Sword and Sorcery, a Novel

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.

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.