Sword and Sorcery, a Novel

14

In Karellon, far beneath the Imperial palace, something was finally happening. High nobles, court functionaries and servants… even the Prince Ascendant, Korvin, and His Majesty's honor guard… all had withdrawn to the summer palace. Only Sherazedan remained behind with the Emperor, to defend and assist, or to manage disaster.

The Prince Attendant and Princess Imperial were away in the north, on a mission of vital diplomatic importance, it had been hinted. At any rate, far from Karellon in the time of Hatching.

Down in the lair, that convulsing gold egg had developed a seam that ran from its broad, stable base to its gently pointed top. There were many small, toothy bumps on the seam, resembling the jagged plates of a dragon's back. Meanwhile, Vernax had faded almost to nothing. It was a figure of moonlight and mist now, its main substance pulled into the restless egg.

The ghost-dragon laid its head upon His Imperial Majesty's shoulder, just a whisper of breath stirring the Emperor's long, dark hair.

"I am sorry," said Vernax, more in his mind than aloud. "For what is to come, please forgive me, my friend."

Aldarion reached up to scratch an eye ridge and smooth a long jaw that were now more fond memory than solid fact.

"I have one more good fight left in me," he said to his companion. "And, with your blessing, the power to tame and befriend you again. If not… then you'll find someone better, and you won't even remember me."

"Gods forbid it," murmured Sherazedan, who was standing at the outer entrance to the lair, a more-or-less safe distance away. The city spread out behind him like a misty blue quilt. If the newly hatched dragon escaped His Imperial Majesty's control and slew him, only the wizard would stand between it and the crowded metropolis. Between it and a bloody, fiery rampage.

"We choose our moment," said Vernax, in a whisper that only Aldarion heard. "Let it be now. I grow weary. Take, my friend, and be strong enough for us both."

The dragon's last life force and manna flowed into the Emperor like a bright golden blessing, plunging the lair into sudden darkness.

WHUMP!

A blast wave of heat and air rocketed outward. Sherazedan cursed, struck a diamond-white mage light at the end of his staff, and summoned power. It was happening.

Down below, on the pile of treasure and bone that served as the dragon's bed, at almost exactly the same moment that war bells sounded from distant Ilirian, the egg began to unfold.

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In Starshire, the druid's thorn wall burned like a harvest need-fire; attacked in countless places by screeching minions of darkness. A sullen red glow painted the sky overhead, turning night into false, raging dawn.

Hot winds swirled through the blazing village and barrier, sending torrents of sparks to blot out the stars. The war bells thundered like a giant's faltering heartbeat, booming in more than just audible sound. Their deep, constant ringing created a disturbance that rippled through manna, ocean and rock.

…and maybe, someone would listen. Maybe, someone would come.

Reston penned one last journal entry, drily recording the situation, his remaining forces and odds of survival. Then he transferred command of Starloft's defenders to a trusted young warrior. Ulryk, a noble he'd fostered, himself.

That done, the half-elf mounted up and rode a short distance away from the others, setting his back to the palace courtyard. What he intended was terribly dangerous, and not just for him.

Bowing his head, Reston took a deep breath and invoked his god, saying,

"Come, Silent One. Grim slayer in darkness and shadow, take up your sword."

At first, there was no response, as though great resistance opposed Volmar's presence here, Then the tattoo that Reston had cut and seared onto his own chest all those cycles ago began to flicker and shift, burning clear through the Lord-Warden's clothing and armor to shine like a beacon.

In that instant, as Ashlord's power and presence flooded his mortal vessel, Reston Horsemaster just about ceased to exist, pressed to the utter edges of consciousness.

His eyes glowed suddenly blue-white with divine manna and icy purpose, while the air all around him crackled with lightning. The fighters and diplomats gathered nearby bowed low, pressing clenched fist to brow in respect. The god did not speak in reply, only hand-signing,

'Stay behind me, or perish.'

Even the horse shone with power; her eyes rolling white, her nostrils flared and her mane gone spiky-erect. The god urged her forward, pointing out past the thorns with one borrowed hand. The ground rumbled beneath him, then split, creating a second barrier.

Just beyond Starloft, a giant fissure gaped in the frozen ground. Steam, ash and boiling mud jetted forth, rising hundreds of feet in the air with a noise like a troubled sea. A strong, driving wind roared to life, bringing fiery droplets of glass and hard, acid rain to hammer the creatures of darkness.

Ash, rain and mud combined on the ground, forming a heavy, cement-like morass which entombed whatever it captured. Gnolls, ghouls and vampires drowned and boiled in mud. Their flesh seared to vapor by a mixture of thundering ash and volcanic fumes; dead before they could scream.

Ashlord-as-Reston drew the half-elf's sword, which blazed now with crackling static and light. He rode through a hole in the thorn wall on Reston's wild-eyed mare and vaulted the widening gap, using the point of that upraised blade to open the sky.

Volcanic gasses and hellish heat followed after him, incinerating whatever the Sword Arm of Ashlord gazed upon. The darklings fought back, striking at Reston's body from every direction with arrows, talons and spells. Most projectiles burnt up before reaching him. Most spells were blocked, their manna absorbed by the god.

Those that hit did damage, but the wounds that they caused didn't bleed. Lightning and manna shot forth from the punctures and gashes, instead. Only, the Mother's creatures were numberless, boiling forth in a constant stream from the broken Sky Stone. There were hundreds more to replace every one the god smothered in ash, buried in mud or burnt to cinders with lightning.

On and on they came, against one who could not be killed. Who, filled with the deity, felt neither terror nor pain. At his gesture and sigil the lake boiled off to fall as a scalding rain. The ground trembled like a horse's flank, except where the Tree Shepherds pooled magic to shelter their quivering charges, and Starloft, itself.

Through it all, the god rode forward on Dancer, pressing toward the sacred grove, where a cleft in the Sky Stone vomited monsters.

Farther east, past a great coral arch at the mouth of the River Aradyne, the tolling of Starloft's war bells reached the ears of their sea-elf cousins. Scrying revealed the true, grim threat, showing not just attack, but incursion, by one they'd thought locked away for all time.

Down in their sunken and spell-domed city, the merfolk and elves saw, and they acted. Less to save Starloft than to put an end to the Mother's manifestation, by any means necessary.

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In the stone-fanged cavern, meanwhile, boosted by all of the shades at once, Lerendar took up his improvised fishing spear, stalking further away from the crevice and bridge. Behind him, the goblin mage rattled the bones on his staff and rasped out a long stream of spells. Mostly strength and defense, thought the warrior, along with a warm and nourishing light.

Being an elf, Lerendar could see, hear and smell like a hunting cat, and so he knew, sensed that the monster had come, before it lurched into the light. What shambled through the cave mouth, ducking stalactites was at least ten feet tall, its body a lumpy and broken tangle of slaughtered gnolls, with strips of spotted hide, pulsing organs and bare, twitching muscle clamped together by magic.

In its massive chest, a huge, vertical maw slowly opened and shut, dripping fluids and ringed with snapped ribs. Slowly, arhythmically, it sucked in air and blasted out raw, fetid breath. Every move sent bone-ends projecting through flesh as the golem staggered forward. But…

There was worse, and he knew it. Was prevented from seeing something else, by the shades, by Grey Fang and his own horrified, blind rejection. As far as its flayed, rolling shoulders he looked, but no higher.

Leaving moist, bloody footprints, the creature broke into a swaying run. Grey Fang shouted another spell, sending a glowing chisel to work at the golem's binding magic.

Lerendar was a warrior. He had seen elves and men die, had been pinned and half-crushed beneath a screaming, struggling horse. Had killed her himself, before the goblins and gnolls could start feeding. He did not shrink from the fight now, or freeze. The old chant,

"Oberyn, son of the morning,

Strider of night,

Shepherd of planets,

Guide weapon's flight."

…came to him, given bardic force by the shade, Prince Andorin Kalistiel. Taking aim with the sure eye of the ranger, Brondon, Lerendar wrapped one end of his sling around the spear's haft, using the strap's snapping length to increase the force of his throw.

The arcane trickster, Elmaris, caused an illusory hail of weapons to surround that hurtling missile, confusing the monster. Or… maybe the mind that had been placed in control of the golem refused to block Lerendar's cast.

At any rate, the whistling spear, flung with all of Lerendar's boosted strength, struck high, slicing at the side of… of… there was a head, now half loosened. Twisting and swinging from mage-force and ropy, grafted sinews.

Long hair, mostly steel-grey with still a few strands of red-gold spilled over the golem's chest, but Lerendar saw nothing else. Just that noisy, slurping and juddering body.

'Organs,' said Bony, in his mind. 'Use your sling, stay well out of reach and target the viscera.'

Lerendar nodded, forcing himself to stay calm. Not to see. Grey Fang's magic caused the shambling creature to rip nearly apart, being one moment a single entity and the next, a tangled mound of slain gnolls and… and somebody else that Lerendar's heart and his mind wouldn't grasp.

The elf lunged sideways, drawing the golem away from Grey Fang. Took up his sling, reaching into a faerie pocket for rocks that Tendons… Elmaris… had spelled with silvery force. Had to dash tears away from his eyes, but braced, swung hard and released.

The sling-missile whistled and cracked, striking hard at something purple and swollen that twitched like a heart on the golem's right hip. The stone thudded home with a wet, awful smack, spraying the cavern with dark, stinking fluid.

Lerendar shifted again, circling the monster, trying to keep its attention focused on him. Made a beckoning gesture with one hand, as Prince Kalistiel's bardic command voice rang forth.

"Come, nightmare. Come face a lord of the deeps given his chance at revenge!"

Meanwhile, Lerendar reached for another stone. Got it into the leather pouch and took aim, yet again.

Behind his lordship, Grey Fang pounded the end of his staff on the slick, flowstone bridge. He was in no shape to be wielding strong magic. Too old, too injured, too completely exhausted… but he crafted another attack, anyhow. The monster had been topped with High Lord Tarandahl's raggedly shorn head. It saw through his eyes and thought with his spell-fettered mind.

Already half loosened by Lerendar's spear cast, the head tilted sideways, hanging by gristle and magic. There were eye spots around the great, flaring mouth in the golem's chest, but Grey Fang seared most of those to charred holes with a volley of magic missiles. He could sense Lord Keldaran still in there, somewhere, fighting to slow, misdirect and confuse the awful corpse he'd been ordered to guide. Still trying hard to save his endangered son.

Seemed like the easiest target, so the hunched, weary goblin focused on snapping the spell that held elf-lord and creature together. In a shrill, rasping voice, he cried out the chant of Unmaking, of taking apart and returning to earth. It started to work, loosening the head even further.

Then a spasm of coughing wracked his thin frame, as the golem's shield spell flared up and struck back. Under its lash, Grey Fang's wounds reopened and deepened, leaving him nearly blind and unable to speak.

But another voice took up the chant in a strong, steady cadence, speaking Goblin like a native. Gildyr, come back at last in a swirl of dried leaves and a flash like sunlight on water.

The wood-elf caught Grey Fang before he could fall, holding his old friend upright. Would have healed him, but the wizard's shaking hand signed, 'No', pointing unsteadily at a monstrous flesh golem.

Gildyr pulled the injured goblin close with one arm, but kept up the chant of Unmaking. The elf-lord, Valerian's brother, was tiring. Slowing. Clearly finding it harder and harder to move or stay upright. Still, he was able to strike at the creature's seams, and... being a Tarandahl... wouldn't give up.

The moonster's head rolled back and forth on that broad, gore-spattered chest like a marble in a cup, held on by sorcerous power and blood-slickened threads.

Lerendar's breath misted with cold and he stumbled. The creature's chest-maw gaped wide. It uttered a roar like the popping of joints and the snapping of bones as it lunged at the faltering elf.

Gildyr could not hurry his chant or miss so much as a breath or a syllable. The Unmaking could only be said in one way. Speaking through Lerendar, though, someone else used a voice of bardic command to shout,

"Stop!"

…while something ink-dark and swift poured out of the elf-lord to form a barrier web between dripping stalagmites, somehow containg a tide. The monster reeled, staggering into that shadowy net, which seared it with grave-cold and life-drain. Not soon enough, though. Not quite.

One of its lashing, kludge-woven arms got through the webbing to strike at Lerendar, laying open the flesh of his shoulder. Skin and then muscle bubbled and blackened with poison as Lerendar crashed to the ground.

Then Pretty One pelted into the cave at a dead run, followed by Lord Valerian. Grey Fang tried to speak, to warn the child back, but she wouldn't have listened.

Val, however, reached out, seized the goblin girl's arm and tossed her back over his shoulder to safety like a cartwheeling stuffed doll. Next he raced forward, sword drawn and hand already blazing, meaning to battle that towering monster for Lerendar's life. Only, the loose-hanging head of his father rolled around on its glistening sinews to face him, sideways and slanted.

Val skidded to a halt and nearly fell, shocked momentarily nerveless. Read everything at once in Keldaran's anguished grey eyes. Saw Lerendar slump to the cave floor half-dead, while Gildyr fought to complete an ancient and powerful spell.

'Sprout,' mouthed the head. 'Save him. Save Horse and your mother.'

A terrible pressure built up inside Val. A wrath too deep for words overcame him, and he opened himself to Firelord. No protective tattoo, no invocation, no barrier. Just the god, suddenly present; too big for the vessel he burned in. Too big for the cavern; radiating heat, light and intense, crushing manna.

"Valerian, NO!" cried Gildyr, in a fruitless attempt to stop the reckless young elf-lord. Didn't work.

The ground and the rock all around them shook violently, lurching sideways. Firelord gazed upward, then, seeing through miles of stone as though it were thin, drifting mist. Val had gone white-eyed and bright, too painful to look upon.

The flesh golem saw all of this through the tilted gaze of Keldaran. It swung, lurching and swaying, to confront the newcomer; arms raised, ragged slash of a mouth blasting spittle and slivers of bone.

Gildyr came to the end of his botched chant. With a hurried gesture, the wood-elf sent the completed spell blasting outward. It struck the golem as Firelord stalked forward, lightly swinging Valerian's sword.

The interrupted chant, declaimed by two voices, formed in two minds, couldn't quite unmake the golem or free Lord Keldaran. It loosened those dead, prisoned gnolls, though, causing the monster's vicious swipe to go wide, its arm unraveling to the elbow like untarred rope as it swung.

Firelord held up a banning hand, palm outward, arresting the creature's strike. Not, strictly speaking, invoked, his time on the gameboard was limited. His moves restricted. In a voice like a forest fire, so loud and resonant that it came near to snapping the elf's vocal cords, he said to the fraying golem,

"Begone. Return whence you came, with this."

Flicked a quick string of sigils… and a void-bomb he took from the girl… at the half-dissolved monster before him. It vanished away with a noise like the tearing of space, back to its master. Only the head of Keldaran remained, lying face down on the cave floor. Next, speaking to Lerendar, the fading god said,

"Be healed," out of Valerian's scorched and abraded throat. Then he was gone, leaving the high-elf to stagger a rubbery step before collapsing.

Lerendar surged to his feet. That poisoned wound had sewn itself shut. Better yet, he tested the leg, which was freed now of splint and itching heal moss. A raised, white scar seamed his flesh, but the limb didn't hurt, and it held him. On the other hand, he couldn't sense his friends, the shades… dad's head was lying on the ground, leaking what little magic had kept it partly alive… and Short-Stuff had dropped like an emptied and rolling bottle.

Always decisive, Lerendar first rushed to the head, pulling cloth from a faerie pocket to wrap it in, then carefully spelling it into a stable and warded "important gear" slot.

Shorty. Short-Stuff would know what to do. Speaking of which, while off on the other side of the crevice, Pretty One and that sudden wood-elf cried out, Lerendar went to his fallen brother.

"Hey," he said, dropping to a crouch beside Valerian. "Rouse yourself, Halfling. Did you come all this way to fail, now?"

Gathered his brother up off the cavern floor. Again, the ground trembled, causing a rain of stalactites to crash from the cave roof. Lerendar sheltered his unconscious sibling as well as he could with his own body, cradling Val's head against his shoulder.

The boy was armored and geared for war, rather than robed like a mage. He'd taken no hurt that Lerendar could see, but remained pale and unresponsive, burnt through by Firelord. Breathing, though. Definitely that, with the eerie sheen of divine manna still lighting his form.

They rode out a series of tremors together, with the elder Tarandahl taking a few painful rock-strikes and many near misses. To the shades, as loudly as mind and heart could cry out, he called,

"My friends, come back."

Across the arched bridge, meanwhile, Gildyr huddled with Pretty and Grey Fang. Although just about wrung to his dregs like a dish cloth, the druid managed to raise up a shield, protecting them from falling rock and showering dust. The waters below hissed and sloshed at the base of that deep crevasse, stirred to life by whatever cataclysm was happening above. That was bad, but his attention centered on two helpless goblins. One a frail and elderly mage, the other a brave, scrappy girl-child, who wouldn't stay safe when others were fighting for life.

He clutched them close, keeping his flickering ward up and trying to will life and strength back into Grey Fang. Firelord, that shining god of the warrior high-elves, had scarcely noticed the old goblin, much less bothered to heal him.

When the worst of the quaking ceased, Gildyr dropped his soap-bubble ward. Released Pretty One, and then gently laid Grey Fang out on the cave floor. Used his own rolled cloak to pillow the old wizard's head, while the goblin girl frantically tore and chewed heal-moss. She smeared the paste on her grandfather's ravaged face, but it did not glow green or take root.

"Grampa… Grandpa, no! Wake up, please," she begged, adding a bone good-luck charm to her oozing smear of chewed moss. "Grampa, I can't… I ain't ready, yet. Please." Taking his hand, she started to cry, broken-hearted as any lost and abandoned three-year-old child. His bloodied hand squeezed hers, once, then fell limp once again.

Gildyr did what he could, speaking charms and blowing life-breath, but the tired old mage… his friend and second father… was gone.

"Rest, Grey Fang," whispered Gildyr, closing the goblin's eye with one hand. "Be at peace and return to the earth that raised you. I will look after the littles and see this thing through as you would have done."

As the last touch of warmth faded from Grey Fang's fragile shell, the light with which he'd filled that fanged cavern flickered and faded, plunging them all into darkness. Gildyr cried, too. He couldn't help it, but he also comforted Pretty One, joining her in doing what was needful.

Two items… a spell scroll and damaged amulet… clattered from Grey Fang's charmed cloak pocket, evidently meant for Gildyr or somebody else. He put them away, then used power he couldn't spare to scoop out a grave in sheer rock, powdering half of the stone he removed into dirt; inviting worms, roots and spores to the last, cleansing feast.

Pretty One took her grandfather's staff, his pouch and the Old Lady's relic bone. Gildyr then helped her to choose the right relic from Grey Fang, a rounded chunk of vertebra. It rose from the body without cutting flesh, into Pretty One's hands. She then took a bite from his shoulder, looking to Gildyr to join her in honoring the old mage.

He did not actually eat, but went through the form and motions for Pretty One's sake. Then, with everything done that was proper and needful, Gildyr piled powdered rock over Grey Fang.

"Be free," he said, heavy-hearted and tortured with guilt. "Return to the cycle of life and decay, coming back to those who remember and mourn you, Grey Fang, if you choose to."

One final spasm shook the ground and then all was still. Gildyr placed a hand on Pretty One's bowed, burdened shoulder, then started with her across the arched bridge, to where Lerendar had sparked a small fire.