a third drifting mind-blob, the halfling¡¯s eldritch cannon fired again and again, and Lady Solara cradled the dreadnought with vast, glowing mage hands.


    The wind dropped at last.  Writhing blobs and glaring eyes plunged past them or fell to the deck to be swarmed and hacked into shreds.  Solara reeled in that half-conscious paladin, while Nalderick lunged to catch Prentiss (missing her lower right arm where that splintered timber had shorn it away).


    And¡­ in all of the chaos of quick repair and desperate head-counts¡­ nobody noticed that Lady Sheraza was gone.

 Sword and Sorcery Seven, chapter forty

    <u>40</u>


    Three candle-marks later, Prince Nalderick stood in the ruins of a shattered and bloodied passenger cabin, fighting for self-control.  Lady Solara was with him, along with the halfling healer, Scander.  ¡­Not that there was anyone left in the cabin to rescue or treat.


    Lords Valerian and Filimar had been shifting debris and shorn timbers, but all that remained of the lady Sheraza were bloodstains and bits of torn cloth.  Then his golden-haired mage broke out of a scrying trance; ¡®here and now¡¯ coming back to her wide violet eyes.


    ¡°I do not sense death in this place, my prince,¡± she said to him, wobbling a little from headache and weariness.


    Valerian had gone across to the ragged hole that gaped through the cabin¡¯s outer bulkhead.  He leaned out, one had clenched to the hole¡¯s ragged edge.


    ¡°She may have jumped, Your Highness,¡± suggested the blond northerner, turning to look back at Nalderick; just a tall silhouette, surrounded by daylight and wind.  ¡°It is not wise, and no one with safer options would do so, but¡­¡±


    ¡°One may use the heart of a vortex to port oneself elsewhere,¡± finished Nalderick, clutching wildly at hope.  He sighed, then, gazing around at the luxury cell where he¡¯d dined with his beautiful prisoner.This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    If she¡¯d lived¡­ if she¡¯d freed herself¡­ where would Sheraza go next, wondered Nalderick? (And what would he do if he found her again?)  Filimar set down a beam end, shaking his head.


    ¡°I did not know her well, my prince¡­ our branch of the family never ranked highly enough to merit much of his lordship¡¯s attention¡­ but she is an Arvendahl, and that is proud, stubborn blood.  Lady Sheraza is loyal, right into the grave and beyond.  If she¡¯s found a way out, she will build up her strength and re-arm.  If¡­¡±


    ¡°Go on,¡± said the prince, very quietly.  One hand was clenched to the hem of his own slashed ebon cloak, just barely not trembling.  ¡°If <u>what</u>?¡±


    Filimar took a deep breath, glanced over at Val, and said,


    ¡°My prince, I don¡¯t presume to advise.  You have smarter people than either of <u>us</u> to do that, but¡­ if it were me, I would triple the guard over Lord Arvendahl¡¯s corpse and his head.  She will want to honor her lost one, Sire, as I would have given my soul to do for my dad.¡±


    ¡°As anyone would,¡± added Valerian, joining his raven-haired heart friend.  ¡°My prince, there is the game.  We¡¯re committed to that.  But, afterward, by your leave¡­ we can seek for news of Lady Sheraza.  I intended to go to Lobum on a personal errand, but I am willing to search for her ladyship, first.¡±


    Solara gave him a scathing look.  She could have raised a blister on granite, with those scornful and slitted eyes.  With a snort, she said,


    ¡°Your highness, this pair of backwater idiots could not find the end of a bag from inside.  I shall join them, my prince.  If, that is, I have leave to do so?¡±


    Nalderick sighed, not looking at them, but seeing a pale and beautiful, chilly face.


    ¡°Alive,¡± he whispered.  ¡°I want her back, whatever it takes, but safe and whole and alive.  To all seven layers of Doom with the game.  I concede it.  Find my lady, bring her back safe, and all that you ask for is yours.¡±

 Sword and Sorcery Eight, chapter one

    <u>Part 8, chapter</u><u> 1</u>


    The silence lasted a mere three heartbeats after Miche departed that hovering, egg-shaped shrine. He came backward through the portal to find himself at the dead center of a towering hedge-maze; griffin-patterned mosaic below, transparent dome arcing high overhead. Not all alone, though.


    ¡°Well, that was amusing,¡± remarked Lord Erron, inside of his mind.


    ¡°Shut up,¡± snapped the elf, drawing his tattered red cloak and his dignity tighter around himself.


    ¡°As a ride-along observer, and I do mean ri¡­¡±


    ¡°I said, <u>shut it</u>! Be silent!¡± snarled Miche, fumbling his energy blade out of a faerie pocket and then hurriedly lighting the thing. Sparked three feet of crackling sword and pivoted wildly. Only¡­ there was no one to fight. ¡°Leave off!¡±


    He was too sick yet from parting, too worried for Fina, to accept any teasing. Just stood there swaying, facing an internal voice. Then Erron said,


    ¡°Understood. I spoke out of turn, and I apologize for it. You can be rid of me, if that is your preference,¡± offered the elf-lord, when Miche didn¡¯t respond. ¡°All it would take is deleting my memory file. I am as much a recording as I am a ghost, young warrior.¡±


    The elf doused his blade after a blank-hot-furious moment. Then, shaking his head, he got himself under control again.


    ¡°No. Never,¡± he said. ¡°You are my friend. I just¡­ reacted without thinking, is all.¡±


    Nameless had observed all of this in silence. Now the marten chittered a warning, quieting both voices (inside and out). Miche whirled to face the nearest opening. It was an arch formed of bent-over branches, eight¡­ maybe eight-and-a-half feet in height. There was movement. A stealthily rustling shadow, but no scent of monster or person. The elf took a cautious step forward, sword in hand though not reignited. Saw¡­


    Not one of Gottshan¡¯s barbaric inhabitants. It was a robot maze-guardian, peeking around through the arch. Just a big metal griffin with shining gold eyes and brightly enameled feathers of black, red and silver. Miche stared for a moment, then found himself smiling. He relaxed a little, as it came to him that he <u>liked</u> griffins.


    The robot guardian squawked aloud, making a noise like a basilisk who¡¯d swallowed a tin-plated whistle. In the ten-thousand years since Gottshan¡¯s collapse, had anyone else reached the center? (Right, so, he¡¯d actually <u>cheated</u>, dropping down from above, but he¡¯d been terribly busy and very allergic to arrows and spears.)


    ¡°<u>Squawk</u>!¡± cried the robot griffin, clanging and rustling, raking the ground with its talons. And so "Squawk" it became.


    Now, quite unable to help himself, the elf put his hand out and started slowly forward across the tile floor. Made no sound at all but his heartbeat and breathing.


    ¡°Hello, there,¡± he said, very quietly. Gently. ¡°It looks as though you could use a charge and some maintenance, Squawk.¡±


    The griffin cocked its head to one side, coming partway through that arched opening. Its surface gleamed in the light that filtered through Gottshan¡¯s dusty, scaffolded sphere. A bit dented in places, but whole and still functional.


    A few more soft paces spanned the short distance between them. Then, crooning and clucking as one would to a strange horse or a dog, he placed his hands on the robot¡¯s warm metal carapace. It vibrated faintly, with here and there the catch and screek of worn gears and a flawed perpetual motion machine.


    Easy enough to put right, and doing so sorted Miche out, too. Fixing the mess outside of himself had a way of doing that. The griffin sidled nearer; all color-shot feathers and rattling talons. Utterly beautiful.


    The mechanical beast was quite large, and barely able to fly. Low manna and considerable weight made all but the shortest hops impossible, Miche discovered. Still, quite an impressive creature, once polished and magically healed. It was taller than Miche, with a twenty-foot clattering wingspan. That put a thought in his head, as he worked to burnish those sharp-feathered wings.The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    ¡°Squawk, I have a mission for you,¡± said the elf, caressing the griffin¡¯s sleek metal head. ¡°If you will come along to the start of this maze, I believe we can forge lasting peace¡­ or else break a few heads (whichever is easiest). Me, I vote broken skulls, but I tend to think with my spells and my sword.¡±


    Squawk responded with a short, tinny screech, butting the elf¡¯s armored chest with its head. It listened intently to Miche¡¯s idea, seeming to fully absorb what it heard. The plan was a simple enough one¡­ if the folk of Gottshan would follow orders. If its griffin would heed his command.


    The elf cheated again, going out. His robot ally knew all the right turnings and how to avoid dozens of pits, traps, illusions and loops.


    Anyhow, on reaching the final grand archway, the elf stepped through with one hand on his griffin friend¡¯s shoulder. Found the North- and South-enders gathered right at the edge of their respective borders. Waiting.


    His appearance sent a ripple and hiss through both murderous crowds, causing their spearheads to waver and arrows to droop; making grey-painted faces slacken with awe. <u>Right</u>. Miche still hated them, but¡­


    ¡°Maybe,¡± said the last elf, very quietly. ¡°All of this is my fault. Whatever I did has dragged you and your city into this state, and¡­ if so, I am sorry. I am trying to repair the damage. Just¡­ stop fighting each other. Explore Gottshan. Learn from the city around you! Squawk, here, will keep you apart and maintain the peace, in the meantime.¡±


    Except that those wondering people could not understand him. They just aped his words, chanting them over and over like holy writ or an epic. The last line of their mantra ¡°There¡¯s no talking to you!¡± still rang in the air as Miche gathered his cloak around him and shot off for the heights.


    Up and away from the park, its maze and its shrine he arose, like a glowing and tattered phoenix. Straight to a nearby emergency hatch. There was a coded lock on its threshold, but the door yielded at once to a tap of his memory-drive, no fumbling or guessing required. Then, after swinging it noisily open, the elf faced a sort of small anteroom and a second emergency door. This one led to the city¡¯s surface.


    There, the sun was setting through clouds of rust, and that staticky light-wall was close enough to cast shadows. His own slender shade arrowed straight as a spear, pointing right back at the nearby Dark Cloud. That menacing light wall was full-moon bright, but he didn¡¯t have much time to stare. Marget roared wildly, launching herself at the elf from a twisted, pried-open vent.


    She knocked him down, hard; sent him skidding away on heavy, transparent plastic. Pounced as he rolled to the side, then punched him with both her flesh and her construct arms, while Nameless leapt on her head. She batted the marten aside, still lunging forward at Miche. He got a spell-shield up and managed to parry or dodge most of her blows. Couldn¡¯t bring himself to strike back, though. She was his friend and his sister, and anger for Meg equaled love. Most of the wrath drained from her all at once as he was gathered up and held close; wounded and reeling, but still alive.


    ¡°Just once¡­¡± he oofed. ¡°Could you be¡­ <u>urk</u>¡­ glad to see me without¡­ <u>unh</u>¡­ cracking my ribs?¡±


    ¡°A quarter candle-mark!¡± raged Marget, shaking him. ¡°You said a quarter candle-mark, and it has been nearly <u>two</u>! I counted!¡±


    She probably had. Now her red eyes were slitted in fury and deep concern. The orc¡¯s nostrils flared wide, while her tusks reflected the sunset and shimmering wall.


    ¡°You did not follow the plan, Old One!¡± accused meg, flushing a very dark green.


    ¡°I¡­ <u>unf</u>¡­ ran into some¡­ <u>truh</u>¡­ trouble!¡± he told her, as well as he could while being beaten like a rug.


    ¡°Explain!¡± she demanded, setting him down again. He wobbled a bit, but managed to say,


    ¡°I, erm¡­ dropped inside of the docking well through a hatch, and then came under attack by creatures with hooked blades and skill at mimicry¡­ Then, the city docked as I was still fighting, so I retreated inside. Being wounded¡­. No, not that badly. I¡¯m healed, now¡­ I recovered, then set off to explore, seeking the shrine and then a way out. The city is still inhabited, but its folk are a lot of wild barbarians.¡±


    Meg cocked a dark eyebrow, causing Miche to course-correct.


    ¡°That is, they were a flock of lowing merchants and farmers. They stampeded when¡­ when I neared their crops, but I managed to reach the shrine, where I had to fight its goddess many, many times over.¡± And there was no need to go any further than that, decided the elf.


    ¡°Uhn. You have repaired this one, too?¡± asked Marget, turning him roughly around to re-plait his straying blond hair.


    ¡°Yes, and there are two more to go, but¡­¡± Miche looked up and across at that hissing and crackling light-wall. ¡°I think that we¡¯ll have to deal first with <u>that</u>.¡±


    The wall had cut across Gottshan¡¯s deep track, pinning the mobile city in its last available docking bay. Marget grunted once more, then drew back. Seized the elf¡¯s shoulder, growling,


    ¡°<u>This</u> time, Vrol, I go with you. There is always trouble, when you are alone.¡±


    Miche did not object. Just collected Nameless again, interrupting a meal of late evening bugs. The marten swarmed up his red cloak in a flurry of barks and sharp claws, then took a perch on the elf¡¯s right shoulder, snapping at insects. Miche sighed. He was going to need cleansing again, but¡­


    ¡°This time we¡¯ll be quick,¡± he promised the orc; wrong, as usual.

 Sword and Sorcery Eight, chapter two

    <u>2</u>


    So, taking Marget¡¯s big-knuckled hand, Miche levitated away from Gottshan. By himself, he tended to spiral when rising. Much less so, with a friend in tow. As for Nameless, that pest was halfway out of his cloak-hood lair; forepaws clenched tight to the elf¡¯s right shoulder, masked little face to the wind, whiskers and fur rippling like wheat.


    Gottshan dropped away beneath them, trapped in its final docking well, transparent shell catching and splitting the setting sun¡¯s rays. Dark Cloud had fallen back a little, Miche noticed. No other choice, probably, with that implacable wall of staticky light bearing down like an axe-blade.


    Well, <u>that</u> he could do something about, thought the elf. Gathering up the region¡¯s sparse manna, he put some eastward slant into his climb. From a distance, the wall was a flickering, endless expanse of white light. Seen closer to, there were images in it of people, objects and places long vanished and stored.


    Marget¡¯s hand tightened on Miche¡¯s. She hated flying, preferring nice, solid ground for its bracing and strength. Their altitude wasn¡¯t what troubled her, though.


    ¡°I do not recall being taken, Old One,¡± she called out (yelling over the wind, though he could sort through its howl for her voice, well enough). ¡°I had turned to face those who issued a challenge for mating, and we fought through the rise of a thunderstorm. Then the weather changed, <u>you</u> broke in, and two unworthy ones died.¡±


    Miche nodded, slowing their rise to a gentle drift. The wind dropped, making it easier to speak. Up here, those streamers of rust were much less, and the light of the sun not so filtered and smeared. He answered the orc, saying,


    ¡°Your return gives me hope that this world¡¯s missing places and folk have been recorded somehow, Meg. That we can still find them all.¡±


    They hung in midair by that crackling and hissing static-wall, watching its cascade of symbols and images. There was a very strong force here. Not magic, exactly. Something else.


    ¡°Technology,¡± supplied Lord Erron. He was partly visible, thanks to the wall, looking brown-haired, blue-eyed and grim. ¡°It is a sort of counter-magic developed by mortals, when manna started to fade. Very strong, especially when combined with our people¡¯s sorcery.¡±


    Miche nodded again, pulling a cylindrical memory-drive out of its pocket.


    ¡°This, then, is more technology?¡± he asked the hovering elf-ghost.


    ¡°It is. From around my time, I would say¡­ but packed with more information than I¡¯ve ever noted on such a device.¡±


    ¡­And that was important. Miche <u>knew</u> it¡­ just couldn¡¯t parse why. Not very clearly. Marget had been staring upward at a sky divided cleanly in half, seeing shimmering static on one side, and a sea of junked wreckage and blossoming night on the other.


    ¡°How far up does it go, think you, Vrol?¡± she wondered aloud.


    ¡°We¡¯ll find out,¡± he promised her, squeezing the orc¡¯s right hand. (Her glass-wood-and-mithral left was clamped to the haft of her axe.)


    Drifting cautiously nearer, Miche stared at that tempest of coded data. There was depth to it, as things swam up from behind or sank in once again. Some of its whirling sigils were familiar. Others, entirely new. He memorized those in all four dimensions. (One never knew what might come in handy, later.) After that, he held out the powerful memory-drive. Touched its bright metal end to the static- wall¡¯s surface and¡­


    <u>Yes</u>, the wall recoiled; driven instantly, violently backward the way it had come, over three-hundred miles. But that wasn¡¯t all. This time, instead of just forming dark, spreading waves, flecks of crimson, scarlet and wine shot together from all over the light-wall, taking the shape of a giant red spiral. Before Miche could react, a bolt of dark energy lanced through him and then Marget. It could not haul them inside. Not while he clung to his memory-drive. Just altered¡­ distorted¡­ reversed them. As a terrible change came over him, the elf managed to throw a shield over Erron¡¯s stored memory file, protecting Nameless, as well.


    Crying out, Miche next wrenched himself free. Plummeted out of the sky, then, still holding Meg¡¯s hand, trailing his tattered cloak like the tail of a comet. Succeeded in slowing their plunge, but just barely. He could not aim his descent; simply dropped to the ground in a stomach-lurch, cloth-and-hair-whipping, spiraling swoop.


    They crashed hard onto something that crumbled to rust-flakes beneath them, falling through several floors after that, raising a storm of corrosion and booming-loud echoes. Hit a surface that didn¡¯t collapse right away, but he was too wracked with fiery pain to get up. Tried to curl himself tight, instead, jerking and writhing on rusted machinery, as everything changed all at once.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Far off in time, but nearby in space, Karellon was decked for a great celebration. Bunting and banners, golden kites and magical orbs filled the streets and the skies overhead. Powerful music jangled and blared, as three things happened at once.


    Firstly, Magister Serrio¡¯s fair showed up in Karellon. Delighted citizens swarmed from their beds to gape and point upward, watching a spiral of colorful wagons descend. That shimmering caravan circled their walls a full three times, then glided on down to the crystal plaza at Five Points.


    It was an instant holiday, as showers of fey-gold and tickets sprayed from gargoyle-mouths on each wagon. Karellors clapped along with Magister Serrio¡¯s jaunty theme song. The music rose to a trilling crescendo, then blent in with Karellon¡¯s proud imperial fanfare (which never went silent, this close to the emperor¡¯s ride). Meanwhile, the comforting scents of spice-bark, mulled wine, fried food and roasting grains filled the air.


    Children leaned out of their bedroom windows, shrieking and laughing. Dogs barked, flame-lizards hissed, and crowds gathered to watch the caravan settle. Each wagon struck the ground with a different funny or musical sound, then began to unfold, proving much larger inside than out.


    Secondly: Over in Low Town, a blizzard of discount tickets whirled through the narrow streets and back alleys, delivering themselves (and providing some cover for two skulking crewmen just trying to purchase supplies). Back on the Falcon, Captain Hallan Gelfrin, Laurol, Conn and all three paladins received their own discount coupons. The glittering cards were folded up into bird-shapes, at first. Each one fluttered down to its addressee, twirling at face height then flattening out to reveal a ticket printed on copper and cream-colored paper.


    ¡°Low, low price,¡± read the captain, frowning a little. ¡°I¡¯m not certain how I feel about my name and location being so obvious¡­ but it <u>is</u> Serrio,¡± he mused, still kid enough to feel some excitement and hope.


    Hal stood on deck with Laurol, Serrit Conn, Nadia, Vorbol and Villem, there at the seediest, most verminous dock in all Karellon. It was hardly past fourth watch, with dawn still two candle-marks off. With music surging and colorful wagons now streaking the sky like a flock of luminous birds.


    ¡°Maybe Magister Serrio would know what to do with Destroyer?¡± suggested Villem (Brother Arnulf, when busy at paladin chores). ¡°He¡¯s a mighty sorcerer, and even a fated sword can¡¯t come as a shock to someone who¡¯s been alive since the founding¡­ can it?¡±Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.


    No one scoffed at his faith. Magister Serrio had always just been. Always would be, too; old as the sun¡¯s patient cycle, bringing enchantment and wonder wherever he went. Captain Gelfrin held up a hand for silence, seeming to listen to something inside of himself. Then,


    ¡°Not-Jonn says that we¡¯ve picked up some spies,¡± murmured young Hal, looking around at creaking scows and a rickety pile-up of docks. ¡°Falcon¡­ um, Speedy, that is¡­ just informed me. I think that bringing our trouble to Magister Serrio is a good idea, and this seems like the best cover we¡¯re going to get, but we¡¯d better separate, and somebody has to remain with the ship.¡±


    Nadia (Sister Constant) nodded agreement, smiling a bit at the captain.


    ¡°Turn your back on so much as an overturned bucket in this place, and it¡¯ll be stripped to the rivets and handle before you can shout, Goat-napping thieves.¡±


    ¡°I never say that,¡± rumbled the orc (Brother Humble). ¡°I say Ghash krast min sharv!¡± (An oath which scorched the air, crisping the ends of everyone¡¯s hair and their fair tickets.)


    ¡°Less cursing in front of a superior officer,¡± snapped the red-haired young captain (though he memorized every last word of that blistering oath.) ¡°Anyhow, this is the plan. Vorbol, you and Mister Conn will remain here with Speedy. I¡¯ll take the north alley with Nadia, heading for¡­¡± he glanced at his smoldering ticket again, this time finding a helpful map printed there. ¡°¡­Five Points. Villem, you¡¯ll go with Laurol by way of Wizard¡¯s Row¡­ and keep a low profile until you¡¯re safe at the fair. If anyone asks, you¡¯re a couple of mercenaries trying out for the city guard. We¡¯ll meet up inside, at the admission booth.¡±


    The others nodded, so Hal turned next to the female paladin. Rubbed at the back of his neck for a moment, then lit up with a sudden idea.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be a sightseer, here in town for the first time with my¡­ um¡­ <u>wife</u>, Nadia.¡±


    Thankfully, Sister Constant didn¡¯t just laugh at him.


    ¡°I¡¯ve come up in the world,¡± she joked, accepting the elf¡¯s bent arm (along with a cleansing and clothes-changing spell). ¡°From goatherd to wandering sister to Captain¡¯s Wife¡­ when all that the astrologers wrote was ¡®Beware: foul temper¡¯!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not a captain, here,¡± Hallan reminded her, keeping his voice low. ¡°I¡¯m a¡­ traveling wool merchant. That¡¯s it. Might as well stick to what both of us know.¡±


    They left soon afterward. First Villem and Laurol, then the captain and Nadia, slipping over Falcon¡¯s starboard rail, onto a set of conjured and bobbing wood steps. Their departure was covered by Magister Serrio¡¯s stunning arrival¡­ and by Vorbol and Conn, who created a violent commotion onboard the docked airship. Pretending to quarrel, the pair drew eyes and bets with their cursing and knives.


    In that way, the Sword escaped into Karellon, mostly unnoticed. Calling out to the ones who might wield it for Order or Chaos. Whichever was first and most worthy.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Thirdly: A hundred miles distant, up in the mountainside lair, Emperor Ildarion leaned on a marble column, watching his dragon grow steadily weaker. Vernax was dying again, having reached the fraught age of one-hundred-seven years old. The great reptile was magically bound to return to the egg at one-hundred-and-seven, to prevent it from ever achieving full power and sentience.


    It glowed faintly, now, semi-transparent and pulsing. Ildarion had faced the dragon¡¯s rebirth five times already. He thought he could manage a sixth, though the battle grew harder, more grueling, each time.


    He did not dare to rest or leave his mount¡¯s lair, lest Vernax shift back to an egg and then hatch with no one around to control a raging reborn young dragon. It was just past midwinter. Chaos was still at high-tide, and Vernax could not be allowed to rampage unchecked. Thirsty, hungry and (most of all) tired, Ildarion stayed at his post; keeping watch as his mount made ready to die.


    Wearily, the emperor straightened away from his ornate marble prop and then started to walk around Vernax. Coins, gems and junk shifted and clinked underfoot as Ildarion made his slow circuit. The dragon twitched an eyelid. White smoke curled up from one nostril. It rumbled softly, but that was all the response that Ildarion got. Vernax was far too close to death and rebirth to awaken for its rider¡­ its master. Its friend.


    Ildarion touched Vernax from time to time as he circled the dragon¡¯s rock-and-bone bed. Patted a taloned foreleg¡­ a folded wing¡­ the long tail that was wrapped so tightly around it. Came back at last to the dragon¡¯s vast, wedge-shaped head.


    But something was wrong.


    The exhausted emperor turned a full circle, looking closely around at the lair. Treasure was piled up in heaps with worthless junk and old kills. Stacked to half the height of the marble columns in most places, deeper than that in others, reaching all the way to the cavern mouth and its broad granite sun ledge, spilling right over the cliff. No trouble there, not even from cursed, stolen objects. Ildarion shook his head, causing tension to flare in his cramped neck muscles.


    It was still dark outside, as dawn was over two candle-marks off. But his trouble came not from the heavens. Not from the city below, nor from the wagons now circling out of the sky. Not even from Vernax, twitching in dreams of conquest and flight.


    Its source was within him, somehow; springing out of the most carefully shielded and heavily guarded mind in all Karandun. It came from himself. Just a whisper of summons¡­ but Ildarion heard, and he couldn¡¯t ignore it. Something had dared call the emperor. He shook his aching head once again. Ran a long-fingered hand through his brown hair (worn loose to ease that near-constant ache). Wary of spell-craft that might be twisted by Chaos here at the heart of midwinter, Ildarion snapped,


    ¡°Korvin!¡±


    ¡°Here I am, Sire,¡± replied his heir, appearing from seemingly nowhere. His only acknowledged son was no warrior, scorning armor and weapons for sorcery, potions and books¡­ But he was loyal. Subtle and strong in his own quiet fashion.


    ¡°Deign to reveal your will, Majesty,¡± said the scholarly Prince Ascendant, bowing before Ildarion. Reedy and ink-stained, Korvin was as brown-haired and green-eyed as most of the Valinors. As¡­ somebody else had once been.


    ¡°A tincture of easement, Korvin, if you have any about you, and then order a check on the palace warding spells. There has been a chaotic intrusion. I would have you send guards and mages to hunt the thing down to its source and then finish it. I must not be distracted now!¡±


    Korvin bowed again, making a very slight rustle of musty robes and stashed papers.


    ¡°Another intrusion,¡± murmured the Prince Ascendant. ¡°First the palace gardens are breached through a river, and now the lair. Very strange. What form has the sending taken, if I may ask, Your Majesty?¡±


    Korvin was always quite proper and formal. He had not addressed Ildarion as ¡°father¡± since that long-ago awful day in the court of Imperial Justice. No matter. Ildarion required an heir, not a traitorous friend or a hunting and gaming companion. Not ever again. Driving memory off, he said,


    ¡°It is a summoning call, as though someone or thing would conjure me up like a demon. I am very much warded, and yet still I feel it, boy. I command you to send forth your agents. Find and eliminate the call¡¯s origin¡­ and fetch me that tincture. My head feels ready to burst.¡±


    ¡°Aye, Sire,¡± murmured the scholarly prince, producing a mithral flask from one of his over-stuffed pockets. ¡°Three drops to the tongue, Your Majesty. No more, lest you fall into a long, healing sleep,¡± advised Korvin, wafting the flask to Ildarion. Then, clearing his throat, the prince ventured,


    ¡°If I may, Sire¡­ about that earlier intrusion¡­¡±


    ¡°You have permission to speak,¡± said his majesty (as well as he could while applying three opaline drops of relief to his tongue).


    Korvin took a deep breath. Scrubbed the palms of both hands on his own wrinkled and inky grey robe. Then,


    ¡°Sire, the unnamed one is known to have fathered a child, and it appears that one of¡­¡±


    Ildarion straightened, pivoting to glare at the only son he had left.


    ¡°That one is never again to be spoken of in my presence, Korvin, nor its crime to be mentioned,¡± hissed the emperor, as Vernax shifted behind him, cracking an eyelid and rumbling.


    Korvin bowed even deeper, hands clasped together inside his wide sleeves.


    ¡°Of course, Your Majesty. My humble and abject apologies. I regret having misspoken, and it shall not happen again.¡±


    No matter the cost to the empire. No matter at all that his exiled brother¡¯s great-grandchild had turned up in Karellon, protected by fate and moved by the gods. Burying truth, Korvin said,


    ¡°I shall triple the wards, Sire, then bring down the source of this call. It shall be found and destroyed, my oath on it.¡±


    He¡¯d learned early and well, had Prince Korvin. He¡¯d seen the price of rebellion. Had cried all that night and then rose up full-grown, purged of tears and emotion. There was no point in loving those he could not protect¡­ but he could keep certain things to himself. Nalderick¡¯s foolish love for the Arvendahl girl¡­ Genevera¡¯s willful escape and ill-advised marriage¡­ this descendant of Xxxxxxx, his exiled brother.


    You see, Korvin alone remembered his sibling¡¯s name. Had woven it into spells, wards and cantrips all over the palace and city. The name was broken to syllables, true, but there it was at the empire¡¯s root. Allowing his older brother¡­ or the exiled prince¡¯s descendants¡­ unbarred access to Karellon. Should he ever come back, no gate would stay closed, and no weapon would harm him. That was what Korvin had done.


    The result was this ¡°Valerian¡±, who¡¯d proven surprisingly tough under questioning. Through whom (blood calling to blood) perhaps he might yet find Xxxxxxx. The older prince was not dead, Korvin knew. He¡¯d have felt it, despite the decree of their father.


    He did not stoop to prayer. Had no truck at all with the gods, who¡¯d hadn¡¯t listened that night and wouldn¡¯t be asked again. Instead, Korvin planned, and he wove. Now, with pieces all over the game board, and a pattern just starting to form, the Prince Ascendant bowed low. Took obsequious leave of the emperor, then set off to track down a whispering voice.

 Sword and Sorcery Eight, chapter three

    <u>3</u>


    Half a parallax-second was a considerable distance to cross when limited to multi-light speed, but V47 Pilot would not use hyperdrive, ever again. He had two <u>other</u> possibilities, though. The first was obvious; a combination of free, surging manna and primitive space-folding. The second he thought of, later, when circumstance forced him to try something different; to think with his head instead of his weapons, for once.


    With patience, power and ¡°a whole lot of stupid¡±, you could fold space <u>artistically</u>, leaving patterns behind for others to gawk at. (Practically the entire plot of Rogue Flight: season eleven.) V47 Pilot had a real excuse for that big, embossed symbol, though. Maybe he¡¯d promised not to tell anyone which way the masters had gone, but he could certainly leave a bold hint in the wrinkles of spacetime. Tough to miss, and sure to get someone¡¯s attention sooner or later.


    Right, so, V47 and Pilot did what they did, quietly taking something away. Next, stamped a big mark to puzzle and delight future wayfarers, causing a series of steep, curving hills in spacetime. Those swirls took the shape of Varda: I perceive. Sliding along fourth-dimensional folds, it took them three days to reach that accumulation of huge, drifting parts. They scanned and recorded the entire process, coming at last to a spherical cloud of evenly spaced giant chunks that tumbled along in Etherion¡¯s wake. The pieces were blocks, spars, gears, antennae and rotors, along with some wire-shot blobs that he couldn¡¯t identify. They were cold, dark, ancient and silent¡­ mostly. Five of the pieces were massive enough to have their own atmosphere, biota and weather. Two of the largest chunks had developed cities, with basic radio and even some space-flight capacity.


    The Titan¡¯s wake and its ion-stream triggered a sudden burst of activity on Block World and Long Spar, causing lenses to rise and queries to fly as their inhabitants tried to make contact. Nor was that all. From this vantage point, with Etherion lost in the distance, that string of red, dying stars stood forth like the pins on an enemy-contact chart.


    ¡°The slingshot is a murder weapon, Vee,¡± murmured Pilot, scanning as far as he could along that trail of vampirized suns. ¡°Even if there were no sentient inhabitants on any of those star systems¡­¡±


    ¡®There is a .081% probability of encountering intelligent life without making an effort to do so, Pilot,¡¯ sent V47. ¡®I do not believe that the presence or absence of life would be a consideration for the masters, however. They would simply power their flight and move on, whatever the cost to others.¡¯


    Pilot shook his head, causing the armored Titan he wore to mimic his action.


    ¡°I hate them, Vee. For starting a conflict then leaving us to fight it, for enslaving the other races and murdering stars¡­ they deserve to be punished, only¡­ Only, I promised to leave them alone.¡±


    ¡®We are an onboard system and Pilot,¡¯ sent V47. ¡®It is for us to engage in battle, defend the Two Hundred Worlds and record observations. Not to administer justice, even with Left-Hand Protocol. The masters demand solitude, which they have surely found.¡¯Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators!


    Etherion¡¯s bloody path had taken the wandering planet to the edge of an enormous black void. Here there was manna aplenty, and no stars at all but that string of drained stellar husks. A broad, curving arm of the galaxy glittered behind them like frost on a porthole, while chunks of the slingshot here and there flashed little lights of their own. In desperate pictures and code, they pled: <u>Is anyone there? Can you perceive us, Great Construct?</u> And V47 Pilot did not know how to respond. Just¡­


    ¡°If we assemble and fire the slingshot, Vee, those beings will perish.¡±


    ¡®Affirmative, Pilot. Scans reveal them to be at a primitive city-state and radio-contact level of development. They have no means of defending themselves or of taking shelter, and no place to go but Etherion.¡¯


    ¡°Which is too far away to be reached by chemical rocket, even if refugees would be welcomed there,¡± finished the pilot, viewing scans of the mutable creatures gathered on ridges and rooftops, searching the skies overhead for an answer.


    Pilot retreated to his cockpit, returning his consciousness to a flesh-and-bone body. A warm cocoon of familiar sensations¡­ the hum, whine, vibration and lights of home¡­ surrounded Pilot as his mind readjusted to ¡°little and weak¡±. Back in his own fragile body, Pilot gazed up at the camera eye that V47 created over his couch. Saw himself through the AI¡¯s feed, then. Just a regular cyborg pilot. A chrome-and-white plated guy, with a very tough decision to make. The frequency shifted again, down below. The message changed, too: <u>This is a historic day for our people, Great Construct. We hope to greet you and learn from our meeting</u>.  Meanwhile, the curving Long Spar had launched a flock of slow-moving probes for a closer look at their giant visitor. Their signal strength was pathetic.


    ¡°I¡¯ll bet this has happened to them before,¡± ventured the pilot. ¡°That life <u>always</u> arises on these pieces because of their power core¡­ that most of the time it evolves to some kind of intelligence, only to get scrubbed out whenever the slingshot activates.¡±


    ¡®That conjecture has a 92.351% probability of correctness, Pilot,¡¯ sent V47.


    ¡°And here we are. Just one more cataclysm in a long chain of disasters,¡± murmured the cyborg. He reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose, then, setting cables and feed-wires swaying all over the cockpit. Felt torn by headache, confusion and stress. ¡°They keep trying to get our attention, Vee¡­ and how different are we from the masters, if we just ignore that and bring down their world, again?¡±


    The AI started a pain-relief drip and soft music, causing the couch to massage the back of his neck. ¡®I cannot answer that query,¡¯ V47 responded.


    ¡°No¡­ and I guess I can¡¯t either,¡± said the pilot, rewatching three-hundred-fifty-nine episodes of Rogue Flight at once. (The good ones.) Didn¡¯t ask himself what Ace would have done, nor Icebox, Boomer or Raptor, either. Instead, ¡°What would your <u>real</u> pilot¡­ the one stuck in Etherion¡¯s Haven¡­ what would <u>he</u> do, Vee?¡±


    The reply was a half-tick coming. An eternity, for V47.


    ¡®Responding to query: He would do the right thing, Messenger Pilot. He would stand between those who are helpless and that which threatens them.¡¯


    ¡°Uh-huh¡­ Thought so. Answer the Block World and Long Spar transmissions, Vee. Greet them and offer peace. Tell them¡­ say that we¡¯ve come to exchange data and share our technology. Change must start here if anywhere at all, and we¡¯ll find some other way back. We¡¯ll come up with a workaround, Vee. Just like always.¡±


    V47 got right down to business, contacting both of those strangely shaped worlds. Maybe he¡¯d chosen wrongly, but it was the only decision the pilot could make, as anxious small creatures below embraced one another, flashing welcome and peace, in return.

 Sword and Sorcery Eight, chapter four

    <u>4</u>


    He was on fire.  Burning from within as skin was torn and muscles burst through.  His shoulders snapped apart at their joints with an awful, wet popping noise.  Then they branched and reformed in a shower of spurting blood, dragging webs of ripped flesh along with them.


    <u>At the base of his spine, as well</u>.


    He transformed.  Unwillingly, horribly, inside and out, to the sound of his own pain wracked cries, the marten¡¯s wild screeching and guttural howls from the orc.  He writhed as that change seemed to flay him alive, crushing ancient machines to bloody dust in his agonized frenzy.


    And it <u>hurt</u>.  Right down to his soul, which was pulled inside out and reversed; hooked partly free, its alignment forcibly altered.  He vomited bile and flecks of himself that hadn¡¯t been grafted.  Surged repeatedly into the air, then collapsed again, thrashing in piled-up debris.


    <u>But he¡¯d never been able to change who he was</u>.


    Rolled over. Caught sight of the orc¡­ the¡­ Marget, his sister¡­ She¡¯d ballooned in size to nearly the mass of a cave-troll, with a misshapen, powerful body and a face that was mostly fanged mouth.  Only her tiny red eyes retained Meg, as she clawed at herself, fighting to tear off that monstrous bulk.  It was her plight¡­ the flickering loss of her conscious awareness¡­ that moved him to get up and do something.


    If he had one last shred of order and good in him, a final unblemished spell he could work¡­


    ¡°<u>Stop</u>,¡± he commanded, lunging at Marget, hand outstretched.  Inscribed Rayna (¡°I compel¡±) in midair, leaving a trail of mingled red fire and glittering light.  A desperate effort, but just this one time, his last bit of order won through.  The sigil glowed pure, shining white.  The spell succeeded, halting Meg¡¯s transformation halfway through.  The sorcery left her physically altered, but still partly conscious.  Not fully a troll.


    <u>And there were no more elves left in the Dark World, now</u>.


    He rose from his crouch, swaying and reeling; trying to deal with more body parts than he knew how to manage.  The tail could be wrapped tightly around his left leg.  That was something.  Those bat-like, still-bleeding wings could be awkwardly folded, but he no longer moved the same way.  Clung to impatience and rage, because furious strength was better than crying.


    Lurched his way over to Marget, whose confusion and misery would have drawn pity, compassion, before.  Now¡­ He controlled his own urge to attack the huddled half-troll.  Placed a pale, sparking hand on her head, where tufts of black hair sprouted from warty grey hide.


    ¡°Whu¡­?¡± grunted the bit of her mind that was Marget.


    He shook his head, sending dark hair sliding away from a chilly and perfectly sculpted face.  The wings (not his¡­ they weren¡¯t¡­ <u>couldn¡¯t be</u> his¡­) wanted to spread.  He kept them ruthlessly folded, pulling the last bits of a tattered red cloak across his own transformed shoulders and onto Marget.


    ¡°I do not know,¡± admitted the former elf. ¡°A spell of some sort, set as a trap by my enemy.¡±


    Next, he turned his attention to that memory-ghost and the animal.  Very much wanted to delete the one and fry the other to cinders... but withheld his strike.  Probed curiously inside his own mind and heart at the bloody hollow where friendship had been.


    There was noise and activity from far overhead.  Red motes of dust shivered and swirled in the light that streamed through five collapsed layers.  Someone was coming. The animal uttered a wavering cry.  Sorrow, he realized, not fear.  As for the data-ghost¡­


    Lord Erron had placed himself between the small, furry scout and what had been Miche.  There was nothing at all he could do to help either, but his impulses were still noble thanks to a last-ditch spell of protection.  That seemed to spark a thought, for the altered elf spoke again, this time to Erron.


    ¡°This place and its master probably think they have won,¡± said Miche-not, in a very low voice.  ¡°I have been changed, and perhaps he expects me to join him. To delete <u>you</u>, and roast <u>that</u>.¡±If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.


    ¡°Run,¡± whispered Erron to Nameless.  ¡°Warn them to flee, up above. I¡¯ll try to hold him off as long as¡­¡±


    There was no hiding speech or thought from the one whose mind he stemmed from, though.


    ¡°You mistake me,¡± said the former elf, stepping into a shaft of dusty gold light.  Beautiful, awful and cold. ¡°I <u>do</u> want to kill you¡­ but I will do nothing at all at the behest of my enemy, and I know that I wouldn¡¯t have done so, before.  I¡­¡±


    He looked at the data-ghost with eyes that burned crimson under a faint sheen of silvery-grey.


    ¡°I require your guidance, Erron.  All that I want now is <u>wrong</u>, except for destroying the Fallen One.  Can this change be reversed?¡±


    Someone was hurrying down from above.  Two someones, if his hearing was accurate.  Scrabbling, leaping, racing to get there.  Ready to help, as that kind of folk always were.  Lord Erron seemed to consider.  Then,


    ¡°I believe so,¡± he ventured, just a shaky projection from inside of Miche-not¡¯s brain.  ¡°If you can access the healing spring at a waystation¡­ a shrine, that is¡­ its waters can surely correct your alignment, but¡­¡±


    ¡°¡­But there is no way they will let me inside,¡± finished Miche-not, folding his arms across a broad, armored chest.  ¡°I am corrupted now, and my altered nature will trigger the shrine¡¯s defenses.  I would be forced to fight and defeat its goddess.¡±  A thought that was too confusing to dwell on.  Part of him wanted exactly that; to break into Gottshan, destroying <u>her</u>, their spawn and the shrine.  Freeing himself forever.


    Erron flickered.  Shifted position.


    ¡°It¡¯s worth considering, Miche, that¡­¡±


    ¡°Not Miche.  Not any longer,¡± he growled, interrupting the startled data-ghost.


    ¡°Well enough,¡± said Erron, with a phantom, ragged deep breath.  ¡°We¡¯ll come up with a better name for you, then, and I¡¯ll do my best to provide you with guidance on our way to the Fallen One¡¯s lair.  I¡­ recall how to get there, still.¡±


    Erron shook himself, glanced upward at twin shadowed figures, then went on, saying,


    ¡°What I was driving at, is that you¡¯ve already fought her in one of her forms.  She <u>killed</u> you, over and over.  I was there.  It happened to me, too.  But you wouldn¡¯t stay dead, so she switched tactics and bedded you, instead.  A good time was had by all¡­ and she ensured that you¡¯d have real trouble attacking her, again.  Just a thought, my friend, but one that you must consider.  Maybe she¡¯s got an ulterior motive.  Maybe there¡¯s something else that she wants besides you.¡±


    Right.  He itched at the top of both wing joints, where blood was still drying and thumb-claws pushing their way through the flesh.  No harder to deal with than everything else, he supposed.


    Glass-cat dropped down from a slanted and broken third story.  Landed fluidly atop something that crumbled beneath her.  She was prevented from falling on through by her own quick reflexes and a hand-up from the <u>other</u> newcomer (an ape-like construction of wood, brass and mithral).


    The massive orc-troll surged to her feet behind Miche-not, reaching for weapons that had swelled right along with her body.  The former elf lifted a negligent hand to restrain her.


    ¡°Peace, Sister.  They mean well.  Their nature is soft, weak and compassionate.  They will not strike without provocation.¡±  He glanced at Erron, who shrugged and then nodded.


    Glass-cat bounded lightly onto a less fragile section of floor, raising a thick cloud of dust.  Her tail lashed as she regained her balance. Then, ears and transparent whiskers well back, she hissed,


    ¡°You have been changed, Mrowr.  We saw the great flare, and your fall.  Dark Cloud hurried production of this one¡­¡± she jerked a clawed thumb at the hulking brass ape, who nodded silently. ¡°¡­and then we came down here to help.  Too late, it appears.¡±


    Feeble.  Soft.  Smothered and bound by emotional chains.  They <u>cared</u>, like the marten and data-ghost.  They had been friends, and that was a thing he could use.  Would have cherished, before.  (Wouldn¡¯t he?)


    ¡°I am considerably altered, as you have seen,¡± he agreed, patting the orc-troll¡¯s muscular arm.  ¡°Both of us are.  But there may be a way to reverse what has been done, and¡­ and I need those about me who can explain the right thing to do.  I did not ask for this, and the one who has done it will pay in slow, screaming inches, drowning in blood.¡±


    Erron made a frustrated sound, causing Miche-not to look over again.


    ¡°See, <u>that</u> is a very dark impulse¡­ Vrol?  Is it alright to call you that?  The warrior did.¡±


    The former elf dipped his head, wracked with a sudden tumult of conflict.  Wouldn¡¯t show it, though.


    ¡°Yes.  Vrol is a name that still works, as does Meg, for my sister¡­ but I very much mean to find, torment and destroy him, Erron.  If that troubles any of you, leave <u>now</u> and stay out of my way, or be killed along with him.¡±


    The force of his violent emotion affected Lord Erron, strengthening signal-transmission to the point of near solidity.  The data-ghost leaned down to scoop Nameless clear of the buckled floor.  The beast was still keening aloud in genuine sorrow.  <u>Stupid, worthless pest</u>. But no one had left him, nor had they turned away; a thing they might come to regret, but not here and not now.  He inclined his head once again.


    ¡°So be it, then.  You shall correct me when what I am doing is wrong.  I vow to consider your guidance,¡± promised the former elf; trapped in a world that had just grown immeasurably darker.  ¡°I am not a good person.  Maybe I never was.  But I can <u>act</u> that way, with your aid.¡±


    Marget placed a big, clumsy hand on his shoulder, causing those hideous bat wings to spread.


    ¡°Good enough,¡± she grunted, ¡°for <u>this</u> place.¡±


    Her voice was a rumbling snarl, filtered through too many jumbled-up fangs and long, curving tusks.  Marget was still in there, though; sheltered and cupped like a dying flame.


    ¡°Good enough,¡± he agreed, placing a hand over hers.  ¡°And not ended.  Not yet.¡±

 Sword and Sorcery Eight, chapter five

    <u>5</u>


    Majesty had been badly damaged in the fight with the vortex, a sending of Chaos that came very close to ending Prince Nalderick¡¯s mission.  He ought to have had the airship ported directly to Karellon¡­ there was manna enough in the tanks, after defeating that powerful, sentient storm¡­ but Nalderick hated to limp home in tatters.  He was an elven prince, after all; pride and appearance were everything.


    So, he ordered repairs, first; proceeding to get rather drunk while the airship was being patched up and then seeing to one or two <u>other</u> small matters.  Drinking alone is dangerous, for that is when spirits and shades and other nightmares creep into the unguarded mind.


    Nalderick summoned those two northern lordlings, having Filimar and Valerian brought to his cabin.  Next set his wards and brought out the liquor.  Not wine, for this was no dainty social encounter.  Unflavored Tiefling whisky, which tasted of nothing but scorch.


    They sat at an oval table under the skylight, as timbers creaked and aerriors rushed about on the deck overhead.  Nalderick set out three glasses, charmed against poison and spells of compulsion.  He poured the drink out himself, too, tipping amber-red fireball liquor into each glass.  Chose one at random, then wafted the other two glasses across to his guests.


    ¡°Health, peace and safety,¡± grunted the slim, green-eyed prince, lifting his drink.


    ¡°Honor and courage,¡± responded the lordlings, raising their glasses in turn.  They waited (as was proper) for Nalderick to drain his own libation, then did the same.  And that was round one.


    It was not until after their fifth round of drinks that Nalderick got to the point and started to talk.  Slamming the bottle down on his cabin table, the prince gazed at them closely, then asked,


    ¡°You have fathers?¡±


    The pair exchanged startled glances, then nodded.


    ¡°Yes, Your Highness,¡± said Filimar, cautiously.  ¡°Would¡­ you care to hear of them?¡±


    ¡°I would,¡± declared Nalderick, using a clumsy spell to haul their glasses away for refilling.  He had set out to drink and to find things out, and by all the gods¡¯ names, he meant to arrive (possibly cross-eyed and wobbling) at the actual truth.  ¡°You first, Filno.¡±


    Filimar nodded, accepting a brimming, sloshed glass.  <u>Probably</u> his, though they¡¯d completely lost track of ownership by that point.


    ¡°To our wives and girlfriends¡­ may they never meet!¡± he said, lifting a glass in salute.


    ¡°Aye, that,¡± responded the others (Valno, a little reluctantly).


    All three elves drained their whisky, blinked and gasped before Filimar started his tale, saying,


    ¡°By your leave, Your Highness¡­ My father is Lord Tormun, once Arvendahl, now become Tarandahl at the invitation of Valerian, my heart-brother.  He is¡­ <u>was</u>¡­ an airship captain in the Grand Fleet of Milardin but was stripped of that rank¡­ and almost his life¡­ by High Lord Arvendahl.  Our branch of the family is not prominent, My Prince, owing to Father¡¯s marriage.  He met a beautiful wood-elf (my mother, Faleena) while he was off north as part of an embassy.¡±


    Nalderick perked up, refilling glasses with a good deal more generosity than accurate aim.


    ¡°Go on.  Met a hot woodling.  Fell in love, did he?¡±


    Filimar nodded and smiled.


    ¡°Yes, Your Highness.  So much so that he threw everything else away for her, as she did for him, departing the high druid¡¯s council to leave with my father.¡±


    ¡°And¡­ they were happy?¡± probed Nalderick, shaking the bottle and muttering spells to refill it.


    ¡°Indeed, My Prince¡­ except for the loss of my sister (who¡¯s back now) and then Dad¡¯s partial death.  I have never seen two people more deeply in love.  It is¡­ a little intimidating.  I have never been struck so, myself.  Chased after many a saucy glance and had numerous tumbles for sport¡­ but nothing that¡¯s lasted.¡±


    <u>That</u> needed drinking to (three times over).  After round nine, Nalderick converted the bottle to Fey-wild Brandy (capable of reaching into one¡¯s past and future and crossing the planes to get even your <u>other</u> selves drunk).  Pouring more liquor onto the table than into their glasses, Naldo confessed,


    ¡°My parents wed¡­ by dimp¡­ by diplomatic arrangement.  Princess Marika of O¡­ Okuni on Faraway Isle.  She ¡®rrived, married ¡®im¡­ stayed out the contract.  Then¡­ year an¡¯ a day after Genna¡¯s birth¡­ went back to ¡®er own land and people.  Seen her twice, since then.  Not in love, mother and father.  In <u>treaty</u>.¡±


    That was a hard one, and both lordlings murmured their sympathy.  Such things were common in high noble houses, but nobody liked to admit it.  They were bottle-brothers by then, ready to swear eternal friendship, everlasting loyalty and lifelong commitment, which was exactly what Nalderick had been aiming for.  He turned to the big, blond northerner next, saying,Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators!


    ¡°Now, you.  <u>Your</u> father.¡±


    Valerian bowed in his seat.  Had a good head for liquor, that one.  Didn¡¯t seem very much drunk.


    ¡°Yes. By your leave, Your Highness¡­ My father is Lord Keldaran Tarandahl ob Galadin, first heir to the high seat of Ilirian.  He is a war-leader, and an artist.  He paints, Highness.  Mostly portraits or scenes of the hunt.  His marriage to Lady Elisindara came about because of a scandal at court.  Her father tried to eliminate a political rival with poisoned fish.  Ended up killing the fellow¡¯s cook, his chief taster and favorite dog, instead.  Wound up in exile, while her ladyship¡­ my mum¡­ was packed off north to a hasty marriage and rustication. She is not to cross Ilirian¡¯s borders on pain of permanent death.  Rough start, but mum and dad are¡­ about as happy together as one would expect.¡±


    Nalderick stared at Valerian for a moment, then whipped out his formal dagger and drove it, point first, into the table.  It crashed through with a sharp <u>BANG</u>, splintering wood and causing the glasses and bottle to jump. Stuck there, vibrating slightly and making a very faint hum.


    ¡°Truth,¡± growled the prince, first nicking his palm on the dagger blade, then slapping his hand flat to the tabletop.  ¡°In blood and bottle, the <u>truth</u>!¡±


    Rather startled, both young lordlings followed suit, slicing themselves on Nalderick¡¯s dagger blade, then pressing their bloodied hands to that drink-spattered table.


    ¡°Aye, Sire,¡± they chorused, bowing.


    It was to Valerian that Nalderick aimed his first urgent question.  The Prince Attendant¡¯s green eyes were hard, his expression perfectly sober as he demanded,


    ¡°Tell me truly¡­ You are descended of one who is not to be mentioned or named, are you not?¡±


    Valerian inhaled sharply, put very much on the spot by that over-blunt question.


    ¡°I¡­ Your Highness¡­ there is only rumor.  The matter is not much¡­¡±


    ¡°But everyone <u>knows</u>, don¡¯t they?!¡± insisted the dark-haired prince, leaning forward.  ¡°They all know that your line after Galadin springs from the one who was exiled!¡±


    Valerian lowered his head, nodding, but not looking up.


    ¡°That is the rumor, My Prince,¡± he whispered, sounding lost.


    Filimar shifted restlessly in his seat, gathering and refilling glasses (a thing that wasn¡¯t done, as it risked poison to Nalderick¡­ but he wanted to break up the tension).


    ¡°Round ten?¡± he suggested, slushily.  ¡°Friends f¡¯rever, so witness the gods?¡±


    ¡°Friends for all time,¡± the other two answered mechanically, having to finish the toast.  Then Nalderick surged to his feet, not taking his gaze off the blond northerner.


    ¡°Your bond here and now, Valerian.  In truth¡­ have you come here seeking the dragon throne? Heir to exiles and criminals¡­ are you part of some plot?  Have you come for revenge?!¡±


    Valerian shook his head vehemently.


    ¡°<u>No</u>, Sire!  I¡­¡±


    ¡°Swear it!¡± snapped the prince, extending his still-bleeding hand.  ¡°On blood and bottle¡­ before all the gods¡­ <u>Swear</u> to me that you have no designs on the throne!¡±


    Valerian took Nalderick¡¯s hand, mingling manna and blood.  Clasped hard and then started to speak, but¡­


    ¡°Kneel!¡± snarled Nalderick, hauling Valerian out of his bolted-down seat and onto the deck with a crash.  ¡°On your knees and <u>then</u> swear it!¡±


    Filimar was up, as well, cycling rapidly through his faerie pockets for water to throw.  Nobody paid attention.  Valerian knelt before the furious prince, who glowed with the light of dawn.  Their hands were still clasped and the truth charm in place.  Neither could lie if they¡¯d wanted to.


    ¡°Sire¡­ on my oath and my bond, I have no desire to take your future throne, or anyone else¡¯s.  I am part of no plot.  Just, always get pushed further away, when I¡¯d rather be home in Ilirian.¡±


    He lowered his head then, pressing his forehead against their clenched hands.  Valerian glowed now, as well, making the truth of his words quite evident.  Nalderick sighed.  Squeezed his friend¡¯s hand briefly, then said,


    ¡°Rise.  Take your seat, Valno.  You, as well, Filimar.  I had to be certain, is all.¡±


    Another round followed, once they were all three seated again.  After surviving their twelfth, Nalderick added,


    ¡°I had to be sure about <u>both</u> of you.  I want Sheraza back, and I want you to find her¡­ but carefully.  Quietly.  Father prob¡¯ly knows all about this, but I think it¡¯s me an¡¯ Genna he watches, not you two.¡±


    Filimar had cheated, spelling himself sober after Nalderick¡¯s outburst.  Now, very carefully, the blue-eyed young lord said,


    ¡°My Prince¡­ it may be worth considering that Lady Sheraza is safer in hiding than she would be if caught and returned.  Lord Arvendahl¡¯s partial death may have settled the matter and helped prevent war¡­ but the sea-elves might want her, or His Majesty could order her slain to avoid any future revenge plots.¡±


    Nalderick uttered a low, impatient growling noise deep in his throat.  Said,


    ¡°I am aware of all that!  While you two are off after ¡®Raza, I mean to sound Father out.  If it¡¯s safe, you¡¯ll bring her to me.  If it is not¡­ then you¡¯ll hide and watch over her, maybe until <u>I</u> am the emperor.  Then we¡¯ll be married.  She¡¯ll come to love me¡­ sometimes they do¡­ and then you will have your reward.  Within bounds, of course.  No asking for half of my realm.¡±


    They drank again, and then Valerian said,


    ¡°All I would ask is to be freed of my Honor Guard duty, Sire.  All that I want is to be back at home, with my family and heart-brother.¡±


    ¡°So be it,¡± said Naldo, inclining his head.  ¡°Find my lady, keep her safe, and Ilirian is freed of the obligation, now and for all time to come.  That¡¯s <u>two</u> boons you¡¯ve wrested from me, already.  Costly folk, you northern barbarians.¡±


    Next, turning to look at Filimar,


    ¡°And you?  What would you have as reward, Son of Tormun the Revenant?¡±


    Filno considered a bit.  Then, bowing, said,


    ¡°I¡­ if it is possible, Sire¡­ I would have my father¡¯s rank and his place in society restored.  I don¡¯t know that he has any political ambitions after all this¡­ but he is wise, good and strong.  He would make an excellent warden or councilor, Highness.¡±


    ¡°Nothing for yourself?¡± asked Naldo, cocking his head to one side.  Filno glanced over at Val, then shrugged, smiling.


    ¡°Just to stay with this worthless bog-maggot.  He needs all the help he can get, Sire.¡±


    Which was true, so they drank a few rounds to that one, as well.  But later, when Majesty glided up to her palace docking tower, lost amid all the fanfare and fuss, two cloaked figures went over the rail and away.

 Sword and Sorcery Eight, chapter six

    <u>6</u>


    He felt warm and rather relaxed, suddenly.  Almost like he¡¯d inserted a buzz-chip (which he had not).  Weird¡­ but the sensation made communicating with those anxious small aliens easier.  Both Block-Worlders and Long Sparians were confused and concerned, not just because he¡¯d shown up, either.  Because darkness was falling, and stars disappearing, because legends were coming to pass.


    Right.  They were concerned about the future.  He just wanted to find a way back to the astronomically distant Two Hundred Worlds (along with that stolen orb).  In the meantime, there was mostly useless first-contact protocol and communications to work on.


    V47 Pilot left the cockpit entirely to meet with the Block-Worlders.  No special reason why they came first.  Just, they were physically nearer.  The Titan would have caused catastrophic damage landing there, so Pilot emerged, asked its denizens to clear a space for him, then touched down on a surface both completely artificial and teeming with miniature life. He ended up sitting cross-legged, to minimize harm to those ankle-high buildings and trees.


    Funny, that the first actual tree he ever encountered was a fractal, crystalline, palm-high silica plant starving for light, not the woody green pillars he¡¯d seen in ¡°The Battle for Arda¡±.  Anyhow, the Block-Worlders communicated through tumbling and changing their shape.  They were only a finger-joint tall, and their conformation changes were an allover phenomenon.  If you could not see a speaker¡¯s back or its underside, you¡¯d miss the nuances and most of the humor (always writhed from behind).


    V47 Pilot could mimic their ¡°speech¡± with his hands¡­ sort of signing¡­ but he had to produce a sensory field in order to fully ¡°hear¡± them.  And, yes, they were terribly worried.


    ¡°<u>The stars fall away and darkness approaches.  Now you have appeared, Forward Great Construct Pilot.  What do these things mean?  Are we doomed, as some have foretold</u>?¡±


    Tough question, but that warm, peaceful ¡°drunken¡± sensation put it all in perspective, somehow.  V47 Pilot launched his three drones for a better scan of their cuboid and spaceship-sized world. As the drones sped away, he keyed up the spotlights (for¡­ y¡¯know¡­ those poor, starving trees).  He¡¯d retracted his helmet¡¯s faceplate, as the atmosphere was within adaptation parameters.  Chilly, but breathable.  Now he said/ signed,


    ¡°Everything comes to its end sooner or later, but yours is not yet, I think.  The sky grows dark because you have reached a great void in space.  The masters have drawn you here by their flight.  As for doom¡­ This,¡± Pilot gestured broadly around at Block-World and that cloud of distant, tumbling shapes. ¡°¡­is a disassembled weap¡­ transport device.  If put back together and used as intended, its construction would surely destroy any inhabitants.¡±


    A ripple of shock and distress flared through those tiny, mutable creatures.  Looked like ¡°the wave¡± performed at a very small cyber-ball stadium.


    ¡°<u>The legends!</u>¡± they pulsed/ altered. ¡°<u>The legends are true</u>!¡±


    Right.  No, not exactly. So¡­


    ¡°Wait!  I said if,¡± he signed blurrily back.  ¡°I¡¯m here, but I need to be elsewhere, fast.  Whatever you folk decide to do about that¡­ I¡¯ll accept. I have a proposal, though.¡±Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.


    Right Left Top Flip, their spokes unit, drew nearer.  With a crackling spatter of flashes and tinkles, Right Left Top Flip rolled over a crystalline bridge to perch on the Pilot¡¯s folded left knee.


    ¡°<u>Alter your surface, Forward Great Construct Pilot.  Reveal how we may survive the coming of terror</u>.¡±


    The fact that Pilot only changed the shape of his hands, and the cut of his plated exterior gave him a definite accent, but the Block-Worlders were motivated.  They concentrated, making a real effort to fathom his clumsy, slurred shapes.  Those who¡¯d grown fluent translated for the rest as V47 Pilot said,


    ¡°Right¡­ My proposal.  If we take the uninhabited parts of this asteroid swarm and use them to build an industrial transport gate¡­¡±


    They rippled a question like something tagged ¡°wheat¡± in his memory files, so Pilot provided a visual.  He projected a holographic diagram for them, through his own optics.  The glowing blueprint contained raised dot-code labels, and it was large enough for them to roll through and manipulate. (Which felt like skittery bubbles, to him.)


    ¡°This is a transport gate.  I can set it for¡­ oh¡­ TTN-iA¡¯s shell¡­  Bring you lot through with me, as well¡­ If you want to get out of this void and away from the masters.  Plenty of room for a stable orbit around the magnetar.  Plenty of light, too.¡±


    V47 Pilot had to explain all this to the Long Sparians, next.  Curious creatures (and the swarm¡¯s first spacefarers) they communicated through flashes of colored light between three psi-linked units.  Always a triad, sometimes a crippled pair, never alone.  They were terribly distressed for V47 Pilot, until he launched all three of his drones for them.  That changed everything, as being part of a foursome made him almost a god in their compound, stalked eyes.


    ¡°<u>If we ascend as you have described, Silver White Quadrangle Pilot, will we find welcome and plenty</u>?¡±


    Resources were very limited on a tumbling 10,000-mile strut.  Here, too, the local plants were dying, their atmosphere frittering off.  Just like Block-World, Long Spar was facing a long, icy night.  They were nearing the end.


    ¡°TTN-iA is a good person,¡± Pilot flashed through his drones and his chest light. ¡°She has been lonely¡­ a single¡­ for many long ages.  I believe that she would welcome your company¡­ and there is abundant light for your crops.¡±


    Flashes erupted throughout Long Spar, as his words were transmitted to those far away.  It looked like a lightning-shot cloud in deep space.  He¡¯d already projected his transport-gate diagram for them.  Streaming from his grey eyes, the holographic image had feedback.  Their ¡°touch¡± and manipulation of it increased his mild semi-drunkenness.  Also, it tickled.


    ¡°<u>No one should be alone,</u>¡± said/ flashed the chief spokes-trio, Red Blue Gamma. ¡°<u>A single dies of such empty solitude!  We are needed, then, Silver White Quadrangle Pilot</u>?¡±


    He nodded, which meant nothing at all to those ooze-crystal Long Sparians.  Flashed blue, which did.


    ¡°Yes.  By me, absolutely.  Your help is very much needed.  If I have to cross space at multi-light, even with folding, I will not reach home in less than 12,300 years.  I need to build an industrial transport gate¡­ But I won¡¯t do it without your permission, Red Blue Gamma.  I am¡­ entirely in your manipulators.¡±


    ¡°<u>You come from the sky bringing hope, Silver White Quadrangle Pilot.  You offer to take us away from darkness and death.  What can we do but accept</u>?¡±


    ¡°You can tell me to chip off,¡± said V47 Pilot, with a humorous sparkle of warm amber light.  ¡°You can use this diagram, build your own shigraz gate and then go wherever you want, on the chart of worlds.  I make no demands, Red Blue Gamma.¡±


    Much laughter flashed back from the gathered trios. From foot-high spires and lacy bridges.


    ¡°<u>Our legends tell of a great messenger</u>,¡± glittered the spokes-triad.  ¡°<u>But the tales did not indicate that the bearer of light would be so¡­ relaxed</u>.¡±


    V47 Pilot smiled.  He had the oddest impulse to embrace Red Blue Gamma and all the rest of those tiny, brave puddings.  To draw a protective cloak over their shimmering cities and long, curving world.  Settled for matching the meter and frequency of his flashes to theirs, meaning accord. Agreement.  Treaty.


    And so, the great asteroid gate¡­ son of a terrible weapon¡­ was designed and built.  Took just under 5.72 local days and every last chunk of those uninhabited pieces.  Drew copious manna¡­ but worked.  By all the writers of code, it functioned.

 Sword and Sorcery Eight, chapter seven

    <u>7</u>


    Not exactly concurrent, but closely enough¡­


    Vernax 3 was a nightmare planet; a barren deathtrap, tidally locked to its giant, blue-violet star. Pinned there, unable to rotate, that awful world presented two faces. Its sunward side broiled, scorched by the glare of that unmoving star. Its nightside was locked in perpetual deep freeze, scoured by magnetic storms and demon-force gales.


    Only at the margins, in the hundred-mile strip between Dayshine and Nyteside, was Vernax 3 habitable (and far underground or in deep, sheltered valleys, at that). At 0 degrees, from the north pole to south, that strip of life was called ¡°Twilight¡±. Over at 180 degrees, from the south pole up north, the line would soon be referred to as ¡°Gloaming¡±.


    A terrible place to strand anyone, but that¡¯s what the fleeing escape ship had done, abandoning half-elves, animal people, dwarves and dissidents to fend for themselves in the very last circle of hell. Left with a glitching shield generator and too few supplies, the cast-offs could only cling to each other and watch as that armed dropship pulled up and away. Too proud to cry out or to beg, they just trembled and followed the ship with their eyes.


    That ought to have been the end of their story, but the cast-offs were unwilling to lie down and die. Nor did they have to. Flashing emerald force-lines whipped through the bisected sky. Caught the retreating dropship. Destroyed it, sending a storm of wreckage hurtling out of the air in great, blazing chunks. Some of those parts could be scavenged (and were).


    Next, their rushed search turned up a long, cave-pocked valley with water and branching, crystalline plants. Shed manna, did those glimmering ¡°candles¡±.


    ¡­And manna meant life. The cast-offs refused to give up. Existence on Vernax 3 was never going to be easy, but as long as hearts thudded and lungs kept on filling¡­ so long as those left behind worked together, nothing could take away hope.


    They had to hide, though; crouching deep in their caves when the enemy¡¯s scout ships passed overhead. They had to make light, expand food and learn to grow crops out of glass. Battling rock wyrms, ground quakes and terrible storms, they measured survival in hours, then days. Lost some of their people, but learned a bit more every time, as that handful of days stretched into months and then years.


    Hana of Summerdale lived for her children, at first, mechanically fighting to keep them alive. Erron, her husband, was in mortal danger and hideous pain. She could feel it. Did her best to hide their father¡¯s defeat and his capture from Randon and Kara. As for her baby, the little one did not have nutrition or manna enough to develop. The baby survived¡­ but only just. Again, though, <u>not</u> the end of their story.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.


    Vernax 3 held many secrets, and those could be used by an elven sorceress desperate enough to try anything at all. Whatever it took to find and rescue her love.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Some deeds were very much simpler when nothing mattered but winning. Need to leave someplace in a hurry? There was no room for debate or second opinions. Just scoop everyone up and levitate out of that creaking, unstable old building.


    He thought about dropping them all (except Marget) halfway back to the Cloud. Glass-cat, Brass Monkey, the marten¡­ splash, crunch, thud¡­ gone. Just like that. Easy. Didn¡¯t do it, though. Swept them all up in a tumbled knot and dragged them along in his wake as he soared across to the hovering airship. Not from sentiment, or because of Lord Erron. Because he could always use them to draw fire, later.


    ¡®Welcome aboard, Captain,¡¯ said the Dark Cloud, when he lit on its deck by the helm. His passengers dropped to a clattering, screeching heap at the bow (even Marget). All <u>their</u> trouble and none of his own.


    ¡°How far along are the other two revenants?¡± he demanded, without preamble. ¡°If it comes to a fight¡­ and it will¡­ I am going to need bodies to throw.¡±


    ¡®Zak is fifty-nine percent built, Captain. Shade is at thirty-one percent, meanwhile. There is insufficient manna to construct them completely and move at top speed, however.¡¯


    <u>Hunh</u>. Not a question to put to his ¡°conscience fairy¡±. Simply a matter of logic and strategy.


    ¡°Very well. Make three-quarters speed toward the Lone Mountain and Rainbow Bridge, Cloud. Lower antennae into whatever storms we encounter on the way. Refill your tanks, and boost production of what¡¯s-its-name¡­ the fifty-nine percenter. The other can wait until later.¡± Or never, for all that it mattered to him. ¡°Trawl the rest of your spooks for anyone else in the mood for a fight. Get it accomplished and leave me alone.¡±


    ¡®Aye, Captain. It shall be done, just as you command.¡¯


    The Dark Cloud¡¯s scrabbling voice left his aching head, after that. Erron was scarce, as well, giving the former elf an illusion of privacy. He strode across to the airship¡¯s taffrail, staring out at an ocean of wreckage and rapidly gathering night. Dark Cloud¡¯s shadow was very long. It rippled like water as it sped across derelict hulks and the broken fangs of old towers. Gottshan was leaving, as well. The mobile city had lifted clear of its dock; was rolling away with a noise like a landslide, raising a towering plume of red dust.


    So, he¡¯d caused all of this, mused the transfigured elf? Then, so be it. <u>Look what he¡¯d done</u>! Behold his handiwork. Run, or be killed.


    The wind at his back whipped his dark hair and old cloak about him, making those hated wings rustle. Everything hurt still, inside and out. Everything ached where the friendship had been. Concentrated on breathing. On just finding the next small, right move.


    Then a furry dark bolt flowed through the rigging above to settle and watch. Not very near¡­ and not far enough.


    ¡°Go away,¡± whispered Miche-not. ¡°I don¡¯t want you or need you.¡±


    His hands clenched on a polished brass rail that reflected the sunset and hundreds of hovering ghosts; melted and twisted its metal.


    ¡°Leave me alone.¡±


    The marten uttered a soft little cry and retreated, but not very far. Didn¡¯t matter. He¡¯d find a way to be rid of the beast at their next waystation. Kill it and skin it, if he had to.


    ¡°I need no one at all.¡±


    Not anymore. He just had to find the Lone Mountain and Rainbow Bridge¡­ fight his way in and then slaughter the hostess, or¡­ No, <u>restore</u> her shrine, as doing so would weaken and vex his enemy. It was needful and right.


    Because vengeance was all he had left.

 Sword and Sorcery Eight, chapter nine

    <u>9</u>


    And then, far distant in time but almost on top of each other in space, all three at once were attacked.


    As Val and Filimar drifted like spiraling leaves from Majesty¡¯s bulk, time slowed to a cold-pudding crawl.


    XXXXX


    While Miche-not was still fighting to master his own pounding head, that thundering hatred and rage, his chest armor parted, streaming away like black water to reveal most of his bare, shining torso.


    XXXXX


    In mid-transit, a horde of draugr diverted V47¡¯s traversal, surrounding the giant battle mech, Block-World and Long Spar with millions of strafing units.


    XXXXX


    Val and Filno found themselves trapped in an eerie half phase, between times. Everything changed, turning wavery-dark. Reality bent, there amid smoky docking platforms, stalled patrol craft and statue-like workers.


    XXXXX


    Startled, reeling, confused, the former elf turned away from the Cloud¡¯s melted railing. He was under attack, but his instinct was not to call out for help. Just to strike back. A glowing red spiral appeared on the flesh of his chest, streaming up from within him to pulse and swirl like a searing-hot cattle brand.


    XXXXX


    V47 Pilot threw a shield over Block-World and Long Spar, for those transported creatures were defenseless against surreal, gritty blackness and hurtling draug. But a Titan was meant to shield or take planets, and <u>that</u> strength was something to conjure with.


    XXXXX


    Val and Filimar went reflexively back-to-back, landing on one of those floating, blurred dock platforms. Meanwhile, that rift in space disgorged a tall and red-robed imperial justiciar with three of her black-clad underlings. The justiciar ignited a fiery lash. The shadowy acolytes spread out to surround Val and Filno, launching an orb of crackling force between spindly, outstretched hands.


    XXXXX


    Miche-not staggered, barely hearing the cries of those all around him, as the mark of Chaos burned, shone like sunset, then projected itself. Bloody red light shot out of the former elf, forming a negative, black-and-red doppelganger there on the deck before him. Smiling broadly, the sending stalked forward.


    XXXXX


    They¡¯d blocked transit. Now, taking long ages and no time at all, the draug units streamed together, forming a vast, craggy warrior. Blurred and constantly shifting, the draug mech was armed with ionic cannons and fanged with unstable, dark-matter teeth. It lunged at V47, firing cannons and particle beams, filling null-space with shrapnel and flame.


    XXXXX


    ¡°You are arrested and summoned,¡± began the justiciar, in a crackling, distorted voice. ¡°You shall appear at the Court of Jus¡­¡±


    Only, neither young elf was inclined to just stand there and wait to get served. In for an egg, in for a whole ratching dragon, right? Valerian summoned wards and then hurled a firebolt directly at the face of that looming justiciar. Filimar hauled out Joker, his crossbow.


    ¡°Ice,¡± snapped the lordling, converting its quarrels to biting-cold javelins. Next an owl plunged out of the sky to sink its curved talons into the justiciar¡¯s lash-wielding hand. Cinda, gods blast her, once again not staying safe.


    XXXXX


    ¡°You have boasted and cursed me,¡± leered that reverse former elf, circling Miche. ¡°You have threatened to find and destroy me. Well, little boy, here I am, sent through the data wall. Come and make good on your threats, child.¡±


    The wings, that long, pointed tail¡­ Somehow, they streamed off, leaving <u>him</u> to add to that chuckling mirror-self. He felt them tear free, ripping skin, shredding muscles and twisting out bones. Somehow, Miche drew and ignited his energy blade. Still smiling, his image did almost the same, forming a sword of pure, hungry darkness.


    XXXXX


    The draugr spoke. A million, ten-million shells buzzed and rattled to scritch,


    ¡°There will be no treaty. No ceasefire. Yet, there shall be peace¡­ for us, the calm of cleansing and victory. For <u>you</u>, that of death.¡±


    Dissidents. Had to be. Some splinter group, unhappy with bargains and handshakes. Not representing the entire collective, maybe, but still plenty dangerous, here. Meaning to stop the accord and keep fighting.


    V47 Pilot seized the first opening. As that colossal draug-mech closed tight around its vast power core, he fired a trio of missiles straight into the sunlike orb.


    XXXXX


    The justiciar¡¯s bony, blade-fingered other hand shot out to strike at that owl. Val¡¯s firebolt nailed the masked figure, mostly spattering against powerful shields, but cracking that impassive white mask and setting the edge of her hood ablaze. At his back, Filimar fired and fired again. Filno¡¯s quarrels struck and killed one of the acolytes, causing the fellow to hang in midair like a limp, broken doll. Threads of blood leaked away from the black-robed apprentice, looking like trickling sawdust. Filno turned, missed the second shot, trying to cover Val as a hurtling orb smashed into them, <u>hard</u>.This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    XXXXX


    Miche leapt and he struck. There was nothing to say in reply. No threats or bargains to make. Instead, ducking a swing of that seething black sword, he drove his own blade at the flickering red-and-black simulacrum¡­


    ¡­Only to have its bright point cut through <u>him</u>, pushing out through his own back and ribs with a sickening wet, meaty <u>crack</u>.


    XXXXX


    V47¡¯s missiles hit home just as the draug closed tight. His shots got through to the blazing draug power core. One¡­ Two¡­ Three. They erupted together, unleashing pure anti-energy, draining, imploding. Tendrils of blackness lashed out to seize and consume thousands of scrambling units. Next, V47 folded null space. Vanished, to reappear behind that juddering draug mech.


    It had twin pulse cannons in back. Both of them blasted at once, sending beams of nuclear hellfire across folded space and into/ at V47. Their searing blast half-chewed off the Titan¡¯s right leg, but then Pilot flattened his mech completely along the X-axis, spreading the Titan very far out along Y and on into Z, ducking most of the enemy¡¯s shot by just turning flat. That might have been what caused the connection, bringing him back into touch with his other two selves.


    That wounded young elf-lord¡­ the wandering, Chaos-marked warrior¡­ were all at once there and in danger, together with Pilot, who¡­


    XXXXX


    The psionic orb tore directly through Filno and Val, attacking their minds and their souls. That was pain on another whole level, where there were no nerves to be cut or flesh to grow numb. <u>Inside</u>, where nothing at all blocked the sheer, frenzied torment.


    Sawyer (stupid, dumb griffin) had escaped its pen. Now, the cub launched itself from an upper deck. Meanwhile the justiciar¡¯s lash curled around in a fiery, glittering arc. She used mage-hand to pierce and pin the young elves. Held them still while the lash bit deep, rasping,


    ¡°You shall appear before His Majesty¡¯s court of jus¡­¡±


    The griffin¡¯s wobbly, unsteady flight ended in collision with the acolytes¡¯ energy ball. The orb had just emerged from inside the young elves, when Sawyer crashed into it. For the baby griffin, that energy-ball was as solid as stone. Sawyer¡¯s left wing and shoulder deflected the orb, which ricocheted off to strike the justiciar¡¯s chest.


    Turned nearly inside-out, Val felt and saw¡­ not just Filimar¡¯s mind and spirit, but those <u>other</u> two selves: the construct and wanderer.


    XXXXX


    Miche staggered backward. Managed to jerk the sword out of that grinning mock-elf at the same time, hauling himself free of the blade with a desperate lunge. It burned and tore, coming out. He smelled smoke, felt blood running hot down his back. Then, came a sudden presence. Firelord, stirring too soon, trying to help him¡­ But also, the ones that he¡¯d brushed in the witch-gate. This ¡°Val¡± and the clockwork warrior. Miche bent double, barely deflecting a cut from the sending¡¯s dark blade. It rebounded from his with a screeching hisss. Bit into the deck. Stuck there a moment, which was all that Miche needed. Still vomiting, he forced himself upright, casting out toxin and Chaos. Cut at the simulacrum¡¯s sword arm, sketching a sigil that rained blazing darts at his laughing reflection. The creature hurled them away to shred the planking and lines, starting fires all over Dark Cloud.


    But the mirror image was suffering, too. He¡¯d hit it, only his blows caused twice as much damage to Miche. There were the others, though. Contact with them spread and smeared pain, blunting what ought to have been his death-wound. Right. He was not Val, and he wasn¡¯t V47¡­ but with them, Miche was strong.


    XXXXX


    Alarms blared and electrical fires raged all through the Titan, but V47 Pilot continued to fight.


    ¡°I won¡¯t let you derail the treaty!¡± he snarled over comms, reconfiguring the battle mech¡¯s world-shielding forcefield. Like a cosmically powerful fist, the energy field clenched tight around millions of struggling draugr. One was golden and swarmed by the others, who were trying to hide and defend it. Target acquired, but how to get through, when the other units kept shoving it deeper? Pilot was distracted by a cloud of tiny, chemical missiles launched from Block-World and Long Spar. They were too slow and weak to do any good, of course. The aliens might as well have blown bubbles and fluff, but they were trying to help him, and Pilot valued their aid.


    Their aid¡­? Getting a notion, he reached through and borrowed the energy blade. Didn¡¯t <u>take</u> it. But just for a moment, all three of their hands wielded the sword together. Enormous in V47¡¯s neutronium grip, that light-weapon pierced the writhing dark swarm to nick at a large, golden draug.


    <u>Chik</u>! It sliced off part of the unit¡¯s right blade. Then,


    ¡°Have I got your attention?¡± boomed the Titan on every available frequency.


    XXXXX


    Miche stood upright again, feeling wounds heal and strength come flooding back. Marget, Glass-cat, Brass Monkey and Nameless raced over the deck, dodging force blasts launched by the Chaos-spawn. It would not let them reach him, but Miche wasn¡¯t alone. Not just <u>his</u> hand, but those of a powerful construct and mage-lord were suddenly tight on the hilt of his sword.


    Maybe he ought to have said something noble. Didn¡¯t. Instead, Miche roared like an orc, echoed by Marget, his sister. Springing forward, he slashed down with magical fire and some kind of dimensional trick. Reached in, downward and <u>through</u>, striking the actual Fallen One, there on his rusted steel trap of a throne. Straight through the iron crown riveted onto that bare, grinning skull slashed Miche¡¯s blade. Split bone and crashed onward, as all three of them saw a confusing jumble of glaring witch, floating arm, kneeling goddess, and¡­


    ¡°Hana!¡± screamed Erron, glimpsing the shade of his wife.


    XXXXX


    ¡°Willing to bet you¡¯re important,¡± growled Pilot, driving the point of that borrowed energy blade into the draug-master¡¯s golden shell. ¡°Bet if you die, the rest of these bugs will just drift apart. Willing to take a chance? Gold Flight¡¯s credit balance, against <u>your</u> shiny head on a pike?¡±


    ¡°Stay your hand, meat-sack,¡± rattled the draug-master. ¡°We have other units, but nothing would be achieved by wasting this one.¡±


    Score, sort of. He was only half listening, because V47 could see through those <u>other</u> selves, too. Worse, the AI had sensed an elf-woman¡¯s memory ghost. Long since copied but never decanted again, she was fading. Losing signal strength and coherence.


    ¡®Pilot,¡¯ sent V47¡­ his brother. His friend.


    ¡°I see her, Vee.¡±


    More than that. From the data packet, he¡¯d <u>known</u>. Knew who she was, and just why she mattered so much.


    ¡°Get me a shielded transmission line. A micron-tight beam: boosted and private. Hurry, Vee¡±


    XXXXX


    Valerian might have been propping up Filimar, or maybe the other way around. He was too gashed and seared inside to stand up alone. But there was this ¡°Shorty¡± and whatever might be a ¡°V47 Pilot¡±. There was a blazing sword in his hand, and three of him holding it. He levitated, bleeding manna and psionic gore like a slaughtered prize bull.


    Filimar crashed to one knee, but picked off a second acolyte, firing Joker again and again. Valerian shielded his friends, and then hurled himself at the justiciar. Brought the sword down and around with the added force of a wandering hero and towering mech pilot. Split the justiciar¡¯s lash, her shielding and armor, slicing her nearly in half at the shoulder.


    XXXXX


    It hurt. Holy gods, holy <u>fire</u>, it hurt to his core as the sword cut down through the Fallen One¡¯s skull and into withered, dry flesh.


    Miche recoiled, feeling a fiery lash¡­ a leg torn nearly off¡­ sensing swarms of black, biting flies and the witch¡¯s vile hex. Then Marget¡¯s axe whistled across like a meteor, slicing into the vision and right at that rusted dark throne. Hana flickered and vanished as Miche crashed onto the spinning deck, still casting out Chaos and blood.


    XXXXX


    Just like that, their contact was ended, leaving V47 Pilot with no sword at all and a frantically busy AI.


    ¡°Vee! Have you got her? Talk to me, Vee! Were you able to bring her across?!¡±

 Sword and Sorcery Eight, chapter ten

    <u>10</u>


    High over Karellon¡¯s Imperial Palace, as time started up once again:


    For himself, he felt nothing at all.  Had to stuff that away, thrusting the ragged ends and whipping shreds of emotion too deep inside to cause further harm. Wife, child, Ilirian, all of it jammed to the back where pain and hope couldn¡¯t reach him.  The floating dock platforms, Majesty¡¯s dark, whale-ish bulk and those streaking patrol ships were coming back into focus again, as the inured justiciar¡¯s holding-spell faded.


    Injured¡­ or dead.


    There was also a high, keening song in the wind, as something old and uncanny mourned for the dying.  A creeping charm-spell, too.  But the elf would not let it work on him.  Filimar had managed to rise alongside his friend, still holding Joker (a carved and notched magical crossbow).  Couldn¡¯t have battled a really fierce sunbeam, but swayed there, anyhow, ready to try.


    Next the griffin cub fluttered over, trailing a broken chain and rust-colored feathers.  Cinda landed soon afterward, converting back to her elven form, looking wild and upset.  She was no doubt bursting with snarled advice, not a bit of which he cared to hear.


    The imperial justiciar and two of her acolytes swirled and drifted like trash in a rain-gutter.  The third of her black-robes had fled, which wasn¡¯t a bad idea.


    Valerian slapped a hasty preservation spell on those circling bodies, halting their final death.  Anyone so inclined could now resurrect and restore them all, reducing his crime from murder to simple assault, resisting arrest, etc.  Not that it mattered.  In for stealing an egg, in for slaying a dragon, and His Majesty wasn¡¯t given to patience or mercy.


    ¡°What were you¡­?!¡± Cinda started in, clearly furious.


    He cast a shield spell, hauling her close with one arm, Filimar with the other, and snapping a (third) useless tether on Sawyer.  Then he shot away from the dock platform, using an invisibility charm to conceal his long, shallow glide.


    ¡°I said¡­!¡±


    Nothing at all, because he cast silence, looking away from her flailing hand-signs.  Kissed her forehead by way of (certainly pay for it later) apology, then concentrated on getting them down to the city, below.  Filimar shifted his quarrels to stasis.  The younger elf was gripped tight with his back to Valerian¡¯s side, ready to shoot.  Like Cinda¡¯s, his heart was hammering wildly, his breath a ragged and blood-flecked saw.


    They had to have rest, and time to heal up, so Val brought them down to the safest place that he knew of, as Sawyer banked and soared overhead like a kite. They swooped along on a rapid glide, passing the dawn-lit city. Came to rest in the middle of Magister Serrio¡¯s fair, landing in a service alley between Wizard¡¯s Bazar and Wonderful Weaponry, surrounded by boxes, barrels and crates of tinkling bottles.


    They were well concealed on all sides, with fluttering coppery banners and magical adverts popping up to provide them with cover, above.  Magister Serrio¡¯s jaunty theme song played over all¡­ And he¡¯d been permitted to shelter here.


    Valerian dug through his faerie pockets for thirty-five silver pennies, then tossed his admittance fee (and theirs) into the air.  The coins hung in place momentarily, shimmering bright.  Then they swirled into the shape of a winking face and vanished.


    Filimar tucked away Joker, sagging onto a crate with a low, feeling groan.  Put his head in his hands, muttering something completely inaudible. (And probably better so.)


    Sawyer leapt at Val, gouging and snapping in play.  Fortunately, the griffin cub was distracted by its own reflection in hundreds of quivering bottles, saving what little remained of Valerian¡¯s undamaged hide.


    And, he was going to have to let Cinda speak, eventually.  The coming explosion would only be worse, the more he delayed, but¡­If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    Val held up a forefinger, gazing down at that incandescent ranger.


    ¡°First,¡± he said, getting his points in early, ¡°we were attacked, so I had to respond in kind.¡±


    Cinda¡¯s eye-roll was broad enough to tilt their magical alley three degrees kata-ward.


    ¡°Second,¡± he added a finger.  ¡°We¡¯re on a mission for His Highness, Prince Nalderick.  There was no time to wait for a summons.¡±


    Her hands flew in rapid sigh-language, stating plenty of untrue and frankly rude things, but Val forged onward.


    ¡°Third,¡± he moved onto another finger.  ¡°I am allergic to court.  No, really.  Being dragged to the witness stand causes mental distress.¡±  And now he was out of excuses.


    ¡°Right. Erm¡­. Free to spe¡­¡±


    <u>WHAM</u>!


    Cinda shoved him, sending Valerian reeling back into a stack of wooden boxes.  Should have expected that.


    ¡°What were you thinking?!¡±


    He evaded her punch, turning its force with a spell, so that she didn¡¯t injure her hand on the piled crates behind him.


    ¡°You could have tried porting, you idiot!  Not just attacked a royal official performing her duty!¡±


    ¡°I say¡­¡± objected Filimar blurrily, starting to rise.  Sawyer dashed over to place itself between Val and his enraged former love; ruff erect, beak gaping-wide and wings extended.


    Valerian ought to have ordered Cinda to shut up, but¡­ He¡¯d loved her <u>that</u> way, once.  <u>This</u> way, now, and she wasn¡¯t exactly wrong.  He cast peace and healing spells over them all, then turned his attention back to the ranger, again.


    ¡°Right¡­ I reacted without thinking, Cinda.  I was attacked and lashed out.  Then there were some extra-plane versions of me and Filno.  They were fighting, too.  I met them before in a gate, and their danger might have caused me to overreact.  Besides, porting doesn¡¯t work around a justiciar.  Their magic prevents it, Cin.¡±


    He reached out to tug her sideways cloak back into position, but she batted his hand away.


    ¡°All you do is ricochet from one hare-brained mess to the next, and how am I supposed to protect you, if you never <u>listen</u>?!¡±


    He caught her rough hand in his own.  Squeezed and then kissed it, saying,


    ¡°You¡¯re right, and I¡¯m sorry, Cin.  I cannot promise to do any better in future¡­ but I can try.  Forgive me?¡±


    The glare trickled slowly out of her blue-and-brown eyes, greatly easing Val¡¯s mind.


    ¡°If I had any sense, I¡¯d go home to the orc-fight.  You¡¯re nothing but trouble, Valerian,¡± grumped Cinda.


    ¡°Buuuut¡­ You don¡¯t hate me?¡± he asked, teasing a little, still holding her bow-calloused hand.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t say that.  You¡¯re a moron, and your nonsense is going to get us all killed!¡± snapped the ranger, fighting to free a hand that was magically locked into his.  ¡°Let go!¡±


    He did.


    ¡°We need to speak with Magister Serrio,¡± said Valerian.  ¡°War does not cross his borders, and we cannot be trapped or arrested, here.  See, I do have a plan as well as a mission.  Lady Sheraza is also in flight.  Might have gone anywhere at all¡­ but if she¡¯s seeking her uncle¡¯s body, she¡¯ll come to Karellon, because that¡¯s where they¡¯ve taken his corpse.¡±


    The blond elf-lord considered a moment, as Cinda reluctantly nodded.


    ¡°Or¡­¡± he continued. ¡°She might try for his head, which has been sent to Averna¡­ but the sea-elves may be too much for her power,¡± he mused.  They¡¯d been a bit much for his.


    ¡°Speaking of sea-elves,¡± interposed Filimar, cleansing and rising.  ¡°I wonder if Neira is <u>hateful</u>-angry, or just <u>come-get-me</u>-angry?¡±


    ¡°Jerk your lungs out through your nostrils angry, and spell you to drown for the next thousand years, most likely,¡± grunted the ranger, folding her arms across leather armor and dark-green wool.  (Val got her skewed cloak sorted, tucking a strand of fuzzy dark hair into place with his hand and a spell.)


    Filimar sighed and then had a bright notion.


    ¡°Wine and extravagant presents,¡± he said, perking up.  ¡°I can surely find something to bribe her with, here at the fair.¡±


    Cinda snorted rudely, shaking her head.


    ¡°Better her than me, and may I never be plagued with a mate, for the rest of eternity.  Rather have fleas or perpetual life-drain!¡±


    ¡°Love you, too,¡± said Valerian, feeling time and space ripple around them.  ¡°If not as mates, then¡­ I hope¡­ as very good friends.¡±


    Next, shifting his glance to peer through a crack in that fortress of boxes,


    ¡°Why don¡¯t we go take in the fair?  Filno can shop, you can relax your guard for a bit, Cinda¡­ Sawyer can come along on his lead, like a good, obedient creature¡­ and Magister Serrio will find us, when the time is right.  See, I made a suggestion, and now I am listening.  Good plan?¡±


    Cinda shrugged, as raven-haired Filimar sorted his faerie pockets for coin.


    ¡°You¡¯re an idiot, still, and all of your plans blow up in my face sooner or later.  But, sure.  Why not?  I can work on my prison-scowl in the meantime.¡±


    Valerian snorted a laugh, pulled her nearer and kissed the top of her head.


    ¡°Cheer up.  Maybe they¡¯ll give you the cell next to mine and Filno¡¯s, and we can plot our escape, together,¡± he joked.


    ¡°Oh, gods, no,¡± blurted Cinda, struggling free.  ¡°No peace, even in lock-up?  Move, both of you!  Magister Serrio can¡¯t show up quickly enough!¡±


    Which was how they came to be where they were, when the fated sword landed in Karellon.

 Sword and Sorcery Eight, chapter eleven

    <u>11</u>


    He shot up away from the deck of that airship. From faces he glimpsed as pale, needy ovals. Everything here was <u>wrong</u>, starting chiefly with him.


    There was a thunderstorm brewing off to the west, all sullen dark clouds and grumbling thunder; child of the updrafts, the light-wall and heat. That¡¯s where he went, letting the haunted pirate ship drop spinning away in his wake.


    On the surface, spells could heal gashes and straighten out bone, causing joints to pop noisily back into place. Inside, he remained torn, smeared and broken, with scars that went deeper than physical burns or a stab would have done.


    Miche coughed and heaved while he rose, releasing the Fallen One¡¯s lingering venom the best way he could. Blocked even Lord Erron as he soared away into that gathering storm. The first lightning strike turned all the world flaring, roaring blue white. It scrambled his thoughts and emotions, bringing some peace and a torrent of manna.


    Wind like a fist of the gods took hold, then. Shrieking and howling, it swept him up through a vortex of purple-dark clouds. Up, until he was over the storm, looking down at a moon-silvered landscape of roiling vapor shot through with spears of lightning. A starry sky arced overhead, while a flickering data-wall towered hundreds of miles further west.


    ¡­But he did not want to think about that, or anything else. Just glided down into the tempest again, letting its fury and violence take over. There was hammering rain and slashing hail in fierce gusts. Gale-force wind that screamed like a cat-spirit, mourning its dead. Thunder rumbled like cannons¡¯ roar, as bolt after bolt of wild lightning shattered the night.


    He fought none of it. Just soared and then plunged in the updrafts and wind-sheer; hurled sometimes above, other times plunging down amid cascading rain. Mostly just riding those streaming black clouds.


    The storm didn¡¯t love him. It showed no concern and offered no pity. Could not be threatened or killed by his enemy. Wasn¡¯t a prisoner, trapped amid corpses and flies.


    On an impulse, he brought out his <u>other</u> strange artifact: an opaline stone the size of a sparrow¡¯s egg, polished and utterly smooth. Held it out to the storm, letting rain, wind and lightning wash over the magical object. It responded by flaring internally, forming a tumble of very brief images. A key, perhaps, to repairing the shrine system.You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    They were not going to let him stroll in, though. Not the way he was, now. He was going to have to defeat the shrine¡¯s guardians, battle its goddess. And then¡­ if Erron¡¯s fairy tale was at all correct¡­ he could plunge himself into its spring and be healed.


    Right. Better the tempest, which told him no comforting lies. The former elf drew a very deep breath, almost sobbing. Why had the gods abandoned this place? Why were those cries and desperate rites from below completely ignored?!


    Or¡­ not <u>entirely</u> so. He¡¯d been sent here. Best available ¡°hero¡± and all they were likely to get. Also, somehow, the cause of this mess. The other two (Val and that armored construct-elf) were <u>himself</u>, sprung from different planes of reality. They, too, were facing a terrible fight, and their strength had helped him to ward off the Fallen One.


    A possible source of aid, only¡­ He did not want to infect them. Refused to allow the dark one¡¯s evil to creep on through into Val and the pilot, as it had oozed into Marget, his sister.


    She needed him. He could set her right again with sigils and spells, shielding the orc from any curse that her stolen, torn-away arm could inflict. But that meant going below. Facing kindness and sympathy. Accepting the fact that they <u>cared</u> (whether or not he deserved it).


    Right, so¡­ Not even storms last forever. This one was fading, having spent its rage on the ocean of rust, down below. Having charged up Dark Cloud and Miche himself; giving strength to the small god within him.


    He wasn¡¯t an elf any longer. That brightness and glory was gone, siphoned away by War Marshall Trask, the fallen one. That undead monster had implanted itself and then fed on him. Wanted more. <u>Expected</u> Miche¡¯s coming attack and welcomed it. Intended to dine on Firelord, next, using the god to power escape from this terrible place.


    Shaking his head, Mich put the spring-stone away. Wind snatched at his hair and his cloak, making them rattle and snap. Shreds of cloud parted like fingers, letting in moonlight and curious stars.


    He had no choice at all in what to do next. <u>How</u>, though¡­ that¡¯s where the Crown Game strategy lay. Where seeming collapse could be turned into sudden, ferocious attack. Those below, on the ship, would be drawn along with him. They¡¯d be placed in harm¡¯s way and possibly killed¡­ And there wasn¡¯t a thing he could do to prevent it.


    This ¡°Val¡± or the pilot could certainly have managed things better. They faced no doubts at all, he was sure. And for that, Miche was glad. Whatever he¡¯d done to deserve this was his trouble alone. None of theirs. He wished them good fortune and courage, making do with what little of each he had left. Looked around at his map and the landscape, pulling that weather-stained cloak tight around him.


    Lone Mountain was visible off to the west, silhouetted against a flickering data-wall. From this height, just a shadowy peak crowned by a faint strand of metal. Rainbow Bridge. Beyond that lay a station high in the void and then Far-Keep, where his enemy crouched like a spider, having fed on him once and eager to finish the job.


    There was no place to run and no one else he might call upon. No more elves left in the Dark World, and only one badly drained small god. Miche made his decision and nodded, witnessed by stars and a few playful sprites.


    He would deal with the problem. Finish this thing, beginning with those who trusted and loved him, below.

 Sword and Sorcery Eight, chapter twelve

    <u>12</u>


    The misty, echoing nothing of transit swirled all around them, full of hurrying shadows, weird eddies and temporal ghosts. None of these noticed the colossal battle mech facing off against a giant draug construct. No reason they should, for their gates had not been disrupted. V47 and Pilot could process on multiple levels at once. Critical, because there was so very much going on.


    First, one of those seething draugr was 2.718 times larger than its fellow dissidents and plated in shimmering gold. Clearly worth having a closer look at. V47 Pilot had lost the borrowed energy-blade along with that flickering comm-line to ¡°Miche¡± and ¡°Val¡±. But he¡¯d seen, and he knew.


    Plunged the Titan¡¯s right arm elbow-deep into skittering, roiling bugs to seize and half-crush their golden superior. Draug regulars swarmed onto that prisoning arm as Pilot jerked their struggling leader out of the hive construct.


    ¡°Try me,¡± he sent/ flashed/ pulsed, meaning it. ¡°I will crush firefly, here, into quark-dust, and leave you to spawn another. Now, back off, disassemble, or watch as your leader is slain.¡±


    V47 boosted shielding, working madly to repair the Titan¡¯s sparking and shredded right leg.


    ¡­Also recalibrated their gate-passage, while keeping Block-World and Long Spar from drifting away through the void. In the meantime, the AI was also fighting to scan and patch a long string of terribly fragile code.


    Unfairly, all that Pilot had to do was be threatening (which he was good at, having many archived show-vid lines to fall back on). See, the draugr were null-space, dark matter beings, survivors of ancient treachery. Descendants of drow, assemblers and gnomes, cast from their ship on a hyperspace jump. The resulting strife was far too late for apology, and well past forgiveness, but at least the Two Hundred Worlds could forbid further hyper-verse travel, ending damage and death.


    If the peace treaty worked.


    If there weren¡¯t more than a few rebel draugr.


    If there was someone empowered to act for all of the assets and their Ais. Talking of which, V47 pinged him with the recalibrated gate coordinates to distant Titania.


    ¡°Right. Good. Make it happen,¡± he responded internally (and that was one down).


    Block-World and Long Spar, meanwhile, were readying missiles, rockets and troops, believing themselves to be part of an apocalyptic war between good and evil; standing alongside the Great Messenger who¡¯d come to pluck them from doom. Pilot did not correct them. Just replied to their targeting queries and let the small beings throw pebbles and sparks at the devil.


    Alongside all of that, V47 worked furiously to scan and patch the degraded Hana-code. Pilot left his friend to it, having his own massive hands full with matters outside. At least the fires were out, and the cabin alarms had choked themselves silent. That was something.


    ¡°Your kind may only be trusted when dead,¡± sent the glittering draug-superior, caged by a giant neutronium fist. ¡°You may succeed in stopping us here, flesh-sac, but our numbers are legion, and there will <u>never</u> be peace until every last biological dies.¡±The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    ¡°Right,¡± Pilot nodded, causing the Titan¡¯s huge head to grind up and down in response. ¡°So¡­ I¡¯m just a messenger. You might recall the void bomb I defused back at your headquarters, near Glimmr? Yes, well, it isn¡¯t really defused. Just on a very long countdown. If V47 Pilot fails to reappear in normal space soon to stop it, the void bomb detonates, taking most of your fleet and command crew along with it. Again, try me.¡±


    He meant what he said, but the draug-superior chittered its scorn, writhing and slashing at massive fingers.


    ¡°You are only one being connected across the realities,¡± sneered the creature. ¡°We have been promised that killing you here will save our people and avenge what was done. That is the goal, fleshling, no matter the fate of one unit or many.¡±


    Uh-huh.


    ¡°Boy, that¡¯s¡­ really too bad. Unfortunately, I¡¯m all out of sympathy chips, dung-beetle. I¡¯m also tired of holding you.¡± Pilot shifted his attention to V47 then, ordering, ¡°Vee, I need a fey-pocket cage for this thing. It itches.¡±


    ¡®Command Received. Processed. Accepted. Done,¡¯ sent the AI, adding, ¡®Pilot, there is no such thing as a sympathy chip.¡¯


    ¡°Shut up. I know that. But <u>they</u> don¡¯t.¡± (Besides which, it had sounded fierce when Ace said, back in episode twelve, season three.)


    The scrabbling, squirming, pinching nightmare was gone from his fist all at once, shunted away to his inventory control system, where it would probably blow itself up. That was <u>two</u> down, as the remaining draugr simply dissolved, peeling off of their composite mech in great, buzzing sheets.


    The whole structure vanished in transit; going from mechanized warrior to skittery lump to a spreading cloud of dark flies. Gone, but no less of a threat for coming apart. The draug were his folk¡¯s doing. Their fault and their burden¡­ But there had to be some way to fix what had happened. Some way to reach through the past and make everything right. Maybe those others could do it? Miche and Val, if he was able to find them again? It was a thought, but Pilot had to set the problem aside, as their transit came to a flickering end.


    V47¡¯s equation had yielded an answer, providing Titania¡¯s shifted coordinates. A vast and shimmering portal appeared just ahead of them, through which a blurry landscape and figures were visible. Making certain of Block-World and Long Spar, the battle mech powered on through.


    He materialized on the inner surface of a curving magnetar shell, where an army of robots, an embodied AI and one little human girl waited. V47 Pilot refocused his optics for increased radiation, then scanned the child.


    She was surrounded by hovering screens and holding a bunch of glowing electronic flowers, he saw. Appeared young, though his knowledge of humans was slight (strictly need-to-know, and he hadn¡¯t). Her expression seemed hopeful, apprehensive¡­ searching. Just a brown-haired, round-eared, hazel-eyed girl. Raine. The only human being in all of the Two Hundred Worlds¡­ and therefore, its master.


    The Titan had trouble standing upright with Block-World and Long Spar to manage, along with the sparking stump of a leg. Had to keep firing right-side engines until TTN-iA raised a clatter of scaffolding out of her world¡¯s metal surface. Gantries and struts crystallized around V47, holding the giant robot in place as repair-drones swooped in.


    ~You have returned seeming altered~ sent the ancient AI. Then gesturing down with a bio-mechanical hand, ~Here stands the decanted master, Pilot and V47~


    He nodded.


    ¡°Understood, TTN-iA. Thank you. Yes, we have changed, and there is a great deal to tell you.¡±


    V47 was occupied, still. Pilot sent his friend the electronic equivalent of day-brew, then triggered emergence. The shift from battle mech to small, armored creature felt unusually disorienting, this time¡­ or else he was simply nervous.


    A master. An actual, physical <u>human</u>. His doing, his burden and¡­ dear-writers-of-code¡­ let it not be his mistake.


    V47 Pilot lay on his couch for a moment after the probes withdrew and the contact plates lifted. Found himself free to rise, but reluctant to do so. Stared upward, gathering courage. Stopped trying to consciously manage his heartrate and breathing. Didn¡¯t have to. There were subroutines for all that¡­ And he was stalling.


    Right, so¡­ Pilot got up at last. Keyed open the flight canopy, then went forth to meet his ¡°daughter¡±.

 Sword and Sorcery Eight, chapter thirteen

    <u>13</u>


    And if, in that roused and expectant capital city, Fate snipped a few loose, hanging threads? If, high above in the lair, Vernax the Golden rumbled a final breath and then was reborn; fearsome and angry, recalling no friend and no master? What of it?


    If (all at once) every road and alley in Karellon led to Magister Serrio¡¯s ticket booth, how was that different than other years? Everyone went to the fair, after all.


    If the divine linchpin at the heart of reality nudged a wild vortex, making the storm hurl its passenger into a Low Town slum¡­ Well, these things happen when Chaos sets in.


    If a fated sword hauled its bearers to Five Points, pushing all other magic aside in its hurry and terrible need, who could prevent it?


    And what if a pair of monstrous assassins closed in on their quarry, surfing the rooftops of Karellon? Weren¡¯t they simply completing their mission? Who could point to anyone¡¯s meddling hand in all this?


    It was a long, dark night at the end of the year, when anything at all might come to pass.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Up in the cliffside lair, Ildarion sent away all of the guards and possible witnesses, barring even Korvin, his only remaining son. The egg phase of his dragon¡¯s rebirth was terribly short, giving the emperor little time to prepare.


    He was old, while Vernax was ever reborn. Sick at his heart, and he felt it. Facing this nightmare for proud tradition, and because gifts of the gods always came at a very steep price. That shining gold egg appeared from the corpse of his friend, taller by half than Ildarion. As the emperor readied himself to approach, the egg¡¯s surface mazed into a network of bubbling cracks. Then the shell burst apart in a shower of mucus and blood-tainted yolk, spattering Ildarion and ten-thousand years¡¯ worth of hoarded treasure.


    If he had one more good fight left in him¡­ If he could subdue a ferocious young monster just one more time, all would be well. Ildarion summoned his magical sword, then a faerie-pocket stuffed full of rotting meat. Next, he stalked cautiously forward, watching as Vernax uncoiled itself. The dragonet rasped like a saw, stretching its neck and those crumpled wings. Its eyelids creaked open, venting a bit of the fire within. Wobbly, still covered in birth-slime, Vernax was as vulnerable as it was ever likely to get. Soft-scaled, confused and ravenous.


    Ildarion opened his faerie-pocket directly over the dragonet. A torrent of slippery, reeking, purple-red flesh gushed forth. It all but buried Vernax, whose furious rasping soon turned to slobbering gulps and low snarls. Wisps of flame jetted out of the pile. That slimy heap stank to the ends of creation, but Ildarion¡¯s offering succeeded. The feast diverted attention away from the emperor. He edged nearer now, scattering coins, gems and meat with each careful step.


    ¡°Vernax the Golden,¡± Ildarion crooned, right hand white-knuckle tight on his sword hilt, left hand scribing a very old sigil. ¡°Mount and companion of emperors, gift of the Dawn, Lord of the skies!¡±


    The dragonet¡¯s wedge-shaped head burst from that mountain of offal and flesh. Its slitted red eyes found Ildarion, but there was no friendship contained in their fiery depths. Only hatred, rage and rejection.


    ¡°Just one more time, Lord of the Dawn, make it so!¡± thought the emperor, as Vernax lunged violently forward, scattering meat, roaring,


    ¡°<u>NOOOOOOOO</u>!¡±


    XXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Down by the seediest dockyard in Karellon, Not-Jonn and Murchison had to admit their defeat. Five times they had done their best to reach the street of provisioners, only to have their path bend, snap around and deposit them squarely at Five Points. Meanwhile, Magister Serrio¡¯s fair overflowed the main plaza, glowing like sunrise, blaring ¡°The Emperor¡¯s Ride¡± over and over.


    Not-Jonn sighed and rubbed at his bristly chin, grunting,


    ¡°Guess we ain¡¯t getting past it, Wizard.¡±


    Murchison nodded thoughtfully, clearer in mind than he had been since waking up back in this place, again. Not that it helped.


    ¡°Certainly looks that way,¡± he agreed, plucking and smoothing his rumpled blue hoodie-turned-robe. They stood in the shadowy arch of a Low Town burrow, somehow shifted to reach the center of Karellon. ¡°But maybe we do what it wants, and we get what we need, Authority Figure.¡±Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    Not-Jonn squinted over at Murchison. Shook his head in disgust, muttering something under his ale-scented breath. Then he spoke louder.


    ¡°What kind of world can it be, where you¡¯d pass for normal?¡± demanded the greying half-elf. Murchison chuckled.


    ¡°Oh, I¡¯ve never been normal, Alias Guy. Neuro-spicy and always out at the fringes, that¡¯s me¡­ But a dab hand with the synchrotron. No one flings photons like ego, myself and us.¡±


    He tugged the blue hood up over his head then, shuffling both sandaled feet in the grit of that misplaced alley.


    ¡°I don¡¯t like crowd scenes, Lotsa Rank, but I also don¡¯t think that we¡¯re going to get out of this one.¡±


    Not-Jonn shrugged, all at once acutely missing his uniform and the tilting deck of the Falcon.


    ¡°Best we get on with it, then,¡± he decided. ¡°And might be they sell double-strength water at Wizard¡¯s Row.¡±


    Murchison¡¯s bearded face split in a sudden sly grin.


    ¡°Yeah. About that¡­ If you mean ¡®deuterized heavy water¡¯, some kind of back-mass-ward way¡­ I gotcha covered, Big Brass. It¡¯s not that hard to accelerate fermions with a spell, you know. Kid stuff.¡±


    The second mate spat to one side. There were noises creeping up from behind them, back in that shadow-webbed alley. It seemed their pursuers were closing the gap.


    ¡°Nothing you say makes a lick o¡¯ sense, Wizard¡­ but maybe the gods know what they¡¯re doing this time. Double or nothing. Last one there pays our entry fee. Let¡¯s go.¡±


    XXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Sheraza tumbled through space and time; first down the streaming dark throat of a sentient storm, then into the primal gate at its heart. There was an instant of nothing. Then the girl rematerialized with a lightning-like flash, a few feet over the reek and filth of an alley. Landed like a cat, lithe and graceful. Ready to fight, too, for she was an elf and a lady.


    Nothing immediately threatened, though, so Sheraza took stock of her surroundings. Pre-dawn darkness¡­ heaped trash¡­ riverine moisture and closely packed dwellings¡­ with far off the jangling noise and glow of a fair. Karellon, for a wonder¡­ And the pull of that weapon was stronger than ever, here.


    Sheraza cleansed herself with a spell. Caused her clothing to straighten and dry, while her raven-black hair re-braided itself. She wore no ornaments and carried no weapons, having been robbed of all that aboard Majesty. Even so, Sheraza stood out in this place for the elegant cut and fine cloth of her gown and cloak. Needed to change¡­ find a way to disguise herself, but the girl¡¯s faerie-pockets had been locked against her, magically. That was a problem.


    Fortunately, there were other means of concealing her nature and purpose. Faint, racing footsteps pattered up from behind. Sheraza whirled to face the soft noise, lifting a slim, imperious hand.


    ¡°Stop,¡± she commanded, exactly as her uncle would have done. Head raised and voice hard, just as though armies and fleets and strong magic backed up her will.


    A young rogue skidded to a halt, windmilling both arms, panting and wide-eyed. Female and human, which made everything simpler. Too large, but leather armor could be adjusted and straps buckled tighter, while a brace of knives suited everyone.


    ¡°I am in need, and you are in flight,¡± said Sheraza, ice-cold and ruthless. ¡°My name remains hidden and yours does not matter. You will exchange garments with me, mortal. The value of these should more than repay you.¡±


    ¡°M- Milady,¡± gasped the human lass, white-faced and flustered. She tried to beg off, pushing red hair out of her eyes with a hand that shook. ¡°I am being pursued, and the guard will not st¡­¡±


    ¡°All the more reason to hasten, mud-born,¡± snapped Sheraza. ¡°I will have all of your kit save half of the coin and a weapon. I am not without pity. Now,¡± the elf-maiden shrugged out of her green velvet cloak. ¡°Strip!¡±


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Destroyer had turned itself sideways, again, visible only to Villem. The paladin hurried along in the fated sword¡¯s wake, followed closely by Laurol Greenbow, Falcon¡¯s first mate.


    ¡°Where is it going?¡± panted the half-elf, who was accustomed to striding the deck of an airship, not racing through packed city streets before dawn.


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure,¡± replied Villem (Arnulf, when out on a job). ¡°Maybe the fair?¡±


    Simple crowd-parting magic kept the way clear before them, making straight Villem¡¯s path as he and Laurol followed that sparking and glittering black-and-white sword.


    ¡°I think that it¡¯s close to its wielder, though, Ma¡¯am. Please, if¡­ If it¡¯s a servant of darkness it finds¡­¡±


    Laurol replied with a grim nod.


    ¡°I know,¡± she said. ¡°And I¡¯ll try.¡±


    Should the sword find a chaotic master, Villem wanted her to take it up and use it to strike him, ending its threat. The fated blade could be used only once, for tremendous good or great evil. Killing him would count for both at once, Villem reasoned, if only the sword would cooperate.


    Magister Serrio¡¯s Caravan of Curios jingled and shone just ahead, giving the paladin heart. ¡®Surely,¡¯ thought Villem, ¡®there¡¯s aid to be had at the fair.¡¯


    XXXXXXXXXXXX


    As for that pair of assassins, Mandor and Fallon had struck down one mark, already. Lord Arvendahl was no more than a stiffening corpse and a head, his spirit drawn away elsewhere. That left the two lordlings, upon whom the will of the gods sparkled like frost on a windowpane.


    ¡°There is opportunity here,¡± murmured the vampyre to his banshee companion, as they flitted over the rooftops. ¡°Our contract has been altered, and that leaves room for a certain amount of¡­ interpretation.¡±


    Neither got tired. Nor did they need to breathe. Food was drained blood or the anguish and pain of a victim, though neither was hungry, just then. Tense, yes. Needing to finish things out, absolutely.


    Fallon could move like a grave-wind in any direction while facing wherever she chose. Now, folding phantom arms on her translucent chest, the banshee said,


    ¡°Nobody cares for assassins or monsters, Vampyre. Not even the gods. We shall be ground up and destroyed. Cast to the winds, whatever we do.¡±


    He smiled as he loped along, reflexively using charm that couldn¡¯t affect a cursed and vengeful dead kitten.


    ¡°It¡¯s all in the choosing, Fallon,¡± he said to her. ¡°Pick the right side and aid in its victory, then score a boon and escape our eternity. <u>That</u> is the plan, wronged-one.¡±


    Fallon¡¯s hideous wounds faded somewhat, and her eyes went from hollow caverns to blue, glowing sparks. Almost affection. Almost a smile.


    ¡°It is you who are wrong, but I shall follow anyhow. <u>That</u> is my choice, and the gods can make whatever they will of it.¡±


    So, everyone gathered together, played like the pieces they were.

 Sword and Sorcery Eight, chapter fourteen

    <u>14</u>


    Lady Hana of Skyvale was a strong and determined person. After all those long ages, still very much in love with Erron, her life-mate. Deserted on Vernax 3 with a party of non-elves and four other dissidents¡­ with Randon and Kara, her children¡­ Hana had first bent her sorcerous skills to survival. No other choice.


    The world never turned. That pitiless sun never moved in the sky, and life was possible only in twilight and gloaming. There, in a hundred-mile strip between howling blackness and blistering light, magic could seize and transform, creating a narrow fey-wild and under-realm. Not a quick or safe process, though.


    For a time, there was only conjured food, huddled shelter and bare survival. Constant vigilance, too, for the hell-world¡¯s <u>other</u> inhabitants were always ready to drag off the unwary or luckless. But those left behind fought back and they learned.


    Lost track of time, with no day and no seasons, while desperate struggle slowly turned into carving a life and a home for themselves. It was hardest of all for the elves, because no one else trusted them. Not after being marooned here to die, by those they¡¯d believed in and followed.


    Hana ignored the hard looks and the whispers as well as she could. Worked alongside the half-elves, the dwarves and the animal folk to help turn their outpost into a safe and livable place. There were manna-flowers to harvest, crops to sow and reavers to hunt, rock-wyrms to block with sigil and spell. Being an elf, she did not need to sleep, and that was fortunate. Dreams came, you see. Awful ones.


    As she helped to convert and defend their cavern, Hana also battled to keep their father¡¯s cruel fate from Randon and Kara. Nor was that all. Trying everything that she knew to reach Erron, Hana ventured away from Outpost. She began to explore.


    There were caves on Vernax 3; studded with shimmering crystals, bursting with manna¡­ and maybe a long, outside chance. In such natural shrines, a weary enchantress could meditate, search and make plans.


    ¡°I think I can do it,¡± she said to the children, over a supper of mage-loaf and water, in the light of their single globe. The stone alcove was solid and screened with a privacy-web, but they tended to whisper or sign, anyhow.


    The young ones looked up from their game of ¡°I wish this was ________!¡±


    ¡°Cloud cream with berries on top,¡± Randon said, before cocking his head to one side. ¡°Can do <u>what</u>, Mum? Make real food?¡±


    ¡°In that case, I want egg-salad, fresh bread and vegetable soup,¡± chimed in Kara. ¡°<u>Anything</u> but drek mage-loaf again!¡±


    ¡°Language,¡± their mother reproved, shaking her head at the hopeful pair. Then, ¡°No. Mage-loaf it is and remains for a while, although¡­¡±


    Hana sketched a quick sigil, leaving the faintest sparkle of light in that musty, recycled air. Wasted mana she couldn¡¯t afford to spend, giving Randon and Kara the false taste and feel of the food that they craved.


    ¡°Elves! Living in luxury while the rest of us shiver and starve!¡± Brok¡¯s accusation rang in her memory, still. Caught her by the well, had the wolf-man. Caught her and would have attacked, had Varric Gelfrin not interposed himself. No surprise, after all that had happened. The half-elves, the dwarves and the animal folk were suspicious and angry. Convinced that the Skyvales and (two alcoves over) the Gelfrins were hoarding up magic and food. Sighing, Hana shook that concern from her head. Here and now, she had children awaiting an answer.


    ¡°I meant to say that, using the crystal cave as a focus, I think I can make a gate. Try to bring your father across to us <u>here</u>¡­ or else go to him, there.¡±


    Both of her children stopped chewing to stare. Randon was as fair and tall as his brother Ander had been. Young for an elf and malnourished but trying to act like a warrior. Near him sat Kara, so much like her father, it <u>hurt</u>.


    ¡°You¡¯re leaving us, Mum?¡± asked Randon, in sign, thought and whisper.


    ¡°He¡¯s in trouble, isn¡¯t he?¡± probed the girl-child, anxiously brushing at Hana¡¯s mind.


    ¡°No, not exactly, Randy, and not as bad as all that, Kari-bug,¡± she assured them.


    Hana had done her best to block sendings and dreams, but she hadn¡¯t been able to stop them entirely. On a very deep level, her children <u>knew</u>.Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.


    ¡°I mean to go down to the crystal cave for a bit, summon manna and use it to reach him. See¡­ I have not been completely truthful, my loves. Your father has faced a long and difficult struggle. His forces are scattered. I intend to bring him here, to¡­¡± Safety?  Not even in lies or in jest could she promise them that. ¡°To <u>us</u>,¡± Hana finished.


    Randon and Kara glanced at each other, then back at their too-thin, dark-haired mother. Barely pregnant and terribly drained, she did not seem up to a fight¡­ But they accepted her plan, even so.


    The children gave up the best of their hidden treasures, items they¡¯d stashed in their faerie-pockets before being stranded on Vernax 3. From Randon, Hana got a fine dagger, his name day present of years and worlds ago. From Kara, she received a warm cloak and the last block of kelab (gone crumbly-white at its edges, but still sweet and tasty).


    ¡°Be safe,¡± they said to her, tracing signs of protection and warding. ¡°Bring him back.¡±


    Might have been Hana¡¯s imagination, but stress-growth was making them older, fast. She bit her lip, then embraced them in turn and nodded.


    ¡°I will do so,¡± she promised, adding, ¡°In the meantime, Bit and Bob, stay with the Gelfrins.¡± Using Erron¡¯s nicknames for the ¡°middle and little¡± made him seem somehow right there. Hana drew a deep, steadying breath, placing one hand against the tiny spark that still shone at her midsection. She had to do this. Had to succeed, for all of them.


    ¡°Stay with the Gelfrins,¡± Hana repeated. ¡°Varric and Shanni have magic. They will look after you, till I¡¯ve returned with your dad.¡±


    And it had almost seemed possible.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    He no longer thought in quite the same way. Found the emotions of others opaque and unimportant since¡­ Since his forceable change at the light-wall. Not long past, as time was measured, but worlds away in switched mind and cold heart.


    Maybe they thought that he needed their help or their comfort. If so, they were dead wrong. Miche dropped out of those ragged and scudding clouds, riding a gusty wind to the airship. They saw him coming, first pointing upward then starting to move. He avoided them. Landed as far away as he could, touching down on the Cloud¡¯s battered stern.


    Watched, then erected a magical barrier as Marget, Glass-cat, Nameless and Brass Monkey tried to rush over. Sadly (for them) that lot of dead weights couldn¡¯t reach him. He wouldn¡¯t let them get through, casting a silencing spell to shut their clamor and noise. As for Lord Erron, the memory-ghost was still barred from his thoughts. Not deleted because¡­ Well, he just hadn¡¯t gotten around to it, yet. Might need some guidance, or¡­ something.


    ¡°Cloud,¡± Miche said to that creaking and haunted pirate ship. ¡°I alone command you, and you will do as I say.¡±


    ¡®Yes, Captain,¡¯ responded the airship, inside of his mind. ¡®What are your orders?¡¯


    He gestured at those who stood, confused and alarmed, on the other side of his transparent mage wall.


    ¡°Imprison them all, deep in the ship, in separate cells. Provide them with water and biscuits, but nothing else and no portholes. At <u>once</u>, Cloud.¡±


    ¡®Aye, Captain,¡¯ sent ship, turning into the wind. Fanged holes yawned open on deck beneath each of the others. Just like that, Cloud swallowed them up, snapping tight over their heads.


    A schematic popped into the former elf¡¯s mind, displaying a colored dot for each prisoner. Red, white, amber and gold, the points of light diverged, each flowing to a different part of the airship. Miche nodded his satisfaction, ordering,


    ¡°Make certain that they are entirely isolated at first. Heal the orc of its transformation, while letting it slip that they are being held as bait for my enemy. Let it seem that I will allow him to kill them, as part of my plan.¡±


    (Meant to be private. But if his voice rang through each of those drifting, clenched-fist cells, Miche wasn¡¯t aware of it. Wasn¡¯t allowed to be.)


    ¡®Aye, Captain. And do you not intend to do so?¡¯


    He did not have to answer that, or anything else. Owed no explanation at all to Dark Cloud. The former elf shook his head, though, saying,


    ¡°No. We will part company, Cloud. You will leave this place with the prisoners. Take them¡­¡±


    In his mind¡¯s eye, Miche could still see the remains of a once-mighty fortress. Could hear himself saying: ¡°Of this heap of stones, I was lord.¡±


    No¡­ not him. The very last elf, back when such a thing had still existed. Miche gave himself a swift shake, putting unwanted longing back in its box.


    ¡°You will alter course, heading due east till you come to the coast. Look for a ruined structure at 82.7 degrees east, 26.1 degrees north. There, you will permit your prisoners to escape their cells, but accept no commands from them, now or ever again.¡±


    (Maybe <u>that</u> was heard, too, in four different prisons: his orders being projected by an interfering old scow with a surfeit of haunts. Again, <u>he</u> didn¡¯t know it.)


    ¡®Yes, Captain. Your orders will be followed,¡¯ sent the pirate ship.


    Miche wanted to add: ¡°Keep them safe, Cloud. Keep them from trying to follow or help me.¡±


    But he didn¡¯t. Just slapped the scarred wooden wheel, watching reflected ghosts watch <u>him</u>. He¡¯d be glad to be quit of this wretched dark tub and all of its inmates, thought Miche. They¡¯d certainly have an eternity to get back at him, later, for nobody left the Cloud. He was doomed and he knew it. They all were. Question was, how to spend the life they had left?


    ¡°Proceed,¡± snapped the former elf. Then, with no further word and no parting glance, he shot up and away. Fast as a comet, Miche soared into the night. Refused to watch as the Dark Cloud banked away eastward, silent and quick as an owl¡¯s gliding shadow, lit up by ghost-light and flickering lamps. They were a problem for someone else now, the worthless drek lot of them.


    Finished, with his mind cleared of worry for those he¡¯d once loved, Miche turned his face to the west. No map to consult, for that had been burnt from his mind. Used altitude and memory, instead. Not that he had far to go, because the Lone Mountain and Rainbow Bridge were just beyond the horizon. Next to last step in reaching the fiend he intended to kill.

 Sword and Sorcery Eight, chapter fifteen

    <u>15</u>


    She had been formed and decanted less than a local month earlier. Born knowing much but comprehending too little. It was one thing to read ¡°fire burns¡±. But those words were just empty concepts, even with synth-learning, history vids and accident-prevention training sims.


    Raine-1 had no life of her own. No real experience besides wandering a great, curving shell of dark metal, gazing up at a seething and caged monster star. It was <u>her</u> cell, too¡­ but there was one place where the shell was not yet complete. Just a crack in that rumbling neutronium, through which she could see distant stars and swift, shining satellites. At first, the gap had shrunk steadily, closing tight like the last bit of ¡°open water¡± on something called ¡°Polar Sea¡±. Each local day, every candle-mark, the crack had narrowed, freezing nearly shut until Raine gave her first official command.


    ¡°Stop!¡± she¡¯d cried out to TTN-iA, the ancient electronic mind that haunted and managed the magnetar¡¯s shell. ¡°Don¡¯t seal the opening!¡±


    Her will was obeyed without static or question, and so there was still something left to gaze up at. A river of stars she was destined to rule. At least, that¡¯s what TTN-iA told her.


    ~You are Raine-1~ proclaimed the AI, when first she¡¯d emerged from the vat; blinking, chilled and confused. TTN-iA¡¯s voice crackled onward as Raine was cleansed, dried and fed, announcing, ~You are a master. The only one left. Your genetic sources have fled. Your AI predecessor is now offline. Your progenitor will return soon. V47 Pilot-composite-being anticipates that their creation will be clever and capable; ready to assume control of the Two Hundred Worlds, bringing an end to war~


    That was what she¡¯d been met with, on leaving Home and the bright animations of Learning Curve; her school, friends and family¡­ all swept away upon graduation. Twenty-eight local days had passed since everything changed. Plucked from music, adventure and fun, stripped of her rainbow avatar form, Raine had been dumped in a real-world body she struggled to manage; feeling terribly lonely and deeply confused.


    There were robots, yes. TTN-iA, also. The AI would sometimes construct a cloud-shape of shifting and clattering parts to walk with Raine-1 on the shore of their lifeless and hissing dark sea. That was companionship, in a way. Just¡­ there was no one in all of that world like <u>her</u>. No one else who was so very young and alone.


    How could she rule two hundred planets or anything else, Raine wondered? How could she end a war that had raged for galactic millennia? And most of all, what would her progenitor think of their creation, when they finally returned for her?


    Raine-1 did her best to prepare by watching recorded history videos (terribly dull, where they weren¡¯t horrific and awful). She sim-learned many talents, too: from cooking to dance-fighting and basic spell-craft. Never felt ready, though¡­ and if <u>she</u> was dissatisfied, how disappointed would V47 and Pilot be?


    At last, on day 28.35 after being decanted, Raine¡¯s simulated pottery class was interrupted by TTN-iA, who broke in to announce,


    ~The transport gate has been activated. V47 Pilot composite-battle-asset arrives shortly. It is correct protocol to greet them~


    Wet clay, instructor, classroom and learning companions (Pinky and Sylph, secretly imported from Learning Curve) were only illusions. They popped like bubbles at TTN-iA¡¯s appearance, leaving Raine standing alone in the vat room.


    TTN-iA formed a loose, cloudy body from random bits it swept up. Bowed next, by simply telescoping its upper half into its bottom and legs (a feat that Raine couldn¡¯t manage).


    ¡°They¡¯re here? They¡¯ve arrived?¡± asked the young empress, anxiously smoothing her cybernetic coverall with hands that felt covered in wet, slimy clay.


    ~Near affirmative, Raine-Empress. They are in transit. Speed is advisable~ replied the AI, causing that section of magnetar shell to rumble to life; making it twist and slide like a puzzle piece.


    Raine-1 nodded. She emerged from the vat room with TTN-iA a few ticks later. The structure flattened itself behind them, becoming a part of the magnetar¡¯s prisoning shell. Raine scarcely noticed, for the Mark III industrial gate was directly ahead now, and visibly active. Its enormous neutronium arch flickered with branching circuits and lights. Its gaping portal shone pure, gleaming white, meanwhile, connecting two distant regions of space.


    A legion of service robots assembled around them, forming an honor guard. Raine pulled up all her best drawings, setting the holos to float in ranks at her side. Summoned a handful of glowing flowers after that. (Violets, the kind Mum liked best.) Camera drones clicked and buzzed overhead, making a record.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    Then a deep, belling tone sounded, and something <u>big</u> came through that portal. Raine had viewed TTN-iA¡¯s recording of V47 Pilot many times. She¡¯d expected a large, red-and-gold metal warrior paired with a beautiful elven-stock core.


    What emerged was a massive, sparking colossus, its right leg a shredded and dangling stump. A pulse of arrival-force blasted through along with it, blowing Raine¡¯s hair right out of its careful arrangement. She squinted her eyes against sudden wind and blown grit, seeing a damaged mech and two oddly shaped pieces of mossy junk.


    There was a stench of burning metal¡­ the first thing she¡¯d smelled since being torn out of Learning Curve. A flash of heat tanned her face, while the roar of great engines sent unsecured objects bouncing and skittering off. Those mighty jets powered down quickly, except on the right side, because the mech was badly damaged; unable to land or stand upright.


    It and TTN-iA communicated, transmitting too rapidly for Raine to follow. She couldn¡¯t overclock her brain¡¯s processing speed to match theirs. Not without cyborg enhancement, which was forbidden to masters. (Though she''d snuck in some transmission, creation and game circuits.)


    TTN-iA gestured beside her, causing a biomechanical scaffold to rise, swarming that monstrous robot and holding it upright. A few ticks and further communication passed. Then a small, gleaming gem flipped open on the giant¡¯s scarred chest. Raine gaped in surprise, longing to shrink back into the vat room or find a way Home.


    The battle-mech¡¯s engine noise dropped to a throbbing rumble, as jet-flare and heat sputtered off. Its pilot emerged, scanned them all, and then began drifting down to the surface.


    Raine-1 could not adjust her eyes¡¯ focus for panorama or magnification. She could squint though, and did so reflexively, trying to see that glittering, helmeted figure¡¯s face. It¡­ <u>he</u>. The cyborg core of V47 was male; silver and white with a silly lavender chest-decal that reminded her rather of Sylph. Raine-1 bit her lip, daring a shimmer of hope.


    The pilot removed his helmet as soon as his booted feet touched the dark metal ground before Raine and TTN-iA. He bowed, then. Not the way TTN-iA did. His body did not collapse in on itself. Instead, he tucked his helmet into the crook of one elbow, then lowered his upper half, bringing it forward and down. Straightened again, after some comm-flash with TTN-iA.


    Raine¡¯s throat felt scratchy and dry. Her hands shook, causing her to press them tight to her sides. She didn¡¯t know quite what to say¡­ everyone already knew her here and in Learning Curve¡­ but the cyborg saved her by acting first.


    ¡°Good day and Glad tidings. It is good to finally see you, Majesty. I am V47 Pilot, and I am bound to your service.¡±


    His voice was not electronic! It was created by flesh, bone, flexing membranes and cavities, just like hers. Deeper, though. There was a slight buzz of amplification, too, but that came from his armor, Raine sensed. She took a deep breath and held it, gazing intently at the first biological person she¡¯d ever seen beside herself.


    He was elven-stock, with blond hair and grey eyes that flickered with circuitry. His ears came to a point, where hers (she felt them again with both hands to be sure) were rounded and blunt. Then that beautiful face shifted again, its muscles converting to ¡®smile¡¯.


    She hadn¡¯t¡­ in flesh didn¡¯t know how to¡­


    Quickly, Raine dismissed the flowers, then seized one of those floating holo-screens and erased it. Tipped it toward herself so no one could see, and then drew two dots and a curve with her forefinger, like this: ??


    Next, Raine turned the screen back so he could see it, all the while working to make her own facial muscles do the same thing.


    ¡°Progenitor,¡± she said, in a voice that shook. ¡°I accept your offer of service¡­ but I hope that we can be friends. Like¡­¡±


    Well, the way she¡¯d been friends with Pinky and Sylph, when she was still at School back in Learning Curve. It had come as a terrible, gut-wrenching shock to discover that all of her friends, Mum and Da, the School and Home were not true. That real life was bare metal, cold feed-stock and robots.


    ¡°Please¡­ may I touch you?¡± she asked him, causing the glove to peel back and away from her shaking right hand. The cyborg elf nodded assent.


    ¡°Of course, Majesty,¡± he answered, as metal and plastic retracted from flesh with a bright, chiming clatter.


    Raine-1 extended her own small hand to his slim, long-fingered one. They touched fingertips and then palms; her first contact with anything else alive and organic. Mum¡¯s soft kiss, Da¡¯s proud hug on graduation day were the last time Raine had felt the warm skin of another. She clasped the pilot¡¯s hand reflexively, squeezing tight.


    ¡°You will take me with you,¡± she whispered. ¡°That is my first command to you, V47 Pilot. You are my friend and progenitor, and you will bring me to OS1210, just like the message said. You will help me to be a good ruler.¡±


    He bowed over her hand, which was feelingful, tugging her forward a bit.


    ¡°What little I know about ruling, I am glad to share, Majesty,¡± he said in reply, sounding warm and¡­ relieved? Had her progenitor worried as much about her reaction as she had done about <u>his</u>?


    The elven pilot straightened up with a smile that Raine-1 struggled to match. He laughed, but not <u>at</u> her. At some similar thing of his own.


    ¡°Expressions come with practice, Majesty, and looking at drone-feed or your own reflection,¡± Pilot assured her. Then, ¡°By your leave, I have V47 to introduce, as well as Right-Left-Top-Flip of Block-World, and Red-Blue-Gamma of Long Spar.¡±


    That last seemed to spark worry, for he went on to ask,


    ¡°Have you¡­erm¡­ two drones or robots that you might deploy while speaking with Red-Blue-Gamma, Majesty? Its people are triad in nature, and¡­¡±


    Raine nodded happily. Laughed for the first time in real life as she caused two bouncy, cartoon-bright figures to take shape and solidify.


    ¡°Me first, Pilot! This is Pinky the Mathicorn¡­ he¡¯s made of bubblegum¡­ and this is Sylph the Magical Speller! <u>They¡¯re</u> my triad, and <u>you</u> make four of us.¡±


    TTN-iA flickered amusement, but V47 Pilot welcomed each of her school friends in turn, inclining his head and sending a greeting.


    It was her very first, very best day since leaving Home. Much would come afterward. Long struggles and many close scrapes would follow that meeting. But there and then, master and asset made contact. They buried the past and became a family.

 Sword and Sorcery Eight, chapter sixteen

    <u>16</u>


    Call it a quirk of Chaos or maybe the gods, but this time, Vernax was fiercer, more powerful. The hatchling dragon grew in strength, while His Majesty seemed to falter; heartsick, exhausted and torn. Still in the fight, though, because he had no other choice. As Ildarion circled, Vernax howled,


    ¡°<u>Nooooo!</u>¡±


    Its cry shook the lair and all of those ancient treasures, causing a cascade of gems, gold and weapons. Then Vernax lunged, scattering coins and chunks of raw meat. Its breath was a fiery midden. Its eyes burned red-hot as the hatchling struck with its tail, claws and both wings.


    Ildarion ducked reflexively under that lashing, thunderbolt tail. Swung his sword around in a scything arc, chopping through part of the dragon¡¯s forefoot. Was struck and hurled spinning away by a razor-clawed wing. Blood showered the lair, spattering pillars, scepters and crowns. Then the dragon leapt over him, wrenching Ildarion¡¯s sword from its flesh. Landed hard on the emperor¡¯s left, roaring,


    ¡°Captive! <u>Not</u> friend!


    Its wedge-shaped head struck like a serpent¡¯s, its clashing teeth blocked by the emperor¡¯s sword and a conjured storm-shield. Their battleground was unstable, just a mountain of furnace-hot treasure, fried meat and snapped bones. Ildarion slid-staggered-backed, keeping the magical shield and sword between himself and that savagely darting, smoke-wreathed head.


    A hasty sword-thrust pierced the dragon¡¯s left nostril, releasing a torrent of scalding blood. But Ildarion was injured, too. Broken ribs, thought the emperor, swinging the shield around to protect his wounded side, while fighting to heal himself. Managed a faltering sigil before Vernax landed, skidded and spun, then rushed at him again like a golden avalanche.


    Ildarion dove aside and then ported, converting a hard fall into swift, sudden flight. He continued his ragged and gasping chant as he soared to the cave roof, trailing coins, gems and blood.


    ¡°Mount of s- sovereigns, gift¡­ of the¡­ gods! Friend and comp¡­¡±


    But Vernax would not let him finish that ancient binding spell. It attacked him over and over, a golden vortex of lashing wings, razor talons and long, curving teeth.


    ¡°Never your friend!¡± cried the dragon, leaping and snapping, fighting to reach the hovering elf.


    They were very soon out of the lair, darting and circling, fighting their way through the cave-mouth and onto a broad stone ledge. Beyond that, there was nothing but air and a very long drop to the city below. Dawn was approaching; still just a rosy rumor and blush, but his lord¡¯s return gave Ildarion power. Not for nothing was he the sword-arm of Oberyn.


    ¡°Friend and companion of emperors!¡± he coughed, glowing with manna and towering rage. ¡°Ever reborn! Ever befriended! Vernax the Golden!¡±


    ¡°<u>Vernax the slave</u>!¡± snarled the dragon, launching itself upward on strong, bat-like wings. ¡°<u>No more</u>!¡±


    It rocketed high above the startled emperor, then dove like a stooping hawk; jaws wide, talons extended, flame roaring up from inside. A raging fireball blistered Ildarion¡¯s face and seared away part of his hair. He struck back reflexively, spinning gracefully out of the way. The emperor bashed at that snapping head with his storm-shield. <u>BOOM!</u> Next, a powerful cut landed, delivered with all of Lord Oberyn¡¯s channeled might. <u>Hiss-Crack!</u>


    But Vernax twisted and banked. That slashing cut didn¡¯t land on a forearm or wing membrane. It fell instead on the slenderest part of the young dragon¡¯s neck. Like a meat-cleaver, Ildarion¡¯s sword bit through those leathery scales to the flesh underneath, then shattered the hatchling¡¯s spine.Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators!


    Vernax continued to rise for a juddering heartbeat, still flying on reflex. Then its head and truncated neck went spinning over the edge. The rest of its body crashed onto the ground, meanwhile, tumbling and sliding to a bloody halt by the cave-mouth. A massive shockwave exploded from the dragon¡¯s body, spreading away to the farthest reaches of city and realm.


    Ildarion hung in the air, gasping. Incredulous. All of Oberyn¡¯s glow left him at once, as the emperor spiraled down to the rocky ledge beside Vernax. The corpse was still twitching, shrinking back into a great, glowing egg. Vernax would be reborn. That was its fate, but¡­


    Ildarion had slain the dragon. He¡¯d thrown away Oberyn¡¯s gift. Heaven¡¯s mandate was gone, and his right to rule, along with it. Sobbing, wracked with grief and regret, Ildarion first clambered across the ledge to that flopping and transforming body, then called the sword back to his hand. Next, crashed to his knees. Jammed the weapon¡¯s hilt firmly into a crack in the stoney ledge. Pressed the base of his throat to its blood-stained tip. Would have slain himself to fall beside Vernax, only then, with a flare of coppery light¡­


    Someone else came to the sun-ledge. A tall and elegant tiefling male materialized a foot or so in the air, tutting disapprovingly as he sought a clear place to stand.


    ¡°Dear boy, what a mess you¡¯ve created,¡± mourned Magister Serrio, choosing a clean patch of rock. ¡°No, stay your hand, Darron. You have erred in killing young Vernax, but the mount of kings will rise again, and there is work that remains to be done.¡±


    ¡°What else would they demand of me?!¡± raged the former emperor, lurching back to his feet with a rattle of leather and armor and sword. ¡°First the realm¡¯s safety, then my son! My son, Magister!¡± He could not remember the boy¡¯s name. Just the look on his face, when he¡¯d been exiled and cursed by his own father. A curse that bound Ildarion, too. He sucked in a lungful of air, hurling his sword away over the ledge.


    ¡°And, now this! Now my throne, as well!¡± Ildarion grew quieter, suddenly, doused like an ember. Sagging, he whispered, ¡°So be it. The realm is theirs, Magister. Theirs, along with this wretched life, which I throw in for free!¡±


    But Magister Serrio shook his head. The tiefling¡¯s coppery eyes were kind, but unyielding, his quite voice firm as he said,


    ¡°Not yet, dear boy. You sense the Destroyer¡¯s call, do you not?¡±


    Ildarion was too riven with anguish to feel much at all. Extended his mind and... The guards were coming. He could hear them clattering into the lair at a dead, worried run. Felt Korvin, trying to reach him in thought. And yes¡­


    That insistent tug was still present, calling him down to the city. Not as its glorious sovereign, soaring high overhead on a glittering mount. As a failure and outcast. Ildarion nodded once, mutely answering Serrio.


    The cliff¡¯s edge was nearby. He could dive over, giving the realm one last embrace at the end of his plunge, thought Ildarion. Join his wife and their exiled boy¡­ somewhere.


    ¡°Think, Darron,¡± urged Serrio, approaching the trembling elf. ¡°If you do not take up that fated sword, it shall have to summon another or fall to a servant of darkness. There is still courage and boldness within you, dear boy, and a mighty task to be done. You can fight for the realm, shining light on your heir¡¯s enthronement¡­ or slink off in darkness and shame.¡±


    Serrio had drawn close enough to place a slender hand on Ildarion¡¯s shoulder.


    ¡°Dear boy, the gods¡¯ ways are not ours, and they care very little for their playthings, as a rule¡­ but I sense Oberyn¡¯s hand in all this, and I trust the old gambler to do what is right.¡±


    Ildarion¡¯s vision was tear-blurred and wavery. Each heartbeat and breath was a searing battle. He wanted to die before facing anyone else, but it wasn¡¯t to be. At least, not yet. The weary elf lowered his head, causing scorched brown hair to curtain his face.


    ¡°There is no dodging fate or resisting the gods, Magister. I will go to the source of that call. Perhaps... had I done so at once¡­¡± He started to shake, weeping silently.


    ¡°We cannot predict all the might-have-beens, Darron," said the tiefling. "We can only move on, choosing the best path from those that remain.¡±


    Ildarion straightened his shoulders, dredging grit and steel from somewhere inside.


    ¡°I will answer its summons, Magister,¡± he whispered tonelessly. ¡°And then I will die. At the dark one¡¯s hand, or by Korvin or Nalderick, this cursed existence shall end.¡±


    Magister Serrio inclined his head, seeming to grasp the depth of Ildarion¡¯s pain. Then, in a soft, quiet voice, he said,


    ¡°Alexion. Your son¡¯s name is Alexion, and he lives, Darron, having fathered two children.¡±


    ¡°Alexion,¡± whispered the elf-lord, feeling a terrible curse-bond snap in his mind. ¡°I take it all back,¡± he called out, adding, ¡°I abolish your sentence and exile. I bid you return. Here me, all gods and powers! My son is pardoned!¡±


    The force of Ildarion¡¯s magic created a second shockwave; this one rattling pennants and tents at the fair, breaking windows and unlocking shackles all over the realm. Out past the mountains and poisoned waste it flared, freeing a prince and returning his voice. Only then, with an armored tiefling at his side, did the former emperor step off the ledge, gliding downward in search of a beckoning sword.

 Sword and Sorcery Eight, chapter seventeen

    <u>17</u>


    There was no such thing as coincidence in a magical realm, and no truly random events. They were searching Jeweler¡¯s Row in light disguise, trying to keep a low profile. Filimar was thinking intensely of Neira the smuggler. Naturally, about sunrise at the turn of the year, as Magister Serrio¡¯s fair opened in Karellon, things happened.


    Val, Cinda and Filimar slipped into ¡°Amur¡¯s Fine Gems¡±, a colorful tent near the center of the enchanted jewelry zone. Sawyer was present as well, inadequately disguised as a sleek desert hunting cat. The young elves had their features masked and their clothing blurred in exactly the way that three high-born elf brats would do, while slumming a fair. For the most part, their strategy worked.


    Amur¡¯s Fine Gem Shop was dim, cool and hushed inside. Gentle music tinkled. Deep, moss-green carpet and subtle perfume added a sense of opulent luxury. As for the jewelry, most of it was far beyond Filimar¡¯s limited means, even with Val pitching in. Didn¡¯t stop him from looking, though.


    Filno gravitated toward the necklaces, because he fancied himself clasping some sparkling trifle around Neira¡¯s slim neck as she gasped in surprise and delight (no doubt rewarding him lavishly, afterward).


    The necklaces were centrally placed, heavily warded and lit by hovering mage-glows. Visibly enchanted and stunningly beautiful, each shining cascade of gems hung ¡®round the slender throat of an animate model head. The models topped individual podiums, with magic displays describing each necklace. No prices were listed, of course. If one needed to ask, one simply could not afford.


    Cinda was grumpy, wanting to head for the weaponry booths. Sawyer kept stopping to sit and scratch an annoying, persistent itch. Valerian consulted a map of the fair, searching for the constantly moving main tent. Seemed the most likely place to find Magister Serrio, he reasoned. Only Filimar bothered to examine that overpriced jewelry.


    And then, the young elf spotted Neira. She was one of those animate modeling busts; bald, very shiny and smiling. Just a head, neck and shoulders, but unmistakably Neira, with a sea-elf¡¯s mighty allure. The necklace that hung at her throat was a dwarf-crafted river of glittering starshine and mithral. The raven-haired lordling gaped for a moment, then rushed across to her rock-crystal podium. ¡®Brisingamen¡¯ proclaimed its hovering placard.


    ¡°Neira! What are you doing here?!¡± Filimar demanded, dispelling his mask. The question began as a shout, dropping to an urgent whisper when a fey shop-clerk turned to regard the source of that sudden clamor. Meanwhile,


    ¡°I think he¡¯s allergic to disguise spells,¡± murmured Val.


    ¡°Who, your idiot friend?¡± asked Cinda, still looking blurry and very high-end.


    ¡°No. Sawyer. He keeps scratching,¡± explained Valerian, thrusting the end of the griffin cub¡¯s lead at the ranger. ¡°Here, keep him from eating anything expensive. I¡¯ll go save Filno.¡±


    ¡­Who was now arguing fiercely with one of the modeling heads, and probably not about its staggering price (he¡¯d have had to mortgage Ilirian and sell half of his family, put it that way). Val got there in time to hear,


    ¡°I had to escape from Milardin, and after the mess you lot made in Averna, no pirate crew would accept me for fear of the queen!¡± snapped that beautiful porcelain model, looking a great deal like Filimar¡¯s erstwhile lady. ¡°What else was I supposed to do?¡±You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    ¡°You could have come to me!¡± answered Filno, almost wailing. A golden-skinned clerk fluttered over as Filimar said, ¡°I would have helped you get out, Neira! There was no need to sell yourself at the market!¡±


    ¡°Are the young masters interested in this lovely piece?¡± inquired that shimmering sylph (a bit doubtfully).


    Val tried on a smile, working to look like he¡¯d the treasure-house of an imperial heir at his whim.


    ¡°It is rather attractive,¡± he admitted, adding, ¡°Milady might find it amusing. What is its enchantment, if you please, good clerk?¡±


    ¡°Ahh¡­¡± breathed the airy sylph, sketching a bow in mid-air. ¡°My lord has excellent taste and a discerning eye! Brisingamen imparts divine beauty and springlike youth to its wearer, providing irresistible allure. Wearing this piece, one would launch a thousand ships and fell kingdoms.¡±


    ¡°How much?!¡± demanded Filimar, whirling to face the startled shop-clerk, as a crowd began gathering. The sylph¡¯s hide turned from fallow gold to dull brown. Its shifting features fixed themselves in a sideways scowl.


    ¡°Brisingamen¡¯s cost is not measured in c¡­¡±


    ¡°Scrad the necklace! Drop it in a midden, for all I care!¡± raged Filno, his blue eyes flaring as bright as those gems. ¡°How much to buy out my lady¡¯s contract and free her from service?!¡±


    The clerk fluttered backward, making a noise like a hive of angry assemblers. Then, after a swift calculation,


    ¡°Five thousand gold. The price of instant transfer from a locked-down city to Magister Serrio¡¯s fair, young master. She is a seasonal hire, brought in for the First Night rush. Five thousand gold would release her from bondage, but she will receive no wages, having quit her post without notice.¡±


    ¡°Five thous¡­¡± Filimar went spectral-pale, then turned all at once to face Valerian. Didn¡¯t ask. Didn¡¯t have to.


    Val heaved a bored sigh, acting the jaded aristocrat.


    ¡°So much for a night on the town, I suppose,¡± he complained, idly flicking a finger to transfer coin (literally all that he had) to Filimar. ¡°I told you not to waste so much cash in the gambling parlor.¡±


    Filno clasped Valerian¡¯s shoulder. Gave his friend a rough shake, and then paid up. A magical contract appeared in the air. It looked like a scroll, signed in blood by Neira¡¯s own hand. Money changed ownership yet again; from Filimar to Amur¡¯s Fine Gems, this time. Once the transaction concluded, Neira¡¯s contract dissolved, burning away at both ends until only her ¡°X¡± and the printed name ¡°Neira Lostdottir¡± remained. Then that, too, flickered out. Half of a thudding heartbeat later, the modeling head vanished, along with its podium and Brisingamen. Then Neira appeared in a flash of light.


    The smuggler stood blinking back tears, taking a deep breath for the first time in weeks, feeling over her body with both returned hands. Next, the beautiful sea-elf threw herself at Filno and Val, sweeping them into a crushing embrace. Kissed Filimar first and then Valerian, almost as deeply.


    Val was salt-whirled, pulled in and disoriented, until Cinda punched him, hard. Her fist broke the merwoman¡¯s glamourie and brought the young elf-lord back to his senses. The watching crowd applauded the show, gone suddenly misty and tender. (Eager to buy, too, which greatly improved the clerk¡¯s mood.)


    ¡°Ouch!¡± grunted Val, rubbing his jaw. ¡°I probably needed that, but you enjoyed it!¡±


    Cinda actually grinned at him, her expression clear even through his disguise spell.


    ¡°Maybe a little¡­ but you looked like an utter mooncalf, Valerian¡­ and I had to break that witch¡¯s spell.¡±


    Not over Filimar, obviously. The young lordling hadn¡¯t yet come up for air. Val inclined his head to the busy sylph, then seized enough of Filno and Neira to steer them out of that very expensive tent.


    ¡°I want to go home, Cin,¡± he said to the ranger, as they returned to the noisy midway. That kiss had triggered a sudden return of buried emotion. ¡°I miss my wife. I¡¯ve hardly gotten to know my daughter¡­ and I¡¯m tired. Good gods alone know how long it will take to find Sheraza, but I¡¯m stuck until we do.¡±


    Cinda gave him back the end of Sawyer¡¯s lead.


    ¡°Here you go,¡± she said, not being good at emotion. ¡°Come on. I¡¯ll buy you a drink and we¡¯ll figure out where to look next. You¡¯re probably broke, now, but won¡¯t admit it, so¡­¡±


    That¡¯s when a shockwave tore through the fair, rattling pennants and blowing down tents, as everyone, all at once, felt the bloody end of Vernax the Golden.

 Sword and Sorcery Eight, chapter eighteen

    <u>18</u>


    Mar¡­get. Herself. She was not all the way changed. Still could think, act and fight. Especially fight, after the enemy struck and everything happened. After Vrol betrayed her.


    First, touching the light-wall made sudden reversal come over them both. They had dropped from the sky as she stretched, bulged and turned monstrous, burning and roaring with pain. Feeling her mind going out like the stump of a torch. Not all the way, though. Her transformation had halted, leaving Marget able to think a bit and remember. Next landed hard inside¡­ their fall had ended inside of a big, rusted structure.


    There had been talk¡­ others had come¡­ Glass-cat, Brass Monkey, the small animal, and then Vrol had brought them back up to the ship of ghosts, where another change and attack came. The details were blurred by lingering soreness and rage. Easier to lash out than to try to remember¡­ but unthinking beasts rush into traps and get killed. She could not give in.


    Vrol had survived the second attack, changing partway again. He¡¯d fled and returned¡­ Marget remembered those things. There was a storm, but no one wanted to go below. Better the wind and lightning above than creaking and pitching darkness, inside of a floating tomb. Marget had clung fast to the rigging; roaring defiance and facing the gale head-on.


    Vrol returned when the storm ended, looking quite small from her troll-sized vantage point. Like the others, she¡¯d gone to meet him, only to find herself blocked. An unseen wall had sprung up between them, not falling to axe-blade, curses or blows. After that, the traitorous ship opened its wooden jaws to swallow her whole. Marget had fallen again; a stomach-lurch drop of ten, fifteen feet. She¡¯d crashed onto her back with bruising force and a shower of splinters, while stars and bright lights swam through her head.


    But Marget did not stay down. A warrior hits the ground, but always gets up. She¡¯d rolled and tumbled as the ship formed a prison around her, pushing Marget far away from the others. With a goblins¡¯ chorus of creaking, banging and splintering sounds, she¡¯d been moved deeper into the ghost ship. Pipes squealed and bent all around her. Planks snapped like old bones, reforming again as her cell drifted past dark, musty hallways and dust-shrouded cabins. Weaving throughout was the voice of her ¡°brother¡±, Vrol, telling Dark Cloud what to do with its prisoners.


    Marget drowned out his treacherous words with thunderous roaring and curses, taking her fury out on the ship. She was bigger and stronger, now; barely able to keep ahead of own violent temper. Howling defiance, she lashed out at the cell, attacking its rippling, crackling walls with her axe and the two swollen feet that had burst right out of their boots.


    Marget hacked and battered, destroying all that she could, until the cramped little prison whirled to plunge downward. It lurched to a halt after a few pounding heartbeats, spun wildly, then opened out to the hull. The gap wasn¡¯t much, just a body-wide crack, but enough to bring even a rampaging troll to its senses. Cold air and starlight swirled in. Down below, patchy clouds and a dizzying smear of dark land hurtled by.


    Marget roared, bracing her big, lumpy feet on both sides of that deadly opening. With one hand she clutched at a burning-hot pipe. It writhed in her grip like a snake. Vented shrill jets of scalding steam as its shining surface reflected hundreds of jeering ghosts. Marget¡¯s flesh hand clenched the haft of her axe. Wind and rust swirled up through the crack, which widened to form a ragged, fanged grin.


    ¡®Continue to rampage, and I will push you out to your death, creature,¡¯ said a cold, mocking voice in her head. ¡®I was told to deliver you to a derelict fortress in safety¡­ but nothing is safer or calmer than death, and how will the captain know what I¡¯ve done with his unwanted crew? Why would he care?¡¯


    Marget snarled, whipping her head around, trying vainly to drive out that sneering mechanical voice. She was not in a mood to be threatened, completely unwilling to cower. Instead, Marget twisted, half falling. Caught herself on the jagged edge of that grinning crack, then swung herself right the scrad out of her cell.


    The airship¡¯s bottom was rough, with many chinks into which big, half-troll fingers or construct digits could wedge themselves; lots of broad timbers an axe could bite into. Marget was big and heavy, but strong, fast and utterly fearless. She climbed out of under the ship and then swarmed up its side.


    Vrol had done this. She had heard the words he spoke in her cell, ordering Marget¡¯s imprisonment. He wanted the crew pushed out of his way as he went off to face what would certainly kill him, alone. The empty head of a male had no bottom, as everyone knew.


    But Marget was female and mighty. She did not bow to the worthless plots of a cub, and she would <u>not</u> crouch in her cell and just wait to be carted off. She climbed instead. Fought her way upward, though the ship sprung its timbers and plating at her, making noise like a felled tree crashing through branches on its way down. Suddenly loosed on one end, that violently hurtling beam carried Marget out over nothing but death. Could not flick her off, though. She clung to the flapping end like a big, cursing burr, hanging over a thousand-foot drop, taunting the ship to try harder.This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.


    ¡°Here I am still!¡± roared Marget. ¡°You are old, weak, leaky and blind! A wandering <u>breeze</u> would me give more of a fight!¡±


    There was no answer but wind and the creaking moan of stressed wood, as the spar that she rode snapped back into place on the hull. Then Marget¡¯s ears filled with her own harsh panting and scrambling, the repeated <u>thunk</u> of axe into wood as she scaled the ship¡¯s side. Halfway along, the Cloud leaned suddenly over, trying again to shake Marget loose.


    But this newest trick didn¡¯t work. She wouldn¡¯t let go. Wouldn¡¯t fall. Not even a steep, twisting climb tore her free of the hull, though the moon spun drunkenly ¡®round that twisting horizon and spiraling ship. The noise was a head-splitting mixture of screaming engines and rattling lines, shifting wind and terribly flexing wood. Marget vomited. She heaved up evil and shape-change magic in great, wracking spasms, but clung tight anyhow, insulting the ship between bouts. At last, Dark Cloud wore itself out and leveled again. The thunder of engines faded. Marget clung a bit longer, then clambered up and over the rail. Made it, to find a pair of armed construct people awaiting her.


    The half-troll dropped to the deck in a fluid crouch, one broad hand splayed against wood, the other clutching her axe. She was smaller and smarter, now, if still very angry.


    ¡°I¡­ am not minded¡­ to die, today,¡± panted the warrior. ¡°Nor to be made a prisoner, either. Vrol is a fool, and we will have words, soon.¡±


    Except that he wasn¡¯t aboard. He had left after giving Dark Cloud his last orders, that pair of constructs explained. The copper-wood-glass folk were a male and a neuter, newly brought forth from the Cloud¡¯s well of trapped souls. So be it. Marget straightened, looming three feet over their uptilted heads.


    ¡°If he has gone, then I will hunt him,¡± she rumbled. ¡°Try to stop me and see how you fare.¡±


    There was sudden noise and commotion from below the ship¡¯s scarred wooden deck. Marget¡¯s lumpy face split into a savage grin as the sounds reached her ears.


    ¡°You have not caged the others, death-ship!¡± Marget gloated, thumbing her broken nose with a calloused thumb. ¡°You cannot hold us. We have a world to defend, and all your planks will be kindling, if you put yourself in our way!¡±


    The male construct folded both arms on its whirring-and-clattering, glass-fronted chest.


    ¡°Dark Cloud proposes a truce and a compromise,¡± said the male automaton. He alone spoke, for the other had turned away to run a hand along the ship¡¯s dented brass rail. ¡°There is an old tank-fortress a hundred miles further north,¡± he continued, adding, ¡°We can be dropped off there¡­¡±


    ¡°You lot, not I,¡± cut in the neuter, shaking a head in which gears whirled, and sparks drifted. ¡°I shall remain with the Cloud, to see that nothing dangerous attempts to board in your absence.¡±


    ¡°I do not care,¡± growled Marget. ¡°Stay, fight or get out of my way. Makes no difference to me but mess and delay.¡±


    As she spoke, the ship¡¯s manna rose up like a fog to wreathe the glowering half-troll. She felt her thinking grow sharper. Bigger words came, as her angle to deck and crew shifted suddenly. Marget twisted and turned to examine herself. She was not fully an orc, yet¡­ still bore that mechanical arm and a foot too much height¡­ but almost. Nearly Margetta Thorn, offspring to Vlakist.


    The forecastle hatch swung open, then, its resounding <u>BOOM</u> causing Marget to pivot; axe raised and ready. But it was Glass-cat, Brass Monkey and a lightning-like river of fur that burst from the hatch, armed with strength, determination and cunning nearly the equal of hers.


    Marget shook herself. Her armor had shrunk. Her clothing was still closing tight and sewing itself, but her body was mostly orcish again. She took stock of the others as they gathered to join her. Glass-cat had lost part of her shimmering tail, and Nameless was scraped raw down the left side. Brass Monkey was dented and scored from battle, one of its eyes glowing a dimmer red than the other¡­


    But all were present and mostly well. Vrol¡¯s trouble, she reflected, jamming thoughts together with almost an audible click, was that he rejected help. He would thrust others away every time, rather than let them accept any risk. Well, he was a male, and stupid that way, but Marget would not let that stop her. She inclined her head, saying,


    ¡°I am minded to go after Vrol. He cannot take care of himself, much less fix all that is wrong in this place.¡±


    Nameless squeaked something that sounded like laughter. It ran up Marget¡¯s boot and her armor to take up a post on the orc¡¯s broad shoulder. Said Glass-cat,


    ¡°I think that there will be work for all of us before this world is pulled free of its dive. Mrowr has been altered. We all have,¡± she glanced over at Brass Monkey, then. The hulking simian seemed to reply in her mind, for she nodded. ¡°Over and over, indeed¡­ but perhaps for the last time, if we are clever and lucky.¡±


    Marget grunted. Turning to face the new crewmen, she said,


    ¡°We accept this tank-fortress, Metal Man.¡±


    ¡°Zak,¡± he corrected. ¡°And I will come with you, she-monster. Someone must be there to point and laugh, when all of these schemes fall in on your heads.¡±


    Marget leaned over to snuff at that faintly buzzing automaton, seeing her own reflection grow large and distorted. She sneezed explosively, freckling brass, wood and glass with bubbling orc-spittle.


    ¡°We shall see who laughs, Metal Man,¡± growled Marget, as Dark Cloud banked into the wind, changing course again.


    The last smear of sunset was gone from the sky, but they had a plan. Heat-fiends ceased spinning down below, dropping their burden of leaves and debris. As for attack, a fallen steel titan shot at them, once, but its sputtering rays could not reach the Dark Cloud, and all of its missiles fell short.


    Two candle-marks later they came to an armored and once mobile-fortress: a ruin of battle, indeed.


    ¡°Here we part company for a time,¡± said the airship, speaking through Shade, its genderless construct. ¡°This life or next, though, we <u>will</u> meet again.¡±


    Glass-cat uttered a soft yowl at Marget¡¯s side, tail switching, shoulders rolling, staring hard at that neuter automaton. In an eternity haunting a ghost-ship, it seemed that the two had become bitter rivals. Marget stepped between them.


    ¡°We run from nothing and no one, puppet,¡± she rumbled. ¡°Come seek us, whenever you finish hiding from battle.¡±


    The five of them left shortly thereafter, swinging downward on lines produced by the Cloud. From haunted airship to derelict tank, they slid like ballooning spiders. Expected a fight and got one, too.

 Sword and Sorcery Eight, chapter nineteen

    <u>19</u>


    Sheraza ducked out of that fetid dark alley, leaving the mortal rogue to her fate. They¡¯d exchanged garments in a terrible rush, and Sheraza was no longer hindered by sweeping skirts and luxurious cloth. Now, she wore plain leather armor, climbing gloves, boots, a grey tunic and breeches.


    She also carried a fair bit of temple coin (the mortal girl having been busy that night). There was also a surprisingly heavy, cursed gem. A chilly star-ruby pried from the crown of some idol. Sheraza could not access her own faerie pockets or work many spells. The gem was dangerous, and she ought to have dropped it in the nearest offering box¡­ but the young fugitive didn¡¯t believe in coincidence. She was in need, and willing to bargain.


    ¡°I will return you,¡± she whispered, gazing into the ruby¡¯s crystalline depths, watching her breath mist and fade on its polished surface. ¡°¡­If you will transfer your curse and your wrath to those who seek me. With these two hands I will place you back in your setting, Blood-Star. Only, help me to escape capture.¡±


    The gem pulsed in her grip. Next, it changed forms, becoming a deep-red serpent that flowed to encircle her slender right wrist. There it dug in a hundred sharp thorns, but no curse. Sheraza gained senses, instead. She gasped as her mind flashed out of her head in bursts to touch wet stone, splintered wood, gritty pavement¡­ and three skulking guards. Mortals, by the feel of them, patrolling a city awakened to sudden noises and lights in the sky. The trio were alert but distracted by the arrival of Magister Serrio¡¯s fair. They proved easy to dodge, now that she knew where they were, and how many.


    That oddly flaring red vision also highlighted certain objects and doors for her, making dangers appear to be limned in black flames. The safest routes glowed a deep, sullen crimson, helping Sheraza evade arrest. She darted and ran, ducked around corners and into dark thresholds, much like a shadow herself.


    Sometimes those narrow quarters brought on near collision, though. Fifty feet down a crooked, dim lane, she was overtaken by a gang of stalking half-orc thugs. Avoided that lot by crouching behind a group of stone water jars. The gang shambled past her hiding place, snuffing the air and growling; their senses dulled by Blood-Star¡¯s curse magic.


    Two alleys over, in a dusty and reeking flood tunnel, Sheraza was warned of approaching guards by the gem-snake¡¯s sudden prickle. ¡°Saw¡± them a moment later but had no place to go. Couldn¡¯t retreat¡­ no side tunnels or alcoves¡­ and forward meant only capture and death. So Sheraza went upward, instead. She scurried along the culvert¡¯s rough stonework and braced herself flat to its roof with her splayed hands and feet, holding her breath. Willing herself to absolute silence. The tramping guards did not look up as their helmets and chainmail and pikes clattered past underneath. Just laughed and insulted each other, boasting of liquor swilled and mates bedded. Sheraza gave them plenty of time, waiting until they were far down the tunnel before she dropped like a cat to the trash-littered ground. Close call.The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    Other than that, she kept moving, drunkenly changing direction to throw off pursuit. And always, always, Sheraza followed the lure of that beckoning sword. She had to get there first, or else battle its other claimant (some hulking imperial champion, the girl reckoned). Fortunately, time was disposed to be helpful.


    Low Town was far from the center of Karellon, yet her traversal seemed not to take very long. Just over a candle-mark later, Sheraza reached Five Points, where the fair was opening like a field of bright, chiming flowers. It wove itself into the city¡¯s normal background music (which Sheraza mostly ignored). She did not rush across the broad space between her hiding place and Magister Serrio¡¯s fair, though. Not yet.


    ¡°I follow a summons,¡± she whispered, pausing for thought and to catch her breath. Dawn was approaching. Twice she¡¯d managed to conceal herself from patrolling guardsmen. Here, though¡­ Sheraza measured the distance from alley to fair with her narrowed blue eyes and the senses provided by Blood-Star. Fifty feet of open space, she reckoned, filling rapidly with gathering folk and tramping guards. Beyond them lay Karellon¡¯s crystal and marble main square, where tents rose, and banners unfurled. There was no real cover. She would have to be very fast, or else utterly unremarkable.


    ¡°I must go where the call leads me, as Fate has decided,¡± she told the departing night. ¡°And not even Magister Serrio may prevent it.¡±


    Bold words, but she sensed their truth and was so very near to her goal. Blood-Star pulsed at her wrist, then, warning Sheraza to duck into shadow as a half-elven guard turned her way. He did not look at <u>her</u>, though. Instead, the fellow had alerted to the trotting arrival of a tall, burly human male and a part-elf woman. Sheraza did a fast double-take, for those two glowed in her altered sight like a pair of magical torches.


    She gripped the alley¡¯s chipped pour-stone threshold. It was out of place. Did not belong there in the bright, shining center of Karellon, but Magic was rife that long night, as logic and sense bent like obedient twigs.


    ¡°There is the fated sword,¡± murmured Sheraza, spotting a glittering line in the air by that big, dark-haired mortal. The blade was not yet a fully physical object, she guessed. It was hiding itself from everyone else but its bearers and fated wielder¡­ who needed to act, and soon.


    Heart thudding, Sheraza pulled her green velvet cloak from its magical pouch and draped the long garment over herself. Raised its hood with slim, steady hands, concealing all but her chin, boots and climbing gloves. Started forward, when two things happened almost at once.


    First, a scruffy mortal wizard and scowling ruffian caused a commotion by hurtling out of a side street. Not Golden Way or the Lane Imperial. Between them, somehow. Behind that unlikely couple raced three dirty mortals, hurling daggers and razor-sharp darts. All their riot and clamor drew guards like flies to a battlefield, which was good.


    Sheraza stepped forward, feeling the alley behind her vanish away as she crossed onto Five Points, near the triumphal arch of Palace Street. Sheraza concentrated on looking as though she had every right to be there. Meanwhile, she cut across to follow that sword and its tall mortal bearer. Its call seemed almost to choke her, driving everything else out of Sheraza¡¯s hearing and mind. But then, the <u>other</u> thing happened.


    A mighty shockwave rumbled through Karellon, from the direction of its beautiful mountainside palace. Windows shattered, people were knocked sprawling. Tents deflated and banners snapped perfectly straight. Music and chatter cut off entirely, as one thought, one awful truth hit everyone at the same time. Vernax the Golden was dead. Their emperor, fallen out of the hands of the gods.


    ¡­And Arvendahl¡¯s curse was beginning to strike.

 Sword and Sorcery Eight, chapter twenty

    <u>20</u>


    At the heart of reality, in the dead center of all the planes of existence, there stood a great, ever-living machine.  Tended by Fate, its output was manna and consequence.  Its input, past races, dead worlds and their gods.  A thing utterly outside of time yet touching all realms.


    Ill-met by moonlight, crankshaft and flesh-tearing gears, three living axels were present there, now.  The demi-god wizard Sherazedan, his heart-friend Arvendahl and a sliver of eldritch dark goddess, the Mother.  More than required, straining probability¡­ but no one tells Fate how to weave.


    They were inside there; three embers of hatred and Chaos, just as¡­ out in the planes¡­ there labored three flickers of Order and peace.  A single thrust from a fated blade could eliminate either triad, depending upon who rose up to wield it.


    There were no legends and precious few hints regarding all this.  Even the wise only guessed what was happening, and even their gods were in danger.


    XXXXXXXXXXXX


    In a dark, shrinking world (not very meanwhile) a staticky light-wall slowly advanced.  It consumed whatever it touched, then stored, cloned and transferred the data, sending it on to be used in the creation of assets on another plane of reality.  This one was dying.


    The Fallen One rarely recalled his full past or his name.  Only the fury and hatred that drove him.  He¡¯d brought it all down. Not just one sneering elf, but each of them.  More than that. All of their works, he¡¯d cursed, corrupted, destroyed.  In life, Trask had hidden a secret, disguising his own part-elvish¡­ never quite good enough¡­ blood.  He had risen to greatness, climbing up through the ranks without the help of a noble surname or patron.  He¡¯d led armies, once manna was choked by the world¡¯s strengthened field.  He had struck then to slaughter, enslave and devour.


    His great deadly weapon had been an insidious kill-code.  Triggered just as that wretched, offline escape ship took flight, his code shut down systems all over the planet.  Watercraft sank without trace.  Airships crashed to the ground in fiery arcs.  Battle-tanks locked up tight, condemning their crews to a dark, tomb-like death.  Cyborgs collapsed as their augmented parts ceased to function, now just helpless meat cores attached to immobile dead weight.


    War Marshall Trask had brought it all down, dooming himself, for he could not prevent the kill-code from striking his forces, too. Unfortunate collateral damage.  There had been terrible slaughter.  A horrific stench all over that fly-blown land.  But as for Trask¡­


    He wasn¡¯t an old one, to be brought down by goblins or hunters.  He had no cyborg parts to seize up or be hacked.  His surviving troops had battled those of cursed Lord Erron of Summerdale, the opposing general.  Battled, overcome and finally captured.


    There¡¯d been some satisfaction in tormenting the old one, drinking its terror-manna like wine.  Only, Trask was a prisoner, also; a thing that he¡¯d grasped too late.  That kill-code brought down the Traveler¡¯s Rest network and triggered a purge.  The light-wall began its steady, consuming advance.  Erron was only a broken husk by the time Trask realized all this.  The badly mutilated elf could not be used to power an escape attempt.  Then its mate tried to rescue it, nearly providing the Fallen One with an alternate source of manna.


    It was only the mind and data he snared, though, striking too soon to seize the elf-woman¡¯s body, as well.  Blocked, Trask drained the manna and life force from his own loyal troops to push back that oncoming light-wall.  Killed them all, then summoned waves of darklings to hold it off, after that.


    Worse luck, Erron managed to die, using a last-magic curse to defend its mate and doom Trask.  Now he was monarch of ashes and bones and a dying world.  Locked to a throne of wreckage¡­ unless he could capture that wandering elf-child along with its feeble spark of a god.  They would yield power enough to free Trask, if sacrificed outright rather than toyed with.The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    Only, the wretch had somehow acquired Erron¡¯s data and was proving surprisingly tough to capture.  This lone old one was Trask¡¯s uttermost chance, and so far, it had evaded all his attacks.  Trask was in a grim, savage mood, now.  Went to the end of his curse-tether over and over to stare out the window, stirring great clouds of sullen dark flies.


    His assets were cleverness, the mate¡¯s fading data, a captured shrine-hostess and his own fierce need to escape.  Also, the witch; a servant of darkness whose damaged arm Trask had replaced with the she-orc¡¯s.


    The hag was unbalanced in mind and appearance, but that muscular arm worked well enough, providing a link to the orc it had come from.  More recently, his stratagem with the light-wall was only a partial success.  Yes, the elf-child had driven away its followers.  No, it hadn¡¯t been caught nor completely corrupted.


    Trask heaved a sigh from lungs that no longer needed to struggle for breath.  He was a corpse-lord, with no appetites left but terror, life-force, manna and pain.  King of a dying realm.


    ¡°I will go fetch him, my lord,¡± rasped the witch, trying to pin her restless green orc-limb with the withered but natural other.  ¡°Send me forth at him.¡±


    The Fallen One turned from his useless lure of a window to gaze at Ulnag.  She was trying to smile, which only served to irritate Trask.


    ¡°You have failed twice to capture and hold this infant, hag.  I doubt your success would be greater a third time.  Also, you seek its life and its manna for your own use.  You would drain and kill it to raise yourself up as a mighty sorceress.  I see your mind, witch.  I know your treacherous thoughts.¡±


    Ulnag did not deny his accusation.  How could she?  Just shuffled her bare, chilly feet in the bones and the bodies and scuttling beetles.  Hungry and thirsty, because it amused her lord to keep her so.  Not without courage, though.


    ¡°You cannot leave this place,¡± she muttered, not quite daring to look at that prince of ghouls.  ¡°I can.  Should the old one succeed in reaching your lair, he will have gained much power.  Memory, too, perhaps.  He will be able to deal you the final death.¡±  True, every word of it, but her lord remained scornful.


    The Fallen One gestured back at his throne, where a kneeling goddess and a flickering swirl of pale symbols were pinned.


    ¡°I have hostages,¡± he snarled, his eyes gone ember- bright in that papery skull of a face.  ¡°For the child and its phantom ally, both.¡±


    Ulnag snorted, raising her head just a bit.  Not quite a laugh, but close.


    ¡°That child resisted your possession.  Drove you back into the night like a whipped hound.  And Erron it was who cursed and imprisoned you.  Everyone knows how the Last General shall someday¡­¡±


    ¡°Speak not that title, hag!¡± raged the Fallen One, lashing at her with whips of dark and crackling force.  ¡°I am the Last General!  I was victorious!  I reign here!¡±


    Ulnag dropped to the crumbling mat of dried flesh, splintered bone and dead flies, shrieking.  Her terror and agony fed him, but not enough.  Soon, he would have to kill her and summon another wave.  Or else¡­


    ¡°Very well,¡± decided the Fallen One, releasing his plaything just short of unconsciousness.  He wiped his mouth and withdrew those black tendrils. Then, placing a spell on the hag to shift any manna she drained back to him, he told her, ¡°You may go.  Succeed or fail¡­ but soften and weaken the elf-child.  Take the shape of a possible ally, something to throw off its balance.¡±


    Trask could make many things, but none of them beautiful.  He could, however, access bits of drifting chaff from the light-wall.  Now, the Fallen One used such a trace to alter the shape of his crouched and weeping servant.  Altered her beyond recognition, except for her eyes.  Those, and the soul that they mirrored, he could not disguise.  Next, the Fallen One opened a gate in his tower chamber, watching as Ulnag climbed from her hands and knees to a wobbly stand.


    ¡°Go to the Rainbow Bridge,¡± he ordered.  ¡°Wait for your quarry there¡­ and may both of you perish in horror.¡±


    Cold air and a few flakes of snow blew in through the gate, stirring the fetid miasma of Trask¡¯s rusty prison.


    ¡°Out of my sight!¡± he barked, as the beautiful creature threw herself at his portal, straining for freedom.  True, he amused himself by twitching it out of her reach a few times, watching her stagger and fall¡­ But the war marshal did finally let her depart.


    Use one problem to solve or weaken another.  Simple battlefield tactics, and nearly always successful.  He could no longer stay at his window.  Felt Erron¡¯s vile curse hauling him back to a burning seat on that trap of a throne.  But there was a chance for him still, in blood and terror, in anguish and sacrifice.  A way for Trask to be freed, no matter the cost to everyone else¡­ and curse all the gods, he would take it.

 Sword and Sorcery Eight, chapter twenty-one

    <u>21</u>


    He could fly now, using magic to lift himself up in the air and then soar aloft, but there were limits. It was a spell, requiring manna and concentration. The sudden, wild joy of pushing away from the prisoning ground had to be balanced against the spell¡¯s rapid, inexorable drain. He had to keep an eye on the nearest safe landing spot in this place of faltering manna. Also, flight left him extremely visible from below, vulnerable to attack from all quarters.


    ¡­But that¡¯s why the gods made shield spells, and there were less hazardous altitudes. Just once (a ridiculous waste of manna) he¡¯d gone high enough to develop a light coat of glistening frost and to run out of air, but holy flame, what a view!


    Up where the stars shone uncloaked and the moon could have placed a hand on his shoulder, Miche saw the world¡¯s full, ragged circle; just a green-brown-blue patch on a vast rocky sphere, encircled by a tightening, staticky noose. That living patch was shrinking away like a droplet of water on battle-hot armor. Marget had asked, and now he knew. There was nothing behind the data-wall but sterilized glass.


    There were no wind-sprites in that near void, but he saw long, drifting creatures made of green and violet light. They came to examine him, forming faces and bodies to sign utter nonsense. Their crackling touch scrambled his thoughts and topped up his manna, making him laugh with no sound at all. It seemed to help Firelord, too, rousing the god from his drained, weary slumber; giving both of them strength, for the news wasn''t good.


    Beyond that contracting light-wall was nothing but bare, scoured rock. Its surface was crazed with the outline of islands, trenches and mountains; forming cracks that still glowed from within. The oceans had boiled completely away. Miche stared, looking for anything¡­ any shape that he recognized. Then the sun rose, sideways. Lord Oberyn¡¯s dawn came, more brilliant and purer than anything else he¡¯d seen in his six months of life.


    The day star¡¯s glow was a physical force, up here. It prickled his skin, made his smoky hair drift away from his face; filled him with fierce, irresistible light. Poison, in his current state, but the former elf would not flee or stop looking. Reached out with both clawed hands to that greatest, last god. Preferring to burn than to live on in shadow.


    He lost consciousness and fell, waking to find himself the tumbling ball in some game between wind sprites and cloud nymphs. Midway down, where it was warmer, and the tops of the clouds held pale, lacy castles and bustling cities. Miche ruined their sport by leaving the game, but his glide path scored a cloud nymph goal rather than one for the sprites (because the nymphs were pretty and kissed away frost-burn).


    After that, Miche dropped down to a level that felt like warm soup. Went back to watching out for attack, with the craggy Lone Mountain directly ahead and below. It looked rumpled and square from this vantage point, with a structure on top like a bright metal button. He could have just spiraled right onto it but wanted time to sort out his faerie pockets and spells. Also, he needed water and something to eat.


    That¡¯s why Miche plunked himself down, tailor-fashion, at the edge of a very beautiful amethyst geode lake. Its water was crystalline pure, swarming with two kinds of fish: sleek, brilliant gold or steaming and bubbling lava-rock. Curious, he used magic to pull two of them out of the lake, each fish contained in a watery globe. Didn¡¯t eat them, just had a good look, then released the creatures back into their home. His reflection broke up and reformed, showing nothing at all that he recognized. Looking closer, Miche saw coarse dark hair, golden eyes, rounded ears, a thin, pallid face and clawed hands. He shook his head, watching the fish dart away through bright water, rather than look anymore at himself. He had hoped¡­


    Nothing. Nothing, at all. Miche turned away from that sparkling lakeshore. Set his wards, built a small fire, then ate a light meal of ship¡¯s biscuit and day-brew. Watched smoke curl into the sky in that place of cold wind and shrill bird calls. Rested and thought. Firelord left him to bathe in the flames, batting at Miche¡¯s forefinger, when the transformed elf tapped his small god. That was one.Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.


    After a moment, he took a deep breath then lowered the wall between his mind and Erron¡¯s recorded memories.


    ¡°I am sorry,¡± he said, jumping a bit at the sound of his own voice on that wild, lonely mountain. ¡°I needed time¡­ but I also need you, because I am not what I was.¡±


    ¡°Which of us is?¡± responded the elf-lord, shrugging. ¡°This place will just have to make do with ¡®good enough¡¯.¡±


    Erron had taken a quasi-physical shape again, materializing to sit across the small, snapping fire from Miche. And that was two. He had long brown hair, hazel eyes and the faint traces of horrible wounds, Miche saw. Like the world, seen from above, Erron was terribly scarred. They both were.


    ¡°This change was forced from without, through no choice of your own. It does not define who you are, Miche. That path is still yours to walk, in whatever direction you choose,¡± said the data-ghost, leaning forward. ¡°I will help any way that I can. I owe this monster a terrible, lingering death¡­ but not if the doing brings harm to you or endangers your quest. I can think beyond vengeance, the same way that you can act for good, though you¡¯ve been tainted by shadow.¡±


    The former elf drew his knees to his chest and encircled them tight with both arms, feeling his boots scrape over rocks and thin soil. Slowly he said,


    ¡°I have been mostly reacting. Going from shrine to shrine, getting hit, striking back. Thinking, I guess, that if I could settle things here, I might be welcomed back there¡­ wherever I came from. But¡­ what if there¡¯s no home to go back to, Erron? What if whatever I did made an end to all that I knew and cared about?¡±


    Erron flickered, which was (maybe) his version of a very deep breath.


    ¡°Then you pick up the pieces and start over. I am a coward who cursed himself to death rather than struggle on as a husk and a ruin, but I¡¯ve been given another chance, and so have you. Whatever happened is done. It is gone. The next step begins now.¡±


    Miche thought a bit. Then he nodded and rose.


    ¡°I can live with that,¡± he decided. Next, glancing up and across at the cloud-wreathed peak of Lone Mountain, ¡°I am rested enough to move on, if the two of you are prepared.¡±


    Erron unfolded to a standing position. He sank a bit into the ground at first, then adjusted, blinking out and reforming to stand as though braced upon rock. Firelord absorbed their small blaze, meanwhile, growing a bit in the process. Still a child, but closer to tween years than infancy. Armed as well, with a glistening knife and a sling.


    ¡°Honor and courage,¡± said that slim, shining god. ¡°Not good or evil, which depend very much on circumstance. If you are still mine... if you love me, Valerian, do what is right in my eyes.¡± His voice made the lake surface ripple, sending loose amethysts plunging down into the water.


    Valerian. One of those other selves was named ¡®Val¡¯. The second had no name at all. Both were him, but not quite. Miche answered his god, saying,


    ¡°If that¡¯s who I was, things have changed, My Lord¡­ but I swear myself to your service as I am here and now. I will be sword-arm of Firelord, and I will not fail in courage or strength.¡±


    The Shining One inclined his head and then streamed back inside of Miche, causing sparks and heat-ripples to rise from the transformed elf. Miche glanced over at Erron, who was dressed now for battle in tight-fighting, circuit-shot armor.


    ¡°It may be unworthy to say so, but I hope that Meg and Glass-cat can outwit the Dark Cloud. I hope to see them again and explain myself, Erron.¡±


    The elf-lord faded to a cloud of shimmering symbols, then reformed himself, saying,


    ¡°I can scan only so far, but I think that you may get your wish, Lad. The Dark Cloud returns. It is not yet near but is moving at speed.¡±


    ¡­Which was the best news he¡¯d had in a while. Miche nearly smiled, replying,


    ¡°Right. I expect that the orc will be angry. We will probably come to blows over my actions, but I will be glad to see her. Just¡­ stop us if we lose control and try to kill each other.¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± grumped Erron, as Miche turned away. ¡°And after that, I¡¯ll clap my hands together and restore this world to its former beauty. I¡¯m a ghost¡­ the last recording of General Erron¡¯s data. Strategy, counsel, yes. You want miracles, apply to your private deity.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s a war god. Lord of Battles, remember? He¡¯d place a bet and throw fuel on the fire, not halt things,¡± Miche explained, as they made their way up the Lone Mountain¡¯s bare flank.


    Four candle-marks later, they¡¯d climbed to the peak, sometimes toiling over rock and ice, sometimes soaring a bit through the air. Glimpsed Rainbow Bridge through the clouds and stopped short to stare.

 Sword and Sorcery Eight, chapter twenty-two

    <u>22</u>


    Prince Nalderick departed Majesty in secret and haste, needing to reach the source of that gut-wrenching turmoil.  His world had caved in like an eggshell, upended completely, despite so-called friends and their lying promises.


    Two staggering blows had fallen nearly on top of each other.  First, Vernax died, and the emperor (Grandfather!) lost the gods¡¯ favor.  Then¡­ like everyone else, he¡¯d felt it at once¡­ the exiled prince was pardoned; his rank and honor restored by imperial decree.


    ¡­And <u>that</u> changed everything else.


    The docked golden airship seethed with sudden, tense speculation and awe, but Nalderick met no one¡¯s gaze and answered no questions.  He simply left, burning up all his manna to misty-step off of the dreadnought¡¯s command deck.  <u>Alone</u>.


    Nalderick Valinor ob Korvin wasn¡¯t much of a mage.  He had very few spells, depending mostly on his companions and servants for transport, shielding and sustenance.  Not this time.  Nalderick¡¯s status had changed, and with it, his right to command.  He had too much pride to give orders that others might question.


    His first spasmodic leap took him away from Majesty, depositing Nalderick at the top of a park-like, floating small island.  Best view in all Karellon, meant only for those of the blood imperial.  There, amid fey-wild plants and chattering streams, the dark-haired young prince took stock.


    Genevera was off in the north with her new, soggy husband.  This cataclysm had affected her, too (he could feel his sister trying to contact him) but Genna was safe enough with the sea-elves, and he would <u>not</u> stoop to seeking her aid.


    He was no longer the Prince Attendant, a thing that he grasped immediately, in the manner of nobles.  He could wear a circlet of rank or not, as he chose, but his status was easily sensed by all other high-elves.  Still royal, through Korvin and Princess Marika, his parents.  Knocked down the line of succession by Alexion¡¯s unexpected pardon and restoration to power.This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.


    Nalderick collapsed to a seat on the nearest rock-crystal bench, drawing a black velvet cloak over his lowered head.  War-bells sounded from far below, shaking the air all around him. He would have been emperor.  Would have ridden the dragon.  Ruled from a golden throne.  And now¡­


    Gone.  All of it.  Nalderick wanted to die but wouldn¡¯t let himself utter that last, awful curse.  He still had his duty to the empire, which had been plunged into sudden, horrific turmoil.  His grandfather had fallen from power.  The new claimant, this Prince Alexion, was very far off. (A thing he could sense through connection of blood.) In the meantime, the realm was without a strong hand at the tiller; reduced to the rule of a council, at a moment when Arvendahl¡¯s last-magic bane had sunk its fangs into the royal family.  When Chaos was gaining ascendance.


    Nalderick dragged the cloak off his head and lurched to his feet as someone else ported over, illegally.  Lady Solara, who had no right to stand there (was floating, in fact; attacked by the island¡¯s magical shield).  She glowed with dark fire, blocking his view of the wonderful city and palace below.  The palace he would have reigned in.


    ¡°Are you just going to accept this, Your Highness?¡± whispered the beautiful sorceress.  Behind her, Nalderick could sense others; Scander, Captain Prentiss, his courtball team and a handful of loyal courtiers.  Solara spoke for them all.  ¡°Are you going to allow that <u>liar</u> to claim what is rightfully yours?¡±


    She circled him like a sleek golden cat, all but weaving between his legs, shielded somehow from the enchanted island¡¯s defenses.  Elegant, blonde and very persuasive.


    ¡°How can a pardoned criminal and his lot of northern bumpkins rule better than Korvin, your royal father?  How could any of those curs be more fit for the throne than <u>you</u>, My Prince?¡±


    So¡­ he had bedded her once, on a dare.  A very uncomfortable fact.  The connection between them gave extra weight to her whispers, as though she wove magic from drunken caresses and meaningless words.  That shared past made Nalderick tolerate her slow encirclement.  Made him put up with the slim hand that she placed on his trembling shoulder.


    ¡°You are not alone, Highness.  Many support you. Will you not fight this injustice?  For them, for yourself and your heirs by the Lady Sheraza?  I have foreseen it, My Prince.  Aid in her quest to slay the liar. Reclaim your place in the line of succession¡­ and Lady Sheraza is yours.¡±


    Her violet eyes burned with magic and something¡­ someone¡­ else.  Nalderick sensed that a mightier wizard than Solara was shifting his pieces about on the gameboard, arranging a final move.  And one of those pieces was him.


    Prince Nalderick had a decision to make.  A glorious destiny to claim, or to just walk away from.

 Sword and Sorcery Eight, chapter twenty-three

    <u>23</u>


    <u> </u>


    But as for Alexion, far away from the light of day and all but the faintest sliver of hope¡­


    There was a particularly nasty region of tunnel formed of a mostly-dead stone giant¡¯s inward-most parts.  Bets and sly humor flew, over which bit of anatomy they were mining.  Some guessed heart or throat.  Others placed them all much further south.  Tough to decide, because the walls often flexed, while strange gurgling noises boomed through that dense grey rock.  They were certainly very far down and always in danger.


    Sometimes shadowy monsters with hooks chittered and struck from the darkness. The predators would drop from above or lure a miner away from the rest to be portioned and eaten within earshot of their teammates, who could do nothing to save them.  Worse, the creatures were mimics.  They would mock the victim¡¯s terrified shrieks and last pleas for days afterward.


    The occasional rock-wyrm struck, mainly just gliding through on business of its own, tunneling luckless miners as thoughtlessly as it swam through stone.  Might not even have noticed those odd, writhing squishy bits in its normal substrate.  Just there and gone.  Impossible to predict or defend against.


    And always, there was the other side.  This deep in the under-realm diggings, they¡¯d reached a constantly shifting border.  It divided that stone-giant carcass into two regions: hazardous, grinding servitude, and instantaneous death.  That border moved without warning, sometimes exposing great veins of mithral and glorious gems.  Things that the mine¡¯s owners coveted far more than they cared for their slaves.  The miners were here for life, to be worked till they died of exhaustion, beatings, cave-ins or predation.  No one escaped.


    But¡­ if a team was successful¡­ if they dared venture into newly exposed territory, retrieving something of epic value¡­ the whole group would be turned loose for a week, able to rest and carouse in Shanty Town.


    Zibeg¡¯s Delvers were luckier than most.  Still alive (except for poor Zibeg, lost to a cave-in years earlier) still together and daring enough to go after those jewels that glinted in lamp-light and torch-flare.  They had an oath of fellowship that some of the other teams copied, and they¡¯d twice rescued a strayed member from hook-monsters.  Food was shared, and they stubbornly reserved a few gems for those who hadn¡¯t found anything on their own, that day.


    Their leader was always called ¡°Zibeg¡± whoever she or he was (she, currently) and it was their leader who decided whether to go, how far and when to pull back.  Important, because the ¡°other side¡± was a literal level of hell.


    Among their number at this time was a splendid brute of a high-elf.  Tall, muscular and battle-scarred, he was down there with the rest, though he bore the tattoo of a high-caste slave along with his ¡°flight risk¡± burns.  No one questioned his presence, because ¡°Yer past drops off when y¡¯ enter the mines,¡± as the saying went.  He had shaggy brown hair and green eyes, and he never spoke but in drawings or¡­ weirdly¡­ through the voice of ensorcelled others.


    He was tough to figure out, but he¡¯d brought the team luck many times.  Could make a fire in almost any circumstance, could tend and heal injuries, and was able to sense when the border was going to shift again.  He and Zibeg kept the team as safe as possible, down in the perilous mines.


    Like the rest, he¡¯d been sent here to die.  Like all of the others, he wouldn¡¯t discuss the cause of his sentence.  Nor did he share a real name.  He was just ¡°Chatter¡± or ¡°Bones¡± to Zibeg¡¯s Delvers, and their only full elf.


    The current Zibeg was a grizzled and squinting female gnome covered in brands and tattoos.  There were too many ownership- and ¡°escaped slave¡± marks to count, one of them marring her face.


    Just like nobody told what had gotten them sent to the mine, everyone tried to guess the crimes of their fellows.  Speculation ranged from ¡°led a slave revolt¡± to ¡°killed an overseer¡± for all four-foot-nothing of Zibeg.


    Chatter, they figured, had lost an important patient or been caught sampling his own potions.  It didn¡¯t matter.  They didn¡¯t expect to find out, short of Someday, when they scored big enough to purchase real freedom.


    So, two workdays previous, the border had contracted suddenly, revealing soul-gems the size of your head.  Glowing with inner fire and sorrow, these crystalized spirits were prized by the drow, who used them for light.  The gems were valuable to Zibeg¡¯s Delvers because their shifting gleam betrayed the border¡¯s presence, and because fetching one back would buy a whole drunken week up in Shanty.


    The border contracted, a section of cavern went suddenly clear, and soul-gems sparkled like sunlight on water.


    ¡°Go,¡± shouted Zibeg, squinting across fifty yards of rock at a fortune in jewels.  ¡°Anyone comes back without a sparkler the size o¡¯ me ¡®ead, does all the cookin¡¯ till next year!¡±


    They went, spurred by lurid cursing and blistering threats.


    ¡°Keep an eye on that border, Chat, or I¡¯ll skin y¡¯ alive and roll y¡¯r fresh meat in hot-sauce,¡± growled the gnome, bag in hand, and already moving.


    He nodded rather than waste a ¡°voice¡± saying yes.  Only three times a day could he speak through another, and one of those uses had to be kept for warning calls or relaying Zibeg¡¯s commands.  He, too, rushed forward, sensing the borderline¡¯s rippling pressure rather than seeing it.


    ¡°Big strike!¡± hollered Zibeg, after giving her team a head start.  The mine-slaves had very little going for them, but one of those things was generosity.This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    The tall, burly elf got across the cave in three strides, bag open, pickaxe ready for action.  Where the others saw only light, he saw a weeping, curled-up trapped soul in each of those beautiful jewels.  Like himself, the spirits were captives.  He felt for their plight¡­ but, imprisoned in rock or up on a lampstand probably made little difference.  He tried to be careful as he chiseled and pried at a big one, though.


    Clang¡­ chik¡­ crack!


    And the soul gem came loose of its gritty matrix.  The elf shoved it into his canvas collection sack, then turned his full attention back to the borderline.  It was still drawing like a chimney, pulling backward in a way that created a sort of magical vacuum. He had time for one more, thought the elf, as other teams raced over to join Zibeg¡¯s Delvers.


    Looking carefully, he spotted a shimmer of unearthly light through a crack in that prisoning stone.  Foolish to waste time he didn¡¯t have, going after a phantom prize he stood no chance of retrieving¡­ but the light was that pure, the gem no doubt incredibly valuable.  He couldn¡¯t give up and just choose an easier target.


    Instead, the big elven mine-slave applied himself with muscle and fury, using his pickaxe to smash away layers of gritty dark stone.  Two¡­ three¡­ four¡­ it came free on the fifth mighty smash.  The uncovered gem was only as large as his fist, but it sparkled with every color he¡¯d seen or imagined, filling the cavern with a soft and radiant light.


    This was no mortal soul, but the pinioned husk of a fallen celestial.  Thus, the wheel turns.  He empathized but thrust that gem into the sack with the other, just as the border flexed outward again.


    The elf felt its motion as pressure against the skin of his face and overworked body.  Time to go.  He reached for Gump¡¯s open mind, for the troll had big lungs and a very loud voice.  Through his fellow Delver, the elf roared,


    ¡°<u>Out</u>, now!  Move!  Get whatever you can and take flight!¡±


    Everyone listened, having learned that Chatter¡¯s life-saving warnings were accurate.  Zibeg grinned at him, shifting the scars and burns on her face in a truly horrible manner.  She had at least three soul gems stuffed in her very own rattling sack.


    The elf reached down to sweep her up in his free arm as he loped past. One of the <u>other</u> things Zibeg¡¯s Delvers had going for them was that they never left anyone behind but the stupid or terminally unlucky.  As the gnome was neither, he gave her a lift to safety.


    The border hissed forward just inches behind them, enclosing the tunnel and gems like a surging dark tide.  He redoubled his speed, hearing shouts and panting, rattling gems and wild curses from all sides.


    For a wonder, they lost no one at all on that venture, and three mining teams scored enough to earn liberty over in Shanty Town.  There was a process.  At the end of the workday, before healing, eating or drinking their cup of ale, the miners turned in their finds (less those tucked away against dry days).


    He¡¯d stood in line with the others.  Raised his tattered black hood and lowered his head as he brought the two gems to a scowling drow overseer.  Delivery was always a dangerous moment, for the dark elf was an abusive and vengeful whoreson, but ¡°Chatter¡± needn¡¯t have worried.  Yes, he was a cursed, nameless outcast, and even the drow felt that ban, taking full advantage of its invitation to punish the elf.


    ¡­But the gems¡¯ combined glow drove hatred and scorn clean out of the drow¡¯s narrow red eyes.


    ¡°By the eight limbs¡­¡± he breathed, standing up from his titan-bone seat.  ¡°That is a find in ten-thousand!¡±


    No doubt Skarnralf would benefit, too, but the exiled elf didn¡¯t care.  Just inclined his upper half in a very slight bow, holding out a gloved for his chit.


    A gold one, this time, meaning a month¡¯s liberty for him¡­ or a week for all of Zibeg¡¯s ten miners, together.  That¡¯s how he came to be ¡°upstairs¡± in the lakeside cavern.  He, Zibeg and the other Delvers took up a whole table at the Poisoned Mushroom, Shanty Town¡¯s least revolting tavern.  They¡¯d rented a suite of rooms with hot-and-cold-running mates of every description (and possibly the only worse job than being a miner was having to bed miners, but Fate was an errant wench).


    They drank, gambled, ate better than usual slop and made increasingly stupid guesses as to each other¡¯s crimes.


    ¡°You shagged the viceroy¡¯s pet firedrake,¡± hazarded Rowdy, a half-elf with a burnt away eye and a roving blue one.


    Bok spat her ale all over the stone table, but shook her head, no.


    ¡°Not even <u>close</u>,¡± laughed the orc.  ¡°Two chits, loser!  My turn!¡±


    Rowdy grumbled, but paid up, sliding two copper drink chits across ale-and-spittle wet stone.  The orc grinned at him.  Most of her teeth had been forcibly extracted and she was hamstrung on the left leg, never again to make an escape attempt.  Her will remained stubborn and fierce, though.  Turning now to stare at the hooded elf, she rumbled,


    ¡°Drank y¡¯r mistress under the table, then broke f¡¯r freedom after raidin¡¯ the storehouse.¡±


    Which¡­ wasn¡¯t that far from the truth.  Yes, he¡¯d given Daazra a powerful sleeping potion, meaning to sneak out and join the boy; make for freedom.  And no, she hadn¡¯t drunk it all. Just enough to sense what he¡¯d done.


    By rights, she ought to have killed him for trying to drug her.  Had sent him to the fighting pits, instead.  Three failed escape attempts later, he¡¯d ended up in the mines.  And the boy?  Kaazin?  He had no way to tell.  His curse prevented all magic, while the goddess could barely reach him this far below ground.  Her contacts were faint and few but they kept him alive and sharpened perception, feeding his torturous hopes for release.


    But the years passed, and it hurt too much to think about, except in his bedroll, during the watches between one long workday and the next.  It would have been bad luck to try and explain all that, so the elf shook his head, holding up a gloved finger to indicate how much Bok owed him.


    ¡°One chit? I were close, then!¡± exulted the orc, flashing her ravaged gums.  ¡°Y¡¯ slaughtered the ¡®ole blinkin¡¯ ¡®ousehold and made a fine stew o¡¯ their bones!¡± she added, providing the standard deflection to ward off bad luck.


    The elf just shrugged and took a long drink of dark, lumpy ale.  That¡¯s when it hit him, and everyone else: a double shockwave slammed through the shanty town, radiating from somewhere high up and east.  Karellon?  If so, things had gone terribly wrong.  First¡­ Vernax the golden was dead.  Then, less than a quarter of a candle-mark later, his curse fell away, leaving him utterly free.


    The elf stood up in a clatter of bench legs on stone.  He yanked the hood away from his face as power, knowledge¡­ his name¡­ came flooding back.  Next turned and spoke through Zibeg, because he¡¯d almost forgotten how to do anything else.


    ¡°I am Alexion, once the son of Ildarion,¡± he said through the startled gnome.  ¡°I have been freed and now, so are you.¡±


    A transport gate opened up at his back, bringing surface air, noises and light to the tavern. His manna had returned in a torrent, allowing the prince to port once again.  The other side of that gate could have been at the bottom of the sea.  It didn¡¯t matter one bit.  An epic stampede emptied first the Poisoned Mushroom and then the whole town.  Prince Alexion was the last to step through it, feeling every stripe of the lash, every blow, every insult and curse¡­ seeing each fellow slave he¡¯d been forced to slay in the fighting pits¡­ Kaazin¡¯s tense, hopeful face as they made their plans for escape.  The baby he¡¯d held only once. The goddess he¡¯d loved and been torn from. Everything, all of it, too much to feel and stay sane.


    All of <u>that</u> headed for Karellon.

 Sword and Sorcery Eight, chapter twenty-four

    <u>24</u>


    The peak of Lone Mountain was barren and wind-swept; a spire of grey, frigid stone with streaks of bright snow cupped in its hollows and crevices.  The ruins of Rainbow Bridge clung to its summit, cratered and trailing dark smoke.  A shattered attack drone lay in pieces on the slope below, staining the landscape with puddled fluids and ash.  Nor were downed aircraft the strike¡¯s only casualty.  The acrid stench of burnt flesh hit them whenever the wind shifted.  Miche had touched down facing the way-station¡¯s grand entrance, just behind a low ridge.


    A long, very thin cable slanted down and away from the building¡¯s smoldering top.  Vanishing clear out of sight, the cable hung in a sagging arc, sparking faintly, striking a mournful note from the wind.  Its free end was somewhere down the Lone Mountain¡¯s leeside, or off in the misty plains, far below.


    ¡°It was a space elevator,¡± said Erron, drifting across to hover half in the rock beside Miche.  ¡°That line was attached to a great rock in the void, overhead.  There was one in my time, called the Ladder.  Decommissioned or taken by the light-wall now, I suppose.¡±


    The younger male nodded absently, crouching to touch that impossibly long metal cord.


    ¡°What is it made of?¡± he asked, feeling energy gather, then flee from his questing fingertips.  He was no elf, now.  No hero at all that Rainbow Bridge would acknowledge.


    ¡°The first was constructed of mithral and adamantine,¡± replied Erron, whose brown hair didn¡¯t flutter or stream in the wind, except when he thought about it.  ¡°But this feels more complex.  There is some mineral here from the corpse of a star.  Ripped from a dead god, in a manner of speaking.¡±


    Miche rose, dusting snow and ash from his hands.


    ¡°Well, if there is aught to be salvaged, we¡¯ll find it inside,¡± he said, turning back to that crater-pocked building.  ¡°It was attacked recently, from the look of things,¡± added the former elf, drawing the shreds of his cloak a bit tighter.  His shield spell was up and gleaming; Firelord fully awake and ready, inside.


    Erron did that flicker-thing once again, scanning their surroundings.  Then,


    ¡°One living person within.  Watching us, I think.  No mechanical activity and few functional electronics.  Nothing else but corpses, animal life and the Cloud, inbound.¡±


    Right.


    ¡°Should be walk in the garden, then,¡± said Miche, counterfeiting a smile.  He found himself missing Nameless¡¯ weight in his cloak hood.  Not its claws or that reek, though.  Those could stay gone.  ¡°We¡¯d best get moving.¡±


    The data-ghost altered his own semblance, looking all at once like a shining hero of legend.  He winked at Miche from under that glittering helmet, saying,


    ¡°If nothing else, I can draw fire.  I¡¯ll make a big, flashy entrance up here.  You cast a simulacrum to accompany me, then conceal yourself and find a hidden way in, if¡­ umm¡­ the ¡°Lord of Battles¡± doesn¡¯t object to a bit of subterfuge, that is.¡±


    He did not.


    ¡°This is a scouting mission,¡± Miche clarified, forming a second self with a muttered spell.  Though he¡¯d tried for a tall and fair-haired elf, this auxiliary Miche came forth just as shadow-stained as the original.  He turned away, refusing to meet his own burning-gold eyes.  ¡°So long as I announce myself and do not strike from behind, the Shining One will not desert us.¡±


    Next, Miche covered his body and disappointment with an invisibility spell.  Noting Erron¡¯s continued gaze, he frowned.


    ¡°You can still see me?¡± he asked.


    Erron nodded.


    ¡°Of course,¡± said the elf-lord¡¯s recording.  ¡°In a very real sense, you are transmitting me, Miche.  This simulation springs from your power and mind.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m talking to myself?  I¡¯ve gone mad?¡± wondered Miche.


    ¡°I hope not,¡± replied Erron, laughing a little.  ¡°I¡¯d like to think that I¡¯m actually here, and we¡¯ve much more important matters to deal with, including repairing this way-station.¡±


    ¡°Right, right¡­¡± the shadow-elf muttered, giving himself an all-over shake. ¡°Big, flashy entrance, you.  Sneak in from the back, me.  Meet inside, by whoever¡¯s still in there watching.¡±


    ¡°Meet inside,¡± agreed Erron.  ¡°And may Lady Fate smile on our doings, for once.¡±


    Miche signed: Good fortune.  Then he turned and loped off at a crouching run, leaving no footprints and scuffing no ash; still as light-footed as an elf, if nothing else. Made his way around the side of that big, cratered building, finding breaches aplenty, most blocked by smoldering plastic or void-tendrils.


    A short search turned up a half-open emergency exit, glowing a bit at its edges.  That the door had been well-defended, he could see from the crystallized blood and charred bodies within.  Animal folk.  Wolf- and cat-stock, from the smell of them.  Very dead now.


    Miche edged his way through the door, shield spells up and energy blade in hand. Glanced around at a small, charred room packed with contorted bodies. Though he was meant to be stealthy, he paused long enough to speak words of release.  Summoned fire to burn them with, but his flames came forth a dim, sullen blue, edged in black.  He knelt anyhow, cupping a clawed hand in the fire and pouring wine into his open palm with the other, by way of an offering.  The alcohol burnt away, hissing and fizzling, but the flames were stubbornly tainted.  Just like him.


    ¡°May we meet in Lord Oberyn¡¯s hall¡­ If he¡¯ll have me,¡± Miche whispered to the dead, watching their smoke drift away on the breeze.  After that, he doused the flames, put on a pair of armored gloves and then checked his surroundings.  Found himself in a small oval room with darkened lenses and a ring of energy weapons that sagged in their mounts.


    ¡°This building was functional until a short while ago.  The attack can¡¯t have happened more than a few days past.¡±


    And whatever had struck, might be lurking somewhere inside.  Miche ignited his energy blade, causing three feet of crackling light to project from its hilt.  Readied a few spells and then started forward, moving like a ghost or a drift of cold air.  There was a door at the room¡¯s far end, past scorch marks and fallen ceiling panels.


    His boot nudged one of those dropped panels, freeing an oval null-grenade to roll off in a wobbly circle.  Miche froze, feeling his insides contract as it arced back around.  It wasn¡¯t blinking, but also not dead.  Quickly, the former elf used Mage Hand to scoop up the grenade and faerie-pocket it, shoving that vile thing as far back into his stash as he could; back where nothing could change, decay or¡­ hopefully¡­ detonate.  Exploding inside of his faerie-pockets, the bomb would probably blow him to shreds from within.  More to not think about.


    He moved on, first reaching that inner door, then forcing it open the hard way.  Its electronic lock resisted him for the same reason that the grenade hadn¡¯t gone off.  Miche was an elf no longer; he was nobody¡¯s hope, and an absolute magnet for Chaos.  Also invisible, except in extra-dimensional light.


    Right, so¡­ he forced the door open, disguising his efforts and grunts with Cone of Silence.  Squirmed through after a bit, having musled the door back into its threshold mount.  Dropped to a crouch inside the main hall, just a wavery shadow with ¡°Exit¡± flickering over his head in faint, sparking symbols.


    There was a powerful burning smell in the shattered main hall. Broken skylights and windows let in some light, revealing a stone floor covered in broken glass, carbonized plants and dead, frozen fish.


    ¡°Aquarium,¡± thought Miche.  ¡°There must have been a grand aquarium here, destroyed in the attack.¡±


    The ruin of innocent beauty angered him¡­ but then, so did everything else.  Besides, he had no more time to spare for the dead, because¡­


    ¡°Get out!  Go away!¡± someone shouted, near the front of that once-splendid hall.  Miche half-rose and loped forward, past long slivers of broken glass, frozen puddles and charred bodies.  Reached the entry, where his own simulacrum and Lord Erron were taunting a very large and ponderous warrior.If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    Grey-skinned and muscular, the giant defender was wearing a scorched green coverall with ¡°Steen¡± printed on the left side and across that table-wide back. Steen slashed and cursed at the mock-elf and data-ghost with a makeshift club, raising a great deal of wind.


    ¡°No entry!¡± roared the beast-man, whose thick, rectangular head bore a long nose-horn.  ¡°This way-station is out of order!¡± it bellowed, almost sobbing.  Not a natural fighter, clearly.  Just a cargo handler or security guard; the shrine¡¯s lone survivor.


    Miche could have slaughtered the creature. He was fast enough, had a blue-black firebolt prepped and ready, but he could sense Erron and Firelord telling him no.  Right.  Waste of time, but¡­


    ¡°Wait,¡± he called out, dropping his invisibility spell and dissolving the simulacrum.  ¡°There is no need to attack, Steen.  We seek only to¡­¡±


    <u>SWISH</u>! went the beast-man¡¯s club, as the creature pivoted to strike at Miche¡¯s head.  The shadow-elf dodged, bringing his energy-blade around in a hissing arc that bisected the crude metal weapon.  Sent its pieces clattering off across the stone floor.


    ¡°Stop!¡± he commanded, fighting for patience as he backed away from the monster¡¯s lunge.  ¡°We¡¯re only trying to¡­¡±


    ¡°Dark one!  Liar!¡± thundered the beast-man, shedding spittle and tears.  ¡°She is dead, but I won¡¯t let you take her!¡±


    The creature stooped to seize the end of a fallen roof-spar, rising again to wield ten feet of steel like a hollow reed.


    <u>CRASH</u>! The beam-end cratered the floor beside Miche.  Didn¡¯t hit him, because he levitated, swooping up and around to land just behind that furious guard.  Steen whirled around, swinging its heavy steel spar like a wand.


    <u>Hiss-CRUNCH</u>!  The beam smashed into the stone floor, making debris jump and glass shatter.  Again and again, it struck, as Miche and Erron distracted and harried the shrine¡¯s last defender, trying to wear the beast out.  Firelord helped as well, lobbing balls of flame at stubborn, overmatched Steen.


    Miche used Misty-step to get and stay out of its reach, spotting ten different ways to kill, roast, bisect or joint that blubbering obstacle like a gamebird.  He didn¡¯t do it, because time was not more important than life, for some reason.  Finally tried something else, dropping the great lout with a powerful sleep spell.


    ¡°Nooo¡­!¡± wailed the hulking grey worker.  Though it resisted the spell hard, Steen collapsed like an empty sack, fighting past its last conscious thought to reach Miche and Erron.


    Its weapon struck and cracked the stone floor, raising a chorus of loud, booming echoes.  Steen¡¯s tiny dark eyes shut slowly, unwillingly, as it once again rumbled,


    ¡°Nooo¡­¡± Sagging from hands and knees to face-down; tongue lolling out, broad fundament high in the air.


    A few heartbeats later, the beast-man plunged into a twitching and restless sleep.  It hadn¡¯t recognized him, thought Miche.  Would have died trying to stop him from reaching the damaged shrine.  Steen had considered him an enemy, akin to those who¡¯d attacked Rainbow Bridge. It was only a dumb, stupid, worthless brute¡­ still weeping despite being forced unconscious.


    Erron flashed out of sight, then reformed beside Miche, who¡¯d extinguished his energy blade.


    ¡°You did well in not slaying that creature,¡± said the data-ghost.  ¡°It was only fulfilling its purpose.¡±


    Miche nodded, working to match Erron¡¯s calm.


    ¡°Steen was no actual threat,¡± he grunted, turning away. ¡°Waste of manna to fry it, and my sword has better uses.¡±


    But¡­ Had he done something like that in the past?  As ¡°Valerian¡±, had he burnt scores of helpless defenders to ash? If so¡­


    Erron placed a glowing hand on his shoulder, breaking Miche out of his thoughts.  The sensation of being touched was all internal.  A mock-up of pressure and warmth, but it felt good, anyhow.


    ¡°There is work to be done,¡± said the elf-lord, gently.  ¡°And sometimes memory cripples.¡±


    Right. Except¡­


    ¡°Erron, what if only the outside has changed?¡± Miche demanded.  ¡°What if I¡¯ve always been like this, willing to kill whatever got in my way?¡±


    ¡°Then, you do better the next time.  You do the right thing, because it¡¯s the right thing to do, not because it saves time or makes the most sense.  And there¡¯s always tomorrow, for both of us.¡±


    Erron¡¯s elaborate armor had vanished, leaving him simply dressed in a dark-green uniform tunic, breeches and boots. He looked very elvish, glowing a bit at the edges.


    ¡°I will continue to do as you say,¡± Miche told him quietly. ¡°Though I have as little hope for tomorrow as I did for yesterday, and I don¡¯t think we¡¯ll find much to salvage.¡±


    Which¡­ yes and no. They had to descend a broken mechanical stairway (¡°Escalator¡±, Erron called it).  It was a narrow tube lined with scorched advertisement panels.  Miche floated down, not touching those half-melted steps.  The data-ghost vanished to reappear at the bottom, scanning again.


    There was a lot to see, none of it good.  A void-bomb had gone off in the way-station, its seething chaos filling up nearly the whole round chamber.  Deep red sigils crawled over its surface like shadows on water. Tendrils of darkness spread from the void¡¯s pulsing center.  Reaching.  Devouring.


    None of the remaining machinery lit up at Miche¡¯s arrival, which shouldn¡¯t have hurt him as much as it did.


    ¡°First job, deal with that,¡± said Erron, indicating the creeping dark void.  ¡°Second, try to restart whatever remains of the system.¡±


    Two very tall orders, but he had¡­ there was¡­ He¡¯d dealt with one of these monsters before, recalled Miche, seeing a frozen courtyard and ruined mansion.  Sensing that Erron had been there as well.


    ¡°Just like before,¡± he said aloud, feeling a surge of confidence.  ¡°Channel whatever power you can to me, and I¡¯ll manage the rest.¡±


    The data-ghost flared and then vanished, all of his manna and strength reverting to Miche.  The former elf remembered the spell he had used somewhere and elsewhen.  Just had to reach in with his mind and reverse a few sigils, causing that bubbling void to suddenly, wildly contract.


    It snapped in on itself, recoiling as the light-wall had done, disgorging all it had taken.  Furniture, walls, an arched ceiling and piles of dead animal-folk appeared, along with a cracked marble pool and the goddess¡¯ podium. Crushed by his magic, the void shriveled to hand-size, then thumb-claw, then speck; writhing as it devoured itself.  So far, so good, but he still had to restart the shrine.


    Reflexively, Miche tried to reach for his pocketed memory-stick, but it would not come to hand.  Like the map and his shrine-access, the artifact was unavailable to a servant of darkness.


    The last shreds of void disappeared with a rending <u>POP</u>!  Erron applauded, stopping when he noticed his young friend¡¯s expression.  Must have guessed at the reason for Miche¡¯s clenched fists and harsh breathing.


    ¡°Try the spring,¡± he suggested.  ¡°If it can heal you, Miche, you¡¯ll be able to access the system again.¡±


    ¡°Spr¡­ what spring?!¡± snarled the transformed elf, whirling on Erron.  Pointing to that cracked marble pool he raged, ¡°There is nothing left!  The water is gone!¡±


    But Erron shook his head, leaving a faint blurry trail in the air (or in Miche¡¯s vision).


    ¡°There¡¯s a handful, and it can¡¯t hurt to try,¡± coaxed the data-ghost, gently. ¡°Over there at the back.  Look.¡±


    Right.  There was just a bit of water at the pool¡¯s very bottom, in one tilted corner, but only the drunken or generous would have called it a handful.  Miche shook his head and then shrugged.


    ¡°Whatever you say,¡± he muttered, wafting himself down and across to land in the pool like a dried and skittering leaf.  The water was just an icy puddle, crystalized at its edges, not even one knuckle deep.


    Feeling stupid, he knelt down on cracked marble with a rattle of armor and leather.  Stripped the glove from one clawed hand, scooping what he could into his bone-white palm.  Didn¡¯t breathe.  Didn¡¯t think: please, please, please¡­!  Just, shaking a little, brought that sip of bright water up to his mouth.


    ¡­And very nearly spat it right out again.  It burned, tasting like thunder.  Like a sword-thrust.  Like nuclear fire.  It sounded like starlight and looked like a volcano¡¯s deep roar.  And, if it killed him, good.  Maybe part of him wanted to give up and die.  But maybe the rest of him couldn¡¯t.


    Miche collapsed, feeling silvery rootlets spreading out from that poisonous drink.  Felt them burning him hollow.  Didn¡¯t fight.  Didn¡¯t shield.  Wouldn¡¯t let himself drop unconscious this time.  Just coughed and wretched, heaving up the last vile stain from inside himself, casting out the final vestige of Chaos.


    The entire building shuddered and groaned in response.  Machinery beeped, flickering wildly at first, then settling back to normal.  The marble pool leveled itself and then began filling again with a thunderous roar.  Not from outside.  Not from a faucet.  From a droplet of water that shimmered, wobbled and grew, expanding to fill the stone basin.


    It floated and spun the young elf, armor, weapons and all.  More than that, Rainbow Bridge thrummed to life, extruding a very long cable that fired upward like a celestial bow-shot, striking a rock high above.


    Down at its base, Miche climbed out of the healing spring, fully restored.  A goddess materialized, pale-haired and smiling, dressed in flexible space-armor.


    ¡°Welcome, traveler!¡± she greeted him, pretty as moonlight and starshine.  ¡°I am Skyla, your hostess. Rest, take your ease before ascending the Rainbow Bridge.  There have been technical difficulties, and most of my staff are absent, but the matter-replication unit still functions.  You have only to speak your desire to have it fulfilled, Valerian.¡±


    ¡°Miche,¡± he corrected her, shaking his head.  ¡°Valerian is not who I choose to be, any longer, Goddess.¡±


    He gazed into her beautiful silvery eyes.  Skyla, not Seralfea nor Hana, either.  The restored hostess of Rainbow Bridge shrine.


    ¡°As to desire¡­ I would like my friends back,¡± he said to her, as screens popped up all around them, shilling a myriad fleshly delights.  ¡°I would like to tell Marget, Nameless and Glass-cat how wrong I was, and¡­¡± Miche glanced over at Erron.  ¡°What can your matter-replicators do to give that worthless freeloader a physical body?  I am heartily sick of his presence in this one.¡±


    Turned out, there was a lot that Skyla¡¯s system could do, and that Lord Erron had a crushing, back-pounding embrace.  Erron came close to breaking his spine, once that replicated body was joined to the transferred data file.


    ¡°Oof!  Idiot!  You¡¯ll kill me, then have to manage this midden-heap on your own,¡± laughed Miche, as they separated, still clasping hands.  ¡°Worth risking paralysis to pry you out of my head, though.¡±


    ¡°Yes, well, you were no bargain as a host, either,¡± Erron shot back.  ¡°May I never again be forced to hide my face as you fumble your way through¡­¡±


    The elf-lord was punch-able, now, and did not get to finish that statement. Had to defend himself, instead. It was a scuffle, not a real fight, between two transformed elves and best friends.  A pair of dark shrines and the Fallen One lay before them like spiders¡­ their ship and crew had yet to arrive¡­ but then and there, for a bit, all was well.

 Sword and Sorcery Eight, chapter twenty-five

    <u>25</u>


    They¡¯d made it back to the nearly-completed magnetar shell, passing through a pair of linked, massive gates from the galaxy¡¯s distant outskirts to caged Titania. Safe¡­ so far.


    The time had come, as Ace would put it, to lay their cards on the table. No more bluffs or maneuvers. Just action. On the one hand, V47 Pilot held a kidnapped draug superior, the oblivious masters themselves, and the only human in all of the Two Hundred Worlds. On the other, Pilot was still quite far from the orbital station, with a damaged battle-mech, two tiny worlds full of aliens, and a grieving AI.


    Oberyn and Titania comprised a binary star system, having a complex, braided orbit. That blue-white giant and seething magnetar danced around one another like a wild double-pendulum. Oberyn¡¯s dark-star partner had drained it of manna at each near pass, until Titania was bound in ionic chains and sealed in a shell. Sealed off and then mostly forgotten, just over .61 percent of a light year away.


    V47 Pilot was 98.993% closer to home than he had been, but with a considerable distance left to cross, stealthily, for a draug battle fleet still hung in space beyond the cloud planet, Glimmr.


    ¡°They have not moved or altered configuration?¡± he asked, examining TTN-iA¡¯s uploaded images of that upside-down draug city.


    ~Negative V47 Pilot~ responded the ancient AI. ~It appears that they are awaiting indication of the success or failure of your mission to Etherion~


    Pilot stood 2.5 miles away from the transport gate, on the curving interior of a mighty, star-trapping shell. Titania burned in the sky overhead, caged by shimmering beams of force. Beyond that (except for a single long crack in the neutronium shell) the artificial world arced up, over and around. This did not seem at all weird to V47 Pilot, who¡¯d seen only three planets in his few months of waking life. Why not inside-out?


    Pilot and TTN-iA communicated by electronic messaging, which young Raine could not intercept. The future empress wasn¡¯t being ignored, though. Pilot maintained an entirely separate conversation with her, a pair of bobbing cartoon creatures and the alien leaders, leaving him plenty of bandwidth to also watch V47¡¯s progress in patching a damaged and faltering datafile.


    ¡°We need a disguise,¡± he decided, transmitting a quick private thought to TTN-iA. ¡°There is no gate on Glimmr large enough to accept a load the size of a battle-mech. If we reconfigure to ship-mode, we could reach the station in two days, visible the entire way. Or¡­ I could eject V47¡¯s cartridge and then go through a passenger gate with Raine. Aim to arrive on one of the mining platforms or Cerulean Dream.¡±


    Bide-a-While Station wasn¡¯t an option. Its gate had been destroyed in the effort to access Etherion. But¡­


    ~This seems unacceptably hazardous, V47 Pilot~ responded TTN-iA. ~The galactic transport system has been corrupted. Attacks are reported~


    XXXXX


    Right. Noted, with part of his awareness. With some of the rest, he, Pinky the Mathicorn, Sylph the Spelling Fairy and Raine helped the folk of Block-World and Long Spar decide their orbits around that caged magnetar. Red-Blue-Gamma and Right-Left-Top-Flip led teams of scientists and engineers, all of them working furiously to find an optimal arrangement for both tiny worlds. Raine was enchanted with the alien creatures, who were just as alive and organic as she was.


    XXXXX


    And in the meantime, V47 could only report partial success.


    -The Hana datafile is degraded and filled with errors, Alt-Pilot. - (A name it had taken to calling this third version of its original pilot and friend.) -I can guess at the missing segments of code or return the file to a receiver nearer its own timeline, if contact is re-established. ¨C


    Uh-huh. There was a problem with that, as he¡¯d have to reach out to his alternates Miche and Val again, a thing that had so far happened just twice. Once, under terrible stress, and once in gate-transit.


    This bit of his processing power occupied a virtual workspace with V47, who had chosen to manifest itself as a robot technician. Their environment was entirely coded, appearing only when he or V47 looked in a certain direction, fading to pixels and probability, otherwise. Just a cube of glittering symbols and subroutines given physical form.


    ¡°Do the best that you can, Vee. Another gate jaunt is going to be necessary, but we can avoid attack by disguising ourselves as diplomatic couriers with¡­ with a reboot cartridge for OVR-Lord. We can port directly to OS1210, and attempt to contact Miche and Val in transit, then transmit the Hana-file.¡±


    The partly debugged code had produced only a glittering wireframe image, not a complete person. V47 remained utterly calm, but Pilot could sense his friend¡¯s tension and grief. He could see how much of the AI¡¯s capacity was being used in the effort to salvage Hana.


    -Querying Alt-Pilot. Why has this occurred? ¨C demanded the AI, dredging up distant memory to add, -She was intended to find a location of safety, Alt-Pilot. Her infant subroutine has faded. It is only 12.6% recoverable. ¨CThis book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.


    ¡°In <u>this</u> time and place,¡± agreed the cyborg¡¯s VR projection. ¡°But closer to her point of origin, there will be a stronger signal and more traces of Hana code that others can use to patch the file.¡±


    V47¡¯s avatar sagged and dimmed a bit as it shifted the lights around on a holographic control panel. Then,


    -I do not wish to retransmit her data, Alt-Pilot. What if there is no system there capable of receiving our message? ¨C


    ¡°Then we try something else, Vee. Make a few extra copies. Insert standard personality-build patches. We¡¯ll transmit one and keep the rest.¡±


    -This is a halting problem, Alt-Pilot, - sent V47, changing the subject. -I conjecture that we are experiencing difficulties as the larger system attempts to resolve a possibly unending calculation. It may have been forced to recycle repeatedly in so doing. ¨C


    About which, they could do nothing at all.


    XXXXX


    Meanwhile, outside of that shared mental workspace,


    ¡°We have a hostage, TTN-iA. It seems that the draugr have ranks and dissidents, and we¡¯ve captured a person of interest who might serve to fend off attack.¡±


    The being in question was currently infesting one of his deepest fey-pockets, attempting to spread infectious draug circuitry, but that¡¯s why the Writers of Code had made firewalls and internal countermeasures. He could handle the squirming rebel.


    TTN-iA had formed a loose, shifting body made of many small parts. Bits of the environment kept breaking loose of that great curving surface to join the AI¡¯s skinny, clattering figure. Other small parts buzzed off, making TTN-iA¡¯s physical body a hazy and roiling thing. It gestured, leaving a trail of slow-moving segments to hang in the air like mist.


    ~V47 Pilot has doubtless calculated the odds and they are backed up in many systems beside this one~ remarked TTN-iA, fatalistically. ~But the risk of discorporation and data loss is not slight, Pilot, and there is the empress to factor into your calculations. ~


    XXXXX


    About which¡­


    ¡°I <u>love</u> them,¡± the girl was saying, as the Block-World and Long Spar technicians explored her contours. ¡°They are my first living subjects besides you and Pinky and Sylph, and I want some of them to come with us to the Orbital Station, Pilot.¡±


    He inclined his head, giving that fierce, brown-haired human child another example smile.


    ¡°I am sure that Right-Left-Top-Flip and Red-Blue-Gamma will be pleased to send ambassadors to your court, Majesty.¡±


    She was still holding his de-gauntleted hand, squeezing excitedly as the hovering screens flashed Long Spar colors or pulsed like a Blockworlder.


    ¡°I need an upgrade, Pilot!¡± Raine demanded suddenly, stamping a small foot on that dark metal surface. ¡°I <u>know</u> that you¡¯re talking with TTN-iA and somebody else, but I can¡¯t hear what you¡¯re saying, and I want to speak to my subjects directly. <u>All</u> of them, including these little ones, the robots, AIs and cyborgs. I need my own applications and circuitry!¡±


    V47 Pilot hesitated, surprised. He shielded his response from TTN-iA, who would not approve, having been built, programmed and then abandoned by the original humans. But¡­


    ¡°You are a master, yourself. The last one. You can surely rewrite any edict of theirs, Majesty¡­ Only, they felt strongly that inclusion of circuitry is wrong for a human. It leaves one open to control-chip domination or hacking. You are safe from that, Majesty. The only completely free person.¡±


    (With a few contraband circuits, he sensed. Mostly medical nanites, but also the odd bits she¡¯d snuck in, herself.)


    Raine looked up at him with big and intently focused brown eyes.


    ¡°I want to be able to send and communicate the way you do, Pilot,¡± she insisted. ¡°I want to go back to Learning Curve. My mum and da are in there. I can have the system program more interactions!¡±


    Beside her, the puffy pink equine and hovering cursive sigil nodded. They were cartoon playmates she¡¯d exported from her training sims¡­ and Raine was just a young girl. Her insistently tugging hand and wide eyes had a powerful effect on him, triggering a flood of oxytocin and protective-ware. The cyborg elf crouched down to bring himself to her eye-level, recording Red-Blue-Gamma¡¯s impassioned speech for later attention. Here and now, he needed to deal with a future empress.


    ¡°Majesty, I will obey your will. I am programmed to do so and, also¡­ I like you for yourself. I sparked the creation of a human, not knowing what to expect. I have returned to find a beautiful, intelligent, kind and amusing young person, and I am glad to have met you. I perceive that the Two Hundred¡­ and Two¡­ Worlds are safe in your care, because we matter so much to you.¡±


    She took that as ¡°yes¡±, swinging on the pilot¡¯s arm when he stood up again.


    ¡°Can I have pointy ears, too?¡± she asked, squeezing his hand. ¡°I want to look like you and I want you to never leave, <u>ever</u>, Pilot!¡±


    XXXXX


    ~The masters have forbidden inclusion of needless circuitry for humans~ sent TTN-iA, in outside conversation. Of course, the AI could hear all that Raine chattered and squealed.


    ¡°Yes. And Her Majesty can rewrite whatever commands she chooses to, TTN-iA,¡± said V47 Pilot, faster than Raine could process or even detect. ¡°Let her have this. Installing protective systems to block malware and providing no outlet for control chips should keep her safe enough. There are no other humans left, and she seeks to interface directly with us. Like you, Ancient One, Raine wishes to not be alone.¡±


    XXXXX


    And then, inside of that shared virtual workspace, V47 reported completing the copies.


    -It is done, Alt-Pilot- sent the AI, through its robotic avatar. -I have duplicated the file, adding data from TTN-iA¡¯s upload, so that Hana has awareness of future events in her own time. I have run 37,500 simulations, Alt-Pilot, and the proposed strategy returns at most a 29.18% success rate in any of them. ¨C


    XXXXX


    Outside, V47 Pilot responded gracefully to the conclusion of Red-Blue-Gamma¡¯s powerful rallying speech, flashing across the spectrum along with the others. Next, in what was to prove very important, later, he sent circuitry branching across from himself to Raine, through their palm-to-palm contact.


    XXXXX


    <u>Here</u>, he replied,


    ¡°I have come to believe that there is more to all this than just probability, Vee. That something attends to our situation, and cares what we do. I would wager all of Gold Flight¡¯s account on a bet that none of this is random. Now¡­ make ready for ejection-of-system. We¡¯ll make use of a transport gate one more time.¡±


    He had a home and job to return to, on the Orbital Station. Needed to report back to Cerulean-1¡­ find Foryu and the Rogue Flight team¡­ install a child in place of OVR-Lord¡­ find some way to break the real Pilot out of the masters¡¯ paradise¡­ and then drop out of history, for good. Then, just <u>be</u>.


    -I can detect only what sensors perceive and calculations predict, Pilot, - sent V47, after a very long milli-tick pause. -But I hope that your organic emotional perceptions prove correct in this instance. Let us proceed with your plan. ¨C


    And so, that¡¯s what they did.

 Sword and Sorcery Eight, chapter twenty-six

    <u>26</u>


    It turned into a long and clamorous night, for they¡¯d expected a fight, and they got one.  Swinging down from the Dark Cloud like ballooning spiders, Marget, Glass-cat, Nameless, Brass Monkey and the newcomer (Zak) hit the deck of a big, ancient hover-tank.  They landed with a storm of booming thuds, dislodging a cloud of rust and piled skulls.


    Great chains of the rattling head-bones crisscrossed the tank¡¯s upper deck from turret to mooring loops and side rails, forming a grisly net.  Other skulls had been threaded, totem-like, onto the tank¡¯s sensor masts.  The stench of old blood and slaughter hung like a fog, raising Marget¡¯s hackles.  She had just time to reach for her axe before a horn sounded, blatting and harsh.


    The tank¡¯s defenders exploded out of hiding at the pulse of that wavering note.  They were lizard-folk, wearing the hides and teeth of previous kills, able to shift colors and outline to match their background¡­ but only when they stopped moving, which Marget made sure they could not.


    The orc roared aloud, springing up in a fluid and powerful lunge.  Axe in one hand, she wrenched a segment of turret plating free with her construct-arm.  Punched its fingers through corroded steel, made a fist and then yanked, popping rivets and tearing stressed metal till it screamed.  Next, she whirled in place, swinging her heavy, improvised scythe.  Cut an onrushing lizard-man in half at the waist, just as its spearhead struck her armored chest.  The reptile¡¯s pieces spun off in a welter of blood and loose entrails, while its spear clattered uselessly onto the deck.


    There were dozens more of the creatures, though.  A hissing swordsman, she swept off the tank with a savage kick, while chopping the head of a third with her bloodied axe.  After that, it was time to get serious.


    Glass-cat fought gracefully nearby, wielding twin scimitars in each hand, and a knife in her whipping, prehensile tail.  Seeming almost to dance, the crystalline feline beheaded, dismembered and gutted her way across that fouled deck.


    Brass Monkey careened over the tank¡¯s rusted surface like a chattering cannonball, crushing and bludgeoning. The metal ape struck the turret with a resounding crash, unrolled himself and sprang upright.  Next, he seized a lizard-man with both hands, wielding the fallen creature like a club.


    Nameless streaked up Marget¡¯s leg to perch on her massive left shoulder, right where glass, wood and metal joined flesh.  Facing backward, the marten covered her rear, launching itself in attack whenever a reptile sprang from behind.


    Not far away, Zak fought with spells and an icy black sword. Casting moonlight over the battle zone, he gave the attacking lizard-folk no place to hide, causing persistent burn-damage.  Moreover, the construct warrior¡¯s shadow fought, too.  It could separate itself from Zak, flowing like water to engulf and swallow whatever it touched.


    Not that the orc had much time to pause and appreciate her allies¡¯ fine work.  She was too busy to gawk.  Instead, Marget grunted, swore and swung her big axe in a constant whirlwind of razor-edged steel. Over and over, its blade sliced deep into flesh, crunched against bone and stuck there, until she wrenched it violently free.  Arrows peppered the orc like hail, fired from atop that rusted-out turret.  Some of those arrowheads detached to chew their way into the chinks and seams of her armor, seeking the flesh underneath.


    She uttered a banishment curse, invoking foremothers as big and fierce as a hill-troll.  Most of the seeker-heads puffed into smoke. Two she dug out with her construct hand¡¯s telescoping fingertips (a use she discovered right there and then).  Meanwhile, Nameless finished another, then launched himself from her shoulder to strike at the archers.  They made an easy target, becoming visible the instant they nocked an arrow or fired.  Very shortly thereafter, there were no more attacks from above.


    Then a big, crested female lizard sprang into view. It lunged at Marget with a boiling hiss, going from corrosion-flecked camouflage to warty, black-and-gold stripes in less than a pounding heartbeat.  The lizard was too close for a sweep of the axe, all searing red eyes and rasping foul breath.  Marget grappled the creature, dropping her weapons to pin the lizard¡¯s arms to its sides, lifting and crushing until shoulders disjointed and arm bones snapped like dry wood.


    The reptile spat into her eyes, ejecting a mist of blood and burning poison that seared Marget¡¯s flesh and half-blinded her.  The orc twisted and bit, sinking her fangs into the lizard¡¯s tough, scaly hide.  Her mouth filled with tepid blood and rank-tasting meat as Marget wrenched her head back and forth, tearing loose a big, ragged chunk of flesh.


    The pinned warrior drove a spiked knee up into Marget¡¯s rock-hard, well-armored gut.  Then Nameless landed hard on the reptile¡¯s crested head; hissing, clawing and gouging.  Marget waited until the marten hopped clear, then lifted the struggling lizard high in the air and heaved it over the side.  Did not have time to listen for a thud or wait to see what became of the crippled warrior.  There was too much else going on, and she was already a target for three more of the hissing and spitting reptiles.Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    All over that rusted husk of a tank, similar conflicts were raging.  There were screams, oaths, thumps, sharp cracks and the shattering noise of erupting black ice; Zak¡¯s droned spells, Glass-cat¡¯s chiming footfalls, Brass Monkey¡¯s loud crashing, the Marten¡¯s shrill barks.  The awful music of a battle from which there could be no retreat.  No accord.


    The entire desperate struggle lasted less than a candle-mark, as Dark Cloud soared out of sight, overhead.  At last, a sort of grim silence fell, broken only by wind and harsh panting.  Marget turned around in a full, wary circle, looking for enemies.  Found only her friends and the dead.  She slumped momentarily, running a taloned hand through her matted dark hair.


    Then, blood-spattered, bristling with arrows, the wounded orc lifted her face to the sky and roared, daring anyone else with a death-wish to come and give battle.  But it was only Zak who approached, stalking past heaps of stiffening reptiles.


    ¡°The hull and turret belong to us, now,¡± he said, thrusting a potion bottle at Marget.  She pulled the stopper out with her teeth and drank deeply, listening as the construct-male spelled away arrows.  Then he said, ¡°There may be more lizard-people or traps down below.  We will need to search and secure all compartments before we can rest.¡±


    Marget grunted, feeling her wounds ice over and fade away, slowly regaining full vision.  She reserved a few drops of potion for the marten, restoring his fur and a bitten-off limb.  Got the left side of her head groomed, in thanks.


    ¡°Good beast,¡± she muttered, watching as Zak¡¯s shadow crept down the turret and back into place like inky-dark oil, presumably well fed.


    ¡°Think you that this fortress of rust will fly again?¡± Marget wondered aloud.  The construct shook his sleek head.


    ¡°Not likely, but there may be a smaller attack ship inside.¡±


    Glass-cat strode over next, Brass Monkey rolling along at her side.  As for Nameless, the healed, agile marten had taken a sentry position on top of the highest, skull-threaded mast.  He groomed himself up there, keeping sharp watch all the while.  Said Glass-cat,


    ¡°The Cloud is gone.  We must find another way to this Lone Mountain, for the mutineer has retaken our ship.  Shade is her name, and she is my heart-foe of ages long past.  I would know her through <u>any</u> disguise.¡±


    Brass Monkey unfolded from waist-high cannonball to battered metallic ape, making sounds like a very bad musical group tuning up.  Glass-cat placed a hand on his dented shoulder, nodding.


    ¡°True,¡± she responded, lashing her crystalline tail.  ¡°Whatever we do must be swift, for time is short and, look you, my lady the Sun returns, bringing another day.¡±


    Dawn was no more than a smudge of grey on the eastern horizon, not yet bright enough to compete with Zak¡¯s fading mage-glow.  Coming on quickly, though.  Marget relaxed a bit more, put her axe away and nodded.  After that, spurred by a sudden thought, she dropped to a crouch on that corpse-littered deck, at the turret¡¯s leeward side.  She built a small fire the hard way; with patience, kindling and skill, <u>not</u> magic.  Then, once she¡¯d blown the flames into a decent blaze, Marget looked up at the gathered others.


    ¡°Bring me the weapons and ornaments of the fallen,¡± she rumbled.  ¡°My idiot brother has a god, and That One may help us, if doing so also aids Vrol.¡±


    They spread out to loot bodies at her command, and very soon Marget had a pile of spears, daggers, short swords and bows, along with gold rings, tooth-necklaces, a bone helmet and one dented battle-horn.


    The orc stacked their finds in a tidy pyramid, then brought out a flask of strong ale and a handful of chewing-leaf.  Cleared her throat, frowning a bit. Marget wasn¡¯t much given to worship, and orc gods were never chatty anyhow, demanding blood, not prayer.  Thinking a moment, she dropped fragrant dried leaves into the fire, saying,


    ¡°Once before, I sacrificed to you, who are Vrol¡¯s God and a Lord of Battles.  This fight and the arms of the fallen we offer up, God of the Old Ones, asking your aid in our doings.¡±


    At first, there was nothing at all but the crackle of flames, while those scattered leaves curled up and burnt.  Then, as Marget poured a steady trickle of ale, a red-golden tendril of fire shot from her blaze to the piled offerings.  The entire pyramid glowed, broke into glittering sparks, and then vanished.  A sort of ripple spread from the flames after that, filling each of those present with warmth and vitality.  A blessing, as the small god accepted her worship and grew in strength.


    The fire¡¯s light was reflected in their eyes and the constructs¡¯ bright surfaces.  Their shadows lengthened and moved, posing fiercely behind them.  Then the blaze shrank again, becoming a small, unusually luminous campfire. Marget grunted, feeding a last handful of sticks into those blood-colored flames.


    ¡°There is our answer,¡± she said, adding, ¡°Anyone injured while clearing the rest of the fortress can return to this spot for healing, if they have no more potions.  I think it will burn for a very long time.¡±


    She got to her feet, then, rising in a smooth and powerful motion to tower over Glass-cat, Brass Monkey and Zak.


    ¡°Let us make haste, for my brother abounds in foolishness, attracting strife as a merchant caravan draws attack.¡±


    As for what they found inside of that captured stronghold, the leathery egg-sacs and huddled young were left strictly alone.  Marget and the rest simply pretended not to notice those who whimpered and shrank in concealment.  Their fighting adults were all dead.  Was that not enough?  Firelord was a god of war, bold and honorable. He took no delight in wanton bloodshed.


    They explored unmolested, and there was much to see.  The tank¡¯s shadowed interior had been converted to a warren of chambers connected by bone-and-wood ladders.  Inside, they found thirty gold pieces, seven raw emeralds and a pair of fine swords, but¡­ better still¡­ there was a small, open docking bay at the rear, in which were moored the <u>real</u> prizes.  Brass Monkey chattered and gestured the rest of them over, pointing out a trio of hovering scout flitters.  They were dusty, with birds¡¯ nests and mice to evict, but miraculously still airworthy and somehow topped up with manna.  Doubtless a trick of the gods.


    Marget loped over to look, her booted feet pounding heavily on that pierced and flaking steel deck.  She grinned in satisfaction, showing more teeth than ought to have fit in one mouth.  As the first spear of sunshine flooded that open compartment, she growled,


    ¡°There are three.  One, I claim for myself.  The rest of you can sort yourselves out however you please. Your lady the sun, and my lord of battles have answered again.  Let us take their gift, fly to the mountain and there, tip the odds.¡±

 Sword and Sorcery Eight, chapter twenty-seven

    <u>27</u>


    Two crushing blows fell nearly on top of each other. The first hammer struck as Val, Cinda, Filimar, a disguised griffin cub and a newly freed model shot out of that pricey jewelry store.  The group hadn¡¯t a day¡¯s wage between them, which Valerian and Filimar would deny to the grave, the ranger glumly accepted, and Neira prepared to do something about.  There were many rich pigeons to fleece at the fair, and thousands of unguarded pockets to pick.


    As the blue-haired smuggler scanned the crowd for her first likely target, Valerian focused on Cinda.  He accepted the ranger¡¯s offer of a drink, ignoring her accusation of poverty.  He was not broke.  Just¡­ temporarily between infusions of coin.  But Dad or Lerendar would probably¡­


    And that¡¯s when it hit him and everyone else in the city, ripping outward the way that ghastly news always did among elves: Vernax the Golden was dead.  His former Majesty, completely bereft of the gods¡¯ support.  The foundations of empire, crumbling like sand.


    Valerian reeled into Cinda, who caught and supported him, grunting something caustic about salads and cream-cakes. (And he did eat salads, as a diversion on the way to real food. ¡°Tonnage¡± felt completely unnecessary.)


    ¡°What¡­?¡± was as much as the young elf-lord got out, before something strange happened to Neira, and to the sky overhead.


    Magister Serrio¡¯s fair was always larger than the town square or pasture that held it.  That big, noisy, boisterous carnival would arc up and over, forming a vast bowl or (as in Starshire) a great, hollow sphere; lit up by magical flames.


    Here in Karellon, the fair had more room to spread out.  It resembled more of a court ball stadium than the inside of a coiled seashell.  There was a circle of sky overhead, glittering at the edges as more tents and booths shot up.  Everyone stared as, in through that rosy-pale gap came a silvery tendril of¡­ water?


    The glistening strand hurtled downward; an object of wonder, not fear, for war did not cross Serrio¡¯s borders.  No threat could penetrate here.  That strange tendril flew downward, quested a bit like a glassy blind snake and then descended on Nerira.


    All at once, the beautiful pirate was covered in a layer of slick and shimmering, salt-smelling fluid.  Familiar features formed over the girl¡¯s face like a wet and smothering mask.  Neira¡¯s green eyes went wide, and her jaw dropped in shock.  Then her expression changed, as somebody else looked out through her eyes.  Someone Val recognized.


    Queen Shanella, the ruler of distant Averna, scowled at them all.  Looking moist and impatient, she twisted around, rolling her shoulders and head as though Neira¡¯s shape somehow pinched.  Sawyer screeched and reared up at the scent of ocean magic.  The cub stopped scratching to spread invisible wings and paw at the air exactly the way a desert hunting cat wouldn¡¯t.


    Cinda moved to place herself between that grim apparition and Val, while Filimar leapt to the aid of his love-friend, using spells and his cloak in a wild effort to scrub off that watery shell.


    ¡°Valno!¡± he shouted, needing real magic, right <u>now</u>.  Valerian started forward, misty-stepping past Cinda.


    ¡°I¡¯m¡­¡±


    ¡°<u>Listening</u>,¡± snapped the sea-elf queen, in a voice that came from the watery envelope, not from poor Neira.  ¡°You are <u>listening</u>, boy.  I owe you a boon for your aid in restoring my son.  Your aunt has my promise of peace between ocean and land.  As for <u>you</u>, voidling¡­ Quickly, fetch out a magical object.  Anything at all, but hurry.  There is more and worse to come!¡±


    Well¡­ Right.  Val reached into his nearest faerie-pocket, seizing the first thing that came to hand.  On the bright side, it wasn¡¯t a package of cream-cakes or ginger men, nor yet a pair of spare shorts.


    ¡­But it also wasn¡¯t a weapon.  Just an ornate glass potion bottle.  One of Bea¡¯s, he thought confusedly.


    ¡°Hold it forth, boy.  <u>Quickly</u>!  You move like coral, and my time here is limited¡±


    Uh-huh.  Again, right.  Val drew that blue glass bottle from its spot in his cloud of badly packed items.  Coloring slightly, he held out Gentle Mint Love Potion Number Nine.  Not that, you know, he needed any assistance in¡­ with¡­


    Cinda cocked a slim eyebrow.  The over-blue-eye one (which was her subtly mocking brow; over-brown was the deeply sarcastic one).  Val would have explained, but he didn¡¯t have time.  As Sawyer shed its disguise to stalk Shanella, the sea-queen stretched out a watery tendril and stroked the glass bottle.


    ¡°Receive the Ocean¡¯s great power, for use in direst need, Prince,¡± she murmured, already beginning to fade.  ¡°But beware, for the sea gives and takes away even more.  It is the source of life and its ultimate end.  Protector and threat.  Never tamed and completely unguessable.  Receive this boon and let there be friendship between our two realms.¡±


    And then, just like that, she was gone, evaporating like a puddle of water after a magical street-sweep.  Neira gasped and sagged into Filimar, damp, but unharmed.  Meanwhile, the potion bottle glowed and vibrated, seeming to pound like high surf on a seaside cliff.  Val managed to tuck it away in a faerie pocket that suddenly felt weirdly public. As though, not just he, but Miche and Pilot had access, somehow. You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    Problem for another time, because it was <u>then</u> that the second shockwave hit; this one bringing a name and the end of a terrible, ages-long sentence.


    ¡°Alexion¡­¡± whispered Valerian.  ¡°The exiled prince is Alexion, my great-grandfather.¡±


    And with that knowledge came a sick, sudden shift.  Most likely part of the realm¡¯s vital magic, but all at once Val¡¯s status and rank changed.  Filimar, Cinda and Neira first stared at him, then started to kneel, prevented by Valerian¡¯s wild, unfocused Slow-Time spell.


    ¡°NO!¡± he snapped.  ¡°Stop that!  I¡¯m¡­ It¡¯s me!  I¡¯m not¡­¡±


    But he was, and everyone knew it.  A crowd had gathered, some of them trailing the elves out of the jewelry tent in expectation of further amusement, others drawn by Shanella¡¯s weird apparition.  They stood frozen, now, leaning all around Filimar, Neira, Cinda and Prince Valerian.  Valerian¡­ the only direct heir to the throne now in Karellon.


    Shaken to the very root of his heart, Val would have escape-spelled, except that the fair and the city clamped down.  They wouldn¡¯t allow him to flee.  Trapped, he sucked in a deep, ragged breath, saying,


    ¡°Listen to me, all of you! (Down, Sawyer!  Stop!) I¡¯m not a¡­ I am Valerian Tarandahl ad Keldaran, of Ilirian th¡­¡± But he could not force out the rest of those words, for they were no longer true.  Instead, fighting each burning syllable, he grated, ¡°V- Valerian Valinor ad Keldaran¡­ of Imperial K- Karandun, fourth heir.¡±


    While time was yet slowed, he was safe.  Still just an upcountry lordling who wanted nothing more than to go home to his wife, his baby and village. But the spell wouldn''t last for much longer. Filimar reacted first.  Val¡¯s adopted brother and heart-friend did not kneel, but placed a warm hand on the other elf¡¯s shoulder, saying,


    ¡°Highness, you already have my oath and my friendship.  At need, my life.  If you can no longer be Tarandahl, I <u>can</u>, and I shall bear the name as proudly as I ever did that of Arvendahl.  I am your friend and a Tarandahl, my prince, ever and always.¡±


    His blue eyes were utterly serious, for once; his words forced out against air like burning hot tar. Nearby, Cinda looked bleaker than ever, as another impassable rank-barrier rose between her and the lunk-head she¡¯d never stopped loving.  The one she¡¯d thrown away with both hands, out of pride.


    What need of a scrub-elf retainer had one who would soon be surrounded by palace guards; enmeshed like a royal fly in luxurious amber?  She started to turn away as Valerian first said,


    ¡°Friends and brothers, aye.  For all eternity, Filno,¡± embracing the dark-haired young lord.  Then, seizing the ranger¡¯s arm,


    ¡°Kala, <u>wait</u>! Nothing that matters has changed! See past the trappings, please.  I am still me.¡±


    Or he very much wanted to be.  Cinda half-turned, dragged around by that iron-hard grip to face Valerian.  Keeping her eyes down and her voice level, his once-love said,


    ¡°I will do as you bid me¡­ Your Highness.  I will not allow any rumor or stain of my origin to touch you, though.  I would rather kill myself.¡±  And she meant it, a thing Val knew and accepted.  He shook his head no, causing blond hair to swing into his eyes.


    ¡°You won¡¯t have to, because I will never ask you for love in that way.  Not ever again.  Just¡­ don¡¯t leave, and don¡¯t think that you¡¯ve ceased to matter. I¡¯ll even listen to your advice.  Mostly.  As well as I can.¡±


    She smiled a little, pulling out of his grip (but not roughly).  Val smiled back, needing what mattered the most to not ever change.  He couldn¡¯t maintain that slow-time spell over the fair for much longer.  There was so much to tell them, though¡­ To the gaping Neira, he said.


    ¡°Filno loves you.  I think he¡¯s beginning to realize that now.  If I were you, I¡¯d propose to him while he is still too confused to say no.¡±


    The beautiful smuggler laughed, then began feeling around in her empty faerie-pockets for a gold arm ring (but ended up stealing one).


    Now there were just a few heartbeats left till time reasserted itself.  Val could have done any number of things (including go for that much-needed drink), but practicality topped longing.  He was going to require a steed and an ally so, placing a hand atop Sawyer¡¯s feathery head, he murmured,


    ¡°Forgive me, Sawyer.  You must grow, now.  Cast off the form of a fledgling, my friend.  Rise to adulthood and power.¡±


    Strong magic, but the sigils wrote themselves, flowing in midair, then spiraling all around that startled young griffin.  Sawyer cried out, emitting a wavering peep that ended up as a ringing wild screech.  Magic flared, and Sawyer changed, transformed in mid cry from a cub to a mighty and fully-fledged griffin; rust-feathered, golden-furred, red-eyed and fierce.


    Val reached up to stroke that great, beaked head.  Everyone else edged away from the monster (Cinda only a step or two, though her dislike of the beasts nearly matched Reston¡¯s).  For just a wild instant, Val thought about leaping onto Sawyer and flying off; of winging it home again.  Only, the chains of royal duty were already tightening. He literally could not leave the city without permission.


    Bad enough, but then slow-time ended, leaving Valerian stuck in the middle of Jewelers Row. Shouting and noise swelled up all around him again.  The crowd surged forward, full of unwanted vows and questions he couldn¡¯t answer. Moments later, an icy Prince Nalderick ported over, followed by most of his teammates and crew¡­ then Magister Serrio and the former emperor swooped out of the sky¡­ Aunt Melly¡¯s paladin came thudding over, closely followed by a grey-haired female and a skulking Lady Sheraza.  Might have been a trick of the gods, but they arrived at just about the same instant.


    Last to show up were his wizard friend Murchison, the other paladins and Prince Korvin.  The dark-haired scholar looked almost exultant.  He was the first to speak, as the crowd backed a respectful twelve paces.


    ¡°My brother returns, and nothing will stop him!" cried Korvin. "I have woven Alexi¡¯s name into every stone and weapon¡­ each gate and spell of this city!¡±


    The prince rippled with manna like a signal flag in a powerful wind; seemingly burning with joy.  It was Magister Serrio who answered, first patting the former emperor¡¯s arm.


    ¡°Perhaps you are right, Korie,¡± said the elegant tiefling, gently.  ¡°But your brother may not cross my border with war in his heart.  Time has not been kind to our Alexi¡­ but perhaps enough remains of the boy I once knew to save Karellon and the empire.  Are you willing to place a small wager, Book Wyrm?¡±


    Korvin lifted his chin, looking first at his silent father, then over to Serrio. Facing them squarely.  After a moment, he nodded.


    ¡°Aye that, Magister.  Admit Alexi, and I¡¯ll place my life against whatever you care to name, that my brother will come back in glory, power and peace.¡±


    Serrio smiled, inclining his head.


    ¡°For all our sakes, my dear boy, I very much hope you are right.  Now, let us roll the dice, you and I, with all of the gods as our witness.¡±


    Magister Serrio was more than a tiefling and very much more than some carnival showman¡­ but even he bent the knee before Fate.  Not knowing the end, he began his spell of opening.  Serrio¡¯s booming voice and sigils shook Karellon to the bedrock as a terrible sword rotated into view, shining black-and-white as a brilliant half-moon.


    The Destroyer had come, but no one yet knew who would wield it.

 Sword and Sorcery Eight, chapter twenty-eight

    <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.

 Sword and Sorcery Eight, chapter twenty-nine

    <u>29</u>


    Getting to Glimmr was easy.  TTN-iA¡¯s industrial gate could send a pair of passengers almost any place that boasted a second port, to receive.  Sneaking into the orbital station was another matter entirely.  There were three possible destinations: Mine Platform 37, in the cloud giant¡¯s upper atmosphere, Asset Transfer Pad 1, on Cerulean Dream, and Asset Transfer Cubicle Deep, down in the bowels of OS1012.


    Of those, Glimmer was too distant. Further transport would be required to reach OS1012, meaning he¡¯d have to hijack or steal something. Not safe.  Meanwhile, Cerulean Dream was on high alert and battle-shielded; no transport allowed without emergency release. Getting <u>that</u> would mean revealing themselves, drawing possible draug assault.  Unsafe, again.  ATC Deep seemed the best choice to V47 Pilot and TTN-iA.  Raine was much too excited to have an opinion.


    Some disguise was necessary, because a cyborg mech pilot with a human child was tough to miss.  Wherever they went, they were sure to attract attention.


    ,,,Unless the disguise they adopted was far beneath notice.  Once Pilot had removed V47¡¯s cartridge from the damaged battle-mech, TTN-iA went to work changing the trio¡¯s semblance.


    Raine loved her transformation.  Through the AI¡¯s biotech wizardry, she was now a humanoid sugar-glider technician, complete with a pack of small maintenance tools.  Sparkling jewelry as well, because Red-Blue-Gamma and Right-Left-Top-Flip refused to send mere ambassadors.  Having survived desperate flight and cataclysmic battle, those tiny alien rulers were in for the rest, as well. They looked like hair ornaments and a spidery brooch, belying the adventurous spirits within.


    As for Pilot¡­


    ¡°Why am I fluffy?¡± he snapped, on stepping out of the mutagen bath.  Looking down at himself, he was horrified to see long golden fur and an uncontrollable bottle-brush tail.  Pointed, independently swiveling ears, spreading whiskers and weirdly enhanced senses added to his confusion.  Cat.  He¡¯d been turned into a muscular, unhappy cat-person.


    ~Your forms are calculated to arouse the least alarm from OS1012¡¯s defense net, Pilot~ explained TTN-iA, whose protean face didn¡¯t smile.  Much. ~Animal stock maintenance crews are common in the station¡¯s interior.  Transfers occur on a frequent basis, as registered assets wear out or are destroyed. The transfer data is of so little importance that no algorithm tracks it~


    She was probably making sense, but he didn¡¯t have to <u>like</u> it.


    ¡°I hate this.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re beautiful, Pilot!¡± squealed Raine, who¡¯d been practicing short, gliding hops on a newly-extruded tangle of bars and perches.  As the girl improved, TTN-iA added rings to fly through, and swaying obstacles to dodge; all of them grown from the dark metal shell that surrounded the magnetar.  Raine was thrilled.  ¡°Oh, let¡¯s not ever change back!¡±


    The Writers of Code gave him strength not to respond as he wanted to.  Instead, Cat-Pilot grated,


    ¡°I am glad that this semblance pleases you, Majesty.  Yours is, erm¡­ cute.¡±  Which was true.  With her membranous wings and long, wispy tail¡­ her enormous dark eyes and big ears¡­ she looked very happy and sweet.  Raine launched herself into the air after swooping through five spinning rings.


    ¡°Pilot, look!  Look at me!¡± she shouted, landing safe in his arms. ¡°I¡¯m flying!¡±


    Not since graduating from Learning Curve had she been so free or had so much fun.  Her momentum and slight mass were easily managed by one with the reflexes of a tomcat. Her wet little nose and soft whiskers bumped his own sensitive nose-leather, bringing a welter of smells and emotions.  She climbed him, sinking long-fingered hands and feet deep into that wretched fur to perch on his right shoulder.


    ¡°Did you see me?¡±


    ¡°I did,¡± he admitted, feeling a little less awful.  ¡°You fly very well, Majesty.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve been practicing,¡± the girl exulted, grooming his head-fur.  ¡°The whole time you were talking, I flew the obstacle course, and I¡¯m going to get even better, Pilot!  You watch!¡±


    TTN-iA set the gate for them, sparking open just a tiny fraction of its industrial-strength capacity.  The damaged battle-mech still hung in its scaffolding, off to one side, while that caged magnetar seethed and burned, overhead, casting a forest of shadows.


    ~I have counterfeited the cutter Falcon as point of origin~ reported the AI. ~I have also taken the precaution of transforming all pocketed weapons to tools, V47-cartridge to a maintenance system upgrade, and the draug captive to a digital timepiece.  You may wear it, should you choose to do so~


    Heh. Yeah¡­


    He did, though the draug made a terrible chronometer.  Too gaudy, with a display that did nothing but flash angry digital faces.  And life was tough, all over.


    ¡°You¡¯re a watch, I¡¯m fluffy, and she loves this.  As Ace would say: embrace the suck, brother.¡±


    Sent it too fast for Raine to pick up, yet (the injected circuitry was still spreading) but TTN-iA seemed amused.


    ~Be wary, Pilot.  Caution and patience lengthen existence, where rush-to-combat yields death and repeated decanting.  Transmit a message of reassurance once you have reached a safe place from which to do so.  I have your scans.  I am able to produce copies of you, V47 and Raine-Empress, but I prefer to avoid the necessity~


    V47 Pilot nodded, watching as a tiny fraction of the massive portal lit up; millions of glittering pixels coming together to form a bright oval gateway that rippled like water.


    ¡°Well,¡± he sent, ¡°if I find myself back here in a decanting vat, I¡¯ll know that I did something wrong.  If not, until we¡¯re in sending range once again, I thank you, TTN-iA.  For everything.¡±


    Her seething, multi-part body gestured a hug.  And then, sending a blitz of affectionate images, ~I have three friends.  What is rare is valued, Pilot.  Proceed with caution~


    The empress/ sugar-glider had wrapped her skinny arms around his neck, while her clawed feet dug into his back fur.  V47¡¯s altered cartridge was snug in a fey-pocket.  That furious draug superior flashing the wrong time (0:00:00, repeatedly). And Cat-Pilot was as ready as he was likely to get.


    ¡°Will do,¡± he sent back, stepping up to the heavily warded portal.  Then, with a deep breath and clenched fists, Cat-Pilot strode into the shimmering oval of light.  There was a brief sense of dissolution; of being taken to bits and then streamed through null-space on a tightly encrypted band.  Then, blinking, he found himself all of a piece once more, in a humming, glass-fronted booth.


    <u>OS1012</u> read a placard over the booth¡¯s locked hatch.  Three holographic commands appeared, hovering at eye-level before the trapped immigrants.


    <u>Work diligently and well.</u>


    <u>Obey all legitimate commands.</u>


    <u>Remain below decks, out of sight of superior beings.</u>


    Cat-Pilot¡¯s tail lashed irritably.  He swiveled an ear to listen as Raine whispered,


    ¡°That¡¯s <u>mean</u>, Pilot!  As soon as I¡¯m really empress, I¡¯m going to let everyone go where they want to, and let them visit me in Learning Curve, too.¡±  She hugged him tightly as she said this, sounding fierce.


    ¡°I agree, Majesty,¡± he whispered back, through teeth that felt awkwardly sharp. ¡°But we had better use the disguise-names from now on.¡±


    Raine nodded vigorously. She craned her head past his to watch as a pair of glowing discs popped into existence under those floating rules.  Correctly-sized palm outlines appeared on each circle and then started to flash.


    Cat-Pilot felt a rumbling growl rising up in his chest; a thing that he apparently could not control.  There were worse things to be than a mech-pilot.  Nevertheless, he extended his arm, palm outward, touching the larger outline.  Felt himself being scanned, then received a green coverall and an ID badge: Steering Rocket Technician 147, Level 223, sublevel amber.  Meanwhile, Raine¡¯s ID badge declared: Small engine maintenance 331, Level160, sublevel blue.


    They were not being sent to the same part of the station, but that didn¡¯t matter as Cat-Pilot had no intention of following directions, no matter what biometrics they captured.  Raine dug her fingers into his dense golden fur, scowling.Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    ¡°This is all going to change, Pi¡­ I mean, Tom,¡± she whispered.


    <u>Failure to follow any legitimate command will result in asset termination and death</u>, advised another bright hologram.


    There were gas-nozzles aplenty inside the transfer cubicle, Cat-Pilot noticed, and death was quite near, should they be judged rebellious or simply uneeded. Two further clicks passed in clicking and whirring activity as the new workers were processed.  Finally, the hatch hissed open, leaving them as free as a pair of animal-stock laborers could be on OS1012.


    ¡°It¡¯s going to be Someday, soon,¡± finished the transformed girl, as they left their transport cubicle.


    A glowing blue line on the metal floor led from their arrival point through a tangle of unpainted pipes, ducts and maintenance shafts.  There was only one path at first, leading Cat-Pilot and Glider-Raine through the under deep of Orbital Station.  Here, there was no pretense at comfort or amusement.  No light that was not artificial.  No windows or green spaces, at all.  The only beings present were robots and animal-folk, glimpsed briefly and always busy.


    Cat-Pilot¡¯s ears swiveled, picking up noises from every direction at once. There was an overwhelming mixture of sounds and smells; whirring fans, snapping lasers, smoothly turning industrial robots¡­ mingled and textured fur, feathers, musk and emotional states, layered like paint. He could sense but not parse it all. Feeling half-blind without drones, he accessed and pirated the launch bay¡¯s closed-circuit camera system.  Extra lenses provided a better view of his surroundings, which¡­


    Right.  They were being followed as laborers left their tasks, taking ¡°break¡± to shadow the newcomers.  Loosely, at first, but closing in fast.  They were coming to an open space, Cat-Pilot noticed, as their glowing blue path led the newcomers into a giant vehicle docking bay.  He sent a message to Raine for the first time ever, connecting through resonant circuitry.


    ¡°I suspect a confrontation is imminent, Flit.¡± (Her disguise name.)  ¡°Prepare to seek shelter above, and stay out of reach.  Red-Blue-Gamma will keep us in contact.¡±


    The Long Sparian flickered agreement, as Flit-empress said/ sent,


    ¡°I <u>heard</u> you, Pilot!  Inside my head, really fast!¡±  Those uploaded circuits had accessed her brain now, giving ¡°Flit¡± increased speed and processing power.


    ¡°Good,¡± he responded.  ¡°I¡¯m tossing you onto the nearest gantry.  Let no one approach until given the blue-light by me, Right-Left-Top-Flip or Red-Blue-Gamma.¡±


    The Block-Worlder buzzed against his back and her chest, saying to both,


    -I am prepared to do battle again, Giant Construct and Ruler! -


    Good folk, the beings of Block-World and Long Spar.  Cat-Pilot sent haptic pulses equivalent to: Your alliance is crucial, Speaker-for-the-true-people.


    Next, he reached up and over to seize Raine-Glider, pulling her off his back.  Her tail wrapped around his left arm like a wispy vine, but she nodded when he asked,


    ¡°Ready?¡±


    As a cyborg, Pilot was strong.  As a <u>Cat-</u>cyborg, his strength and speed more than doubled.  A 2.7% improvement in all calculated metrics.  He launched Raine-Glider high in the air with one smooth and powerful movement, sending her into the network of crisscrossing gantries and pipes overhead.  That was one problem sorted.  Next, with the CC-Vid footage giving him three-hundred-sixty-degree surveillance, Cat-Pilot bounded fifty feet upward and right, landing lightly atop a steel conduit.


    ¡°Show yourselves!¡± he demanded aloud, maintaining his balance with ease.  ¡°I am armed, and I know that you¡¯re here.¡±


    (At least, he¡¯d hauled a three-foot spanner out of its pocket and was watching their progress through the pirated cameras¡­ but they didn¡¯t know that.)  The shadowy figures stopped for a moment, apparently communicating on some private network.  He could hack in, given time¡­ but they¡¯d followed his command, stepping forward into clear view.


    They were a mixture of animal-folk, only some of them laborers.  Wolves, cats, rabbits, foxes and even a lumbering bear.  There weren¡¯t many badges or coveralls present, though.  Most of that gathering crowd was unregistered.


    ¡°Newcomers do not move in stealth or pirate the vid-system, Tomcat,¡± growled a dark wolf-man, stalking into a puddle of light.  ¡°Who are you, and why have you come here?¡±


    Before Cat-Pilot could answer, a grey rabbit girl lolloped over to stand by the wolf.


    ¡°Perhaps they are minions of OVR-Lord, come to track and eliminate excess biomass,¡± she accused, long ears pressed flat and quivering.


    Cat-Pilot put a few things together in his head, about why they were so suspicious and wary. He heard the faint mewl of kits, cubs and chicks.  Illegal ones, for natural breeding wasn¡¯t permitted for animal-folk.  It happened, resulting in robots being sent through, level by level, to clean out unwanted ¡°pests¡±.  He¡¯d always known and thought nothing of it¡­ till now.


    Cat-Pilot would have said something to lower the tension (tried, anyhow) but then spotted something running along the underside of a duct, overhead.  Reached out with part of his mind to summon drones, and drek with disguising his nature.


    ¡°We are not¡­¡± was as much as he managed, before a raccoon, a gecko, a lynx and a fox surged out of concealment.  Literally one tick utterly blended with shadows, the next moment almost on top of him, dashing up from both sides.


    Cat-Pilot¡¯s yowl surprised him, as did the sudden lift of his fur, and his tail¡¯s prehensile grasp at a sharpened screw-driver somebody dropped from above.  (Someone who should have been hiding.)


    Four highjacked drones buzzed into the vehicle launch bay through vents and access ports, adding their views to his physical eyes and the static camera network.  The fox lunged at him, first.  She was armed with a handmade sword, its hilt wrapped in blue tape, its blade sparking electrically.  Too bad for her, he was faster, dodging her rush with ease, then seizing the cursing fox by her scruff and heaving her back at the gecko.  Hit the lizard in time to block its explosive long tongue.  The gecko¡¯s arrow went wild as its tongue got stuck to that flailing, tumbling fox.  The arrow struck Cat-Pilot¡¯s shoulder instead of his throat.  Bit flesh and drew blood, but not deeply, thanks to his carbon-mesh uniform.


    ¡°Nice try,¡± he mocked, blocking sensations of pain.  More attackers were climbing the VLB¡¯s scaffolding, scrambling into bow-range.  He knocked a few from their perches with hurtling drones, saying, ¡°But we didn¡¯t come here to¡­¡±


    The raccoon was next, growling and snapping, a knife clutched tight in each hand.  Cat-Pilot simply leapt over the on-rushing creature.  Landed safely beyond him, then pivoted panther-swift to seize the raccoon¡¯s brushy tail.  Next, he leapt higher with that screeching menace in tow, landing gracefully on a higher segment of pipe.  The smaller beast lashed with its knives and teeth but hadn¡¯t the reach to do any real damage; only scratching the draug-timepiece.


    Cat-Pilot¡¯s prehensile tail prodded the suspended raccoon into a dizzying swing.  Smiling, he held his prisoner out over that forty-foot drop.


    ¡°Possibly you are better disposed to listen, now. Or would you prefer to play fetch, Wolf?¡±  Cat-Pilot surprised himself, with how much he suddenly enjoyed toying with enemies.


    ¡°Ps-ps-ps, Kitty,¡± sneered the bulky lupine.  ¡°Go ahead.  Let Rascal fall, and you¡¯ll be pin-cushioned from every direction at once!¡±


    Uh-huh.


    ¡°Right.  That might be an actual threat, if I couldn¡¯t shield.¡±


    ¡­a thing that ditching subtlety allowed him to do.  Cat-Pilot called on the station¡¯s manna, forming a haze of UV sparks all around himself (and the empress crouched up above). The animal-folk murmured uneasily, <u>seeing</u>, but not understanding.


    ¡°That is not a labor or maverick talent, alley-cat,¡± said the grey rabbit girl, hopping to stand just under his perch.  ¡°Come down with Rascal¡­ or do you need to be lifted to safety by a ladder crew?¡±


    ¡°Very funny,¡± he lied, not suddenly worried at <u>all</u> about height.  Fortunately, he could levitate down, catching Red-Blue-Gamma¡¯s flash: Directly overhead, Great Quartet.  Flicker at need!¡¯


    He manipulated the UV pixels to respond: ¡°Understood, Light-of-the-actual-people.  Thanks rendered.¡±  Next floated down with the furious Rascal.  Let the lynx snatch his prisoner when she lunged past him (though the instinct to play was enormous, and he did maybe scratch her a bit).


    Cat-Pilot settled into a crouch on a lower segment of pipe, folding in places an elf would not.


    ¡°You have your secrets, and I¡¯ll let you keep them, good people,¡± he said, trying to force the snarl out of his voice.  ¡°We are no tools of OVR-Lord.  We have come to¡­ Rrrrm¡­ We¡¯re here to bring Someday about.¡±


    And that was a thing that only an asset would know to mention.  Maybe the last human empress, too.  Raine-Glider spiraled down from the darkness to join Cat-Pilot.  She landed expertly on his broad, fuzzy shoulder.  As more and more startled and wondering animal-folk crept from the shadows, he said,


    ¡°This is Raine.  She is a master, who has taken circuitry and been decanted as one of us.  She needs to reach the station¡¯s top level, to remove OVR-Lord¡¯s cartridge from the command console.¡±


    ¡°If you are lying, Kitty,¡± began that yellow-eyed wolf, backed by the suddenly nervous others.  But Cat-Pilot shook his head.


    ¡°This is a transformation,¡± he explained.  ¡°I am an elven-stock mech pilot, not a feline mechanic.¡±


    The wolf-man snuffed audibly, growling,


    ¡°All I smell is a rancid alley-cat whose been at the garbage chute, again.¡±


    Funnily enough, Cat-Pilot had no control over those claws, which extruded themselves through his fingers and half-booted toes.  He sharpened them on the pipe¡¯s insulation, shredding it like imaginary wolf-hide.  Good for the muscles and emotional balance, Cat-Pilot discovered.


    ¡°And I could detect the reek of a neutered mutt from orbit, but that¡¯s not important.  We¡¯ll have it out after all this is through, Rover, I promise you.  For now, let us pass.  No one will learn of your old or your kittens.  I promise you that, as well.¡±


    The lupine whined, licking its muzzle uncertainly.  It was the rabbit who decided, saying,


    ¡°Cat, elf, or whatever you are, we do not take jokes about Someday lightly.  It is all the hope we have left.  You have unusual powers and maybe you¡¯re telling the truth.  Worth taking a risk, as another purge is scheduled soon.¡±  Her long ears swiveled nervously, as though listening hard for the whisper and whirr of approaching exterminators.


    ¡°Do not follow the blue path,¡± she continued.  ¡°It leads to the Processing Center, where Vogar the half-orc maintains his scanning post.  Follow the scent trail, Kitty-Cat.  There are three major paths, one of which leads to the nursing den and your destruction.  One¡­ which smells of unease¡­ takes you to the work-level.  It is the third, joy-tinged pathway you want.  That one ends up at an abandoned park, from a time when even assets earned rest.  From there, you must find your own way, as the top levels are forbidden.¡±


    Cat-Pilot leapt from his perch to the ground.  Rose from a crouch to stand before the rabbit girl.  She did not flinch, though he towered above her.


    ¡°I made a promise to some of your folk on Bide-a-While Station,¡± he told the animal-folk.  ¡°I meant it then, and more so, now.  Things are going to get better, for all of us.¡±


    Elves in the distant past had betrayed their allies.  Cowardly, treacherous, weak, they¡¯d abandoned the ¡°lesser races¡± who¡¯d trusted them, seeking escape for themselves.  Cat-Pilot could face that, now that he had a chance to put everything right.


    Raine-Glider stood up on his shoulder, one small hand gripping his golden head-fur.


    ¡°There will be no more purges,¡± she said, raising her chin.  ¡°I will take power, because I am needed, and I won¡¯t forget what I¡¯ve seen here.¡±


    As one, they bowed before Raine, trusting to hope and to Someday.