Sword and Sorcery, a Novel

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.

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.