Sword and Sorcery, a Novel

18

Ashlord and She-of-the-Flowers had discorporated entirely, forming a whirling vortex of light that reached from the Sky Stone to highest heaven. A lone half-elf spun somewhere along at its center, exposed to forces and sheer, divine manna that would have strained a great mage.

Like declaiming the forty-three epics to a plow horse, most of those sigils and godly aims didn't stick, but enough hit home to lock Reston forever to Starshire. Its tortured ground, fallen ash, burnt seeds and scorched bones swept up and through his translucent body, causing indelible change.

When the two gods pulled apart… a little each other, now… the Lord-Warden was left hunkered down on the repaired, gritty Sky Stone; gasping, winded and very confused. He had either just had the most wondrous experience of his life, or been trampled flat by a holy procession. Possibly both.

Like Ilirian itself, he'd been healed, but still retained memory of each awful wound. He'd embraced and quickened a goddess, something he could not think too deeply about without risking madness. There was a thread of crystalline light inside of him, now, along with the physical stuff of battered Ilirian. His hair and beard had gone silvery-white, touched with brief color whenever he shifted position.

One by one, the gods flashed away; Ashlord, She-of-the-Flowers, Frost Maiden, Hyrenn and his entire slavering pack, Ilyris the Lake god… even Karus went off to those things that occupy shining immortals, that a wistful Lord-Warden could just barely grasp or… no… not even that. Tilt his head and grasp at the lingering echoes.

Left alone, Reston climbed to his feet and off of the altar, looking around. Overhead, the stars peeped through tattered, fast-moving clouds. Distant lightning flared on the eastern horizon, far out to sea. Starloft towered mountain-like at his back, still partly surrounded by thorns. Of the village, though, nothing remained. Not even smoldering fire.

There was movement, however. A knot of Tree Shepherds hummed to their charges, guiding them back to orchard and grove. Most were in sudden leaf and bud, Reston noticed, despite winter's dark chill. He could feel sap running and seeds unfolding. Sensed drifting spores as they rode the cold wind.

The ground was rumpled and canted, pocked with deep craters and wide, gaping cracks, but iced like a cake with pale green. Life, in the wake of the goddess, was suddenly everywhere.

Dancer snorted, shook herself and then picked her way over to join him. Setting her slim, graceful head on his shoulder, the bay mare heaved a very long, grumbling sigh. He reached up to stroke her neck, saying (or maybe just thinking),

"Believe me: I know."

Needed to get back to Starloft and check on his warband, for the threat was not ended, just gone below ground. He could hear his name being called. Saw wayfinder arrows and search spells rising like fireworks, and not just for him. Others were missing, as well, to judge by the directional charms that went off to hover elsewhere; some blinking bright, some gone terribly pale.

Reston signaled back with an 'All clear. Returning,' message that lit up the streaming clouds in Tarandahl red and gold. They'd probably come find him anyhow, though. Elves were a stubborn lot.

Fortunately, Reston's clothing and armor had been repaired along with his body, or he'd have been draped in torn rags and rent, bashed-in chainmail. Dancer's harness was back in good order, as well, and the mare herself bore not so much as a scuff or cracked hoof. He checked her all over, just to be sure; rubbing her down, speaking soothingly, spelling calm and forgetfulness.

Dawn was painting the sky by the time Reston was ready to go. Had one foot in the stirrup, was just about to swing himself up and onto the saddle when three things happened at once. War bells sounded. Not from Snowmont or Ilirian, but very far south, from the Imperial City itself. Next five of his scouts reached him, one badly injured and swaddled in magic, held on the saddle by a co-riding friend. The outrider, a young female named Clairyn, saluted the weary Lord-Warden.

"Sir," she began, but a sudden, tremendous roar drowned out her report. A towering wall of seawater rose up from the east; mounting higher and higher, then arcing overhead and down to the ground on all sides. Like a dome or a watery pot-lid, it enveloped the fortress, lost village and burnt grove; blocking the stars, the war bells and sky.

Swirling winds blew, scattering spray and bringing a very strong scent of the ocean. The displaced waters thundered and surged all around, leaving naught but an eye like a storm's high above.

A pod of leviathans wove through the water wall, seen as long, moving shadows that stirred up white surf and caused sudden long ribbons of sea-glow. Massive sharks patrolled the barrier, too, their fins cutting through to the air. Unsettling enough, but then a figure appeared. Shanella, the sea-elf majestrix; her image rippled and drifting over that constantly moving water dome. An ally of sorts, whose son, Zaresh, was meant to wed some future Tarandahl heiress.

Shanella's icy pale face and flat, black eyes held nothing of aid or compassion, however. Crowned in drowned treasure and pearl, blue hair drifting around her like seaweed, she merely looked grim.

To Reston, Lerendar and Valerian her words were directed, briefly uniting the three with a spell. Her voice when she spoke held the boom and roar of high surf, as well as its hissing retreat.

"Hear us, Ilirian. Your trouble threatens more than those within your small borders. Resolve this matter. End the evil one's threat, or be scrubbed from the face of the land in a day and a night, as happened to proud Genadrym. Until next-morn, then. You are warned."

Her image dissolved into spuming foam, then vanished completely, leaving no time for response. The outriders' jaws dropped, no doubt mirroring Reston's expression. Their spooked horses were kept from bolting by taut rein-work and hasty spells of control. The beasts would have stampeded, otherwise.

A few muttered curses reached his ears over the constant sea roar and gusting, pent wind. Through his brief link to his nephews, Reston said,

"I will finish matters here on the surface, My Lords; at your word, sending aid through the tunnels."

Lerendar's reply was a curt,

"We'll manage, Uncle. Rid the surface of darklings. We've, erm… received reinforcements, already."

There was no visual, and their contact was ebbing like a neap tide, but Reston assumed that Ob-Keldaran meant sea-elves.

"Understood, Milord. Good hunting, both of you."

"And to you," was the last he heard, this time from Valerian, which arrived with a cantrip of strength and good fortune. It was good to have a mage of power amongst them, he reflected, as the thorn wall began to regrow, weaving itself like a basket with sudden new branches.

Reston smiled thinly, rubbing the side of his bristling chin. Ilirian would not go down to destruction without a very bitter and protracted fight; beginning anew, right here and now.

His tattoo warmed, promising undersea eruptions and the rise of new, blazing islands, but the time for Ashlord was not yet. To his nervous scouts, over the wailing song of circling leviathans, Reston said,

"At His Lordship's command, I want everyone able to fight out here carding the landscape like wool. No quarter, no mercy, no prisoners. Any remaining enemy forces are to be eliminated. Goblin, gnoll, imp or darkling, I care not. If you have to ask, the answer is kill. Now go, spread the order, and move."

They saluted, then scattered like leaves on their wild-eyed horses. Everything else hung on Lerendar's might and Valerian's magic, but up here, the battle was Reston's.

If some of his scouts had survived Ashlord's rampage, then so had pockets of darkness. Keldaran, his brother… had not died in the Dry Valley nightmare just for Reston to lose the realm. What their father had won, what Keldaran had died for, Reston would fight to keep safe.

Reaching into a certain faerie pocket, he retrieved the family sword and… for the very first time… he unsheathed it. Vesendorin glowed in his hand, sparking a bit at its razor-keen edges.

"Forgive me, Ancestor," said Reston. "By blood, I am unworthy to wield you, but the need and the peril are great. Fight with me, please, and I swear to return you soon to a hand more befitting your status."

Light pulsed along the blade's length, but not the old, frigid brilliance with which it had shone in Galadin's hand, or Keldaran's. This gleam was warmer. More fire than starshine. The sword did not speak to him, but he sensed its acceptance as it swung in his grip, light and well-balanced.

"Thank you, My Lord," whispered the half-elf, adding to one long lost, "and thank you, Father."

Then he joined all the others in casting light, which swirling water broke into rainbows, leaving no shadowed places, at all. Conjured his journal and made another swift entry: Threeday, Month of Long Night. It is dawn, and we battle for all. May heaven be with us.