Sword and Sorcery, a Novel

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 Also, the shades had withdrawn; present, but distant and troubled.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.

"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.