Sword and Sorcery, a Novel

25

In Karellon, the tarrasque raged nearly unchecked. With its screaming horned head, thunderbolt tail and clawed limbs, it had already reduced most of the City to rubble. The air was thick with the stench of battle; of burning and blood and torn entrails. Fires blazed on every horizon; half smothered, then flaring to life again, whenever the titan opened its mouth for a swallowing gulp. Debris, draft animals, smashed corpses and screaming citizens… all were sucked into that yawning, fanged cavern, descending to darkness, acid and terrible pressure.

Spinning gently over Karellon's Imperial quarter, a dragon's golden egg hovered on high, protected by magic. Its glow drew the tarrasque, whose ground-shaking, acre-wide footfalls smashed all in their path to powder and slime.

Lord Arvendahl's archers surrounded the monster as best they could, aiming swarms of spelled arrows at its featureless eyes and wide mouth. Meanwhile, their liege summoned the howling wind of the plains and then set it alight with his sword, Grassfire. The resulting flame-spout caused the tarrasque to rise on its haunches, swaying like a bear, head topping the streaming dark clouds.

Far down below, in the lee of Oberyn's temple, three paladins drew straws. It was Vorbol… Brother Humble… whose thick grey fingers pulled the short one out of Meliara's clenched fist. Gusting a rumbling sigh, the orc muttered,

"All for His glory… even when being swallowed."

In such matters, their lord's will was all, but…

"Your club may not be the best tool for digestive wet-work, my friend," said Villem, who stood swaying from exhaustion. Just as battered and dirty as Vorbol and Nadia. "You'll most likely require a magical sword."

He drew Flood, then, saying,

"Gift of the Emperor, mighty blade of the sea-elves, I would lend your strength to a friend who faces grave peril in Oberyn's name. If you allow it, I would give you to Vorbol, my brother-in-Dawn."

He held the sword upright as he spoke, blade skyward. Its metal reflected first fire and battle, then began to shine with a light of its own, displaying all of the ocean's colors and moods. It rose from Brother Arnulf's grip, then drifted across to the towering orc, who'd laid aside his spiked club. The sword's glow was mirrored in the orc's red eyes as, hesitantly, Brother Humble took hold of its hilt. Looked like a blue-green toothpick, at first, until Flood adjusted to match its new wielder; curving and growing in length. Vorbol grinned, displaying enough razor-sharp ivory to make an ogre back down.

"Suppose that's a 'yes', then," he quipped, adding. "Now all I've got to do is get inside of that thing without being killed."

Nadia had been keeping an eye on the monster, which had resumed its trek to Vernax's glimmering egg. Glancing at her comrades, she said,

"I'll transport you into its path, Brother. Once there, shield yourself with Oberyn's mist. Wait until the mouth opens up to swallow the egg, then emerge from concealment. Here, take this, too," she added, handing over a desert-tribe amulet. "This is Oasis. When invoked, it provides total invulnerability for the space of a pent breath."

The orc lifted a heavy dark eyebrow.

"So that's how you do it," he rumbled, accepting the star-shaped gold amulet. "Always wondered. Thought maybe I wasn't as faithful, or something. What's the recharge rate?"

Nadia grimaced.

"Once a week, so use it wisely," she grumped. "And walk with the Dawn."

Their oracle, Meliara, had moved closer. Gazing at Humble, the beautiful elf said,

"I see death all around, but striking at others, not you." Busy at the coast, most likely, which was a solid black line from north end to south, in the seer's eye. Worse yet, pocked now with the hissing green blaze of un-death.

The priests of Oberyn perched on the roof high above, chanting and burning things; creating smoke and noise that their trapped lord didn't need and wouldn't respond to. Villem shook his head. Rode out another tremor, then turned his attention to Vorbol, again.

"I will come with you, Brother," he offered.

"And I, as well," said Meliara, taking her paladin's gauntleted hand.

Villem started to protest, but he'd seen the vision. He knew what was coming. They both did, and the choice was his lady's.

"Whatever we do, it had better be quick," remarked Sister Constant. "Arvendahl's about to try something epically stupid, or I'm no child of the dunes."

Tapping the silvery cuff at her left wrist, Nadia opened a gate, then widened it, standing on tiptoe to see her goal.

"Mmmm… there. That's it." A tiny circle of light opened up, halfway across the city. "Other end's on some kind of rubble heap, under the egg. Hurry, I can only keep the gate open a short while, at this size. In Oberyn's name!"

"For His glory," answered Arnulf and Humble, leaping away through the portal with Meliara in tow. When they'd gone, becoming mere stick figure silhouettes, miles away, Nadia readied her weapons and rushed into battle.

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In Snowmont, the behir breathed acid and lightning, causing a brief, blue-white glare in which hissing sleet sparkled like gems, and folk moved in jerky short-motion. Its dark blue hide bristled with mining tools and the broken bodies of dwarves. Its breath melted flesh and stone like warm butter, sometimes surging forth as a cone of branching electrical force. Created to battle dragons, the serpentine monster thumped along on ten legs; very fast, for all its great size; louder than an armored infantry charge.

Kellen Arvendahl found himself in command, like it or not. In what little concealment he could spell up, the young retainer grasped at strategy. Any strategy.

"Right," he said, as the behir hurtled into Snowmont's town square. "Here's the plan: we surround it and strike from a distance with arrows and spells. Lionel…" Here, the elf paused, looking up and up at an ogre-sized mountain of cat.

"Tristan," corrected the black-maned warrior, leaning on a huge, double-bitted axe. "I would prefer that my real name be used for my memory song. I am Tristan, of Distant Sands Oasis, clan-master and guardian."

The raven-haired Arvendahl nodded.

"Tristan," he repeated. "I'll remember it, but not for any memorial. Over drinks, my friend, once we've carved up this horror and rebuilt the town." Then, after shaking the Tabaxi's enormous clawed hand, "Don't suppose you've got any magic, to speak of?"

The clan-master considered.

"I do not know that your folk would call it magic… but the might and skills of my ancestors come to me at need."

He stood fully upright, then, muscles bunching and shifting beneath his grey hide, swinging the axe up onto his shoulder.

"My magic is combat, Elf-lord, and in that, I am unmatched."

Kellen pulled at his lower lip for a moment, pondering.

"Uh-huh. Other than Lord Valerian, that is. Anyhow… Could you get on its back, without being caught? Try chopping the head off?" he asked.

The Tabaxi laughed, sounding like distant thunder. Almost before the elves and Hilt saw him move, Tristan had bounded across the shattered town square and upward. Dodging a lightning blast, he landed gracefully atop the behir, just behind its ugly crocodile head.

"Next time," Tristan bellowed, "give me a challenge!"

Then the freed pit-fighter called on his ancestors and went to work. Kellen gaped for a stunned moment, watching slimed hide and mining tools fly off in big chunks. Collected himself well enough to signal the others forward.

"Surround it," he shouted. "Spells, arrows and spears. Whatever you've got that'll hit from a distance, but 'ware you don't strike the Tabaxi!"

Started across the square himself, at a dead run, calling,

"An Arvendahl!"

Which Sandor and Arrien finished,

"...An Arvendahl to the fray!"

Hilt shook her head. Spat to one side, muttering,

"Elves."

Then, just as fast as her short legs would carry her, the dwarf raced to the writhing behir's other side, hurling a storm of axes. She had kin to avenge, and no time at all for fancy technique.

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Out in Lobum, a green dragon rose from its sheltered glen, healing with incredible, Chaos-fed speed. In all of those cycles of hiding, it had gained no love for those that defended and kept it alive. But all that was over. Now, Slithrox the Vile rose again.

On great emerald wings, spiny crest bristling, the dragon climbed into the air over Lobum. Darted and swooped for a moment, full of sheer, renewed energy. Then, diving low, it began jetting poisonous gas at the druids and archers beneath. The toxin burned flesh and seared lungs to black char, withering all that it touched.

A second wave of archers went forth, stepping over the carbonized lumps of their family and friends. Shot volley after volley, but the arrows bounced off of those shining green scales like pebbles. Nor did the wood-elf druids fare any better, for spells just reflected and splintered, turning to strike at their source.

"Die!" roared the dragon, coming around for another low pass. "Die for the years I lay helpless! Die for seeing my pain and my anguish! For pitying Slithrox… DIE!"

Thorn vines erupted from the rumbling ground to seize and bind, then pierce, all they could catch. A great tower of curling and twining briars shot from the forest floor, with a writhing wood-elf impaled on each thorn.

"Face me who will!" Roared the green dragon, shaking off arrows and magic. "Come, save your wounded! Come pluck a fruit from my larder!"

Then something shot out of the sky from the west. A radiant presence, shining with healing and life. An ancient feathered serpent it was, glowing like Oberyn's bow; surrounded by Quetzali warriors.

"Cease," it commanded, forming a sinuous double coil over Slithrox's crested green head. "Your rampage is ended, wyrm. Your terror and poison, dispelled. Long have they hidden you, meaning nothing but good. Long have I waited and watched."

The dragon's long jaws parted in a low, coughing laugh.

"I am reborn, old one," snarled Slithrox, "and I am your death!"

They came together in midair with a crash like a battle of storm-giants, while distant mountains trembled and lurched.

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Not far away, Starloft was inundated with piled and cresting undead; flooded with animate corpses that burst from the mud and the pyre, or clambered up out of the sea. Lady Alyanara warped wind and gravity to boost herself high in the air.

Below, in a charmed and blessed circle of light, her lord fought alongside this plane's beset warriors, surrounded for miles on all sides by hungering monsters. Their roar was like that of the ocean; ceaseless, pounding and wild.

As the last gleam of sunlight disappeareded over the mountains, Alyanara summoned power; readying herself for one last mighty spell.

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It was probably stupid. Had not a feather's chance in a bonfire of actually working… but it was all he could think of.

"Shining One, with your blessing and aid," whispered Valerian, voice nearly lost in the rattle and wind-noise of flight. "I have a plan. It is foolish, I'll own… but my choices are few."

He could sense, through Firelord, what had happened in Karellon, Snowmont and Lobum. Worse yet, felt that tide of monstrous undead overwhelming his people and brother, above.

Took a deep breath and healed himself fully; removing all traces of the scar on his lip and the sigil he'd earlier carved. All at once, the young elf-lord was completely unmarked and perfect. Clean, even.

Tugging at the leather bridle, he brought the griffin that had been his friend swooping down over the Mother's one living head. She had not much time in that form, he knew, for she must have a host, or perish. He could have drawn out the fight, maybe… let her wither and fade on her own… but every moment she lived and acted meant ever more death, outside. He had to finish this, now; without shedding blood to feed Chaos.

"Goddess, Evathin," Valerian shouted, as Salem, Sandy and Pretty One battled Lord Orrin and all of those fast, hungry corpses. "I accept your offer! I will serve as your host... Only promise that no harm will come to my family and friends. That you will send them to safety elsewhere."

She was a being of Chaos. Completely untrustworthy. But it didn't matter that she kept any lying promises, only that she believed his. And lie, it was. An underhanded trick that Murchison would call an "end run".

His concern for the others was genuine. Laughably so, to the Mother. The emotion fooled her, as did the Shining One's seeming disgusted withdrawal.

"Very well," she purred. "So shall it be." The other heads snapped and coiled away from her, making room. "Come nearer, Sweet Child, that I may enter."

On the ground below, Sandy fought to keep Frost Maiden from shooting Valerian out of the sky with ice-bolts and sheer, divine fury.

"Give him a chance," she pled, silently. "My Lady, please let him try whatever fool plan he's come up with, this time!"

Overhead, Valerian directed his griffin mount past the decaying heads of dragon, giant, rock-wyrm and spider. Carefully staying just out of range of her dark, grasping aura, he lured the Mother closer and closer to the cavern's obsidian vault. Matter of timing, and he had to get it just right.

Reached over to pat the griffin's feathered head, wishing… a great many things, but maybe for courage, most of all. Then, at just the right instant, the elf stopped dodging and wheeling. The Mother abandoned her moldering shell to rise like black smoke, pouring straight into Valerian.

Only, his wasn't an empty shell. Firelord lingered, rushing back in to meet the dark goddess and seal her in place. Then, in his last conscious, willed act, Valerian leapt from the griffin and plunged to the glassy, obsidian floor. Struck hard and struggled to rise, seeming almost to burst from the battle within. Then he turned grey, drained by the vault of souls. Vanished inside of it, taking with him two gods.