Sword and Sorcery, a Novel

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?!"

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.