Sword and Sorcery, a Novel

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.

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."