Sword and Sorcery, a Novel

26

He crouched, huddled and bleeding, wracked with pain that exploded afresh with each twitch or scrabbling shift in position. His cell was a bubble that drifted and flexed; seeming to grind through the stony bowels of a mountain, one of the nearer Talons, probably. Its near-constant motion made rest, lying down, all but impossible.

Sometimes his wandering prison intersected another one, growing briefly larger as some withered corpse or dusty skeleton shared his confinement a while. There was a reliable pattern to these meetings, he discovered; allowing him to predict when he would next see Tendons, Bony and Legless, or glimpse the sliver of lighted corridor through which he wasn't quick enough to crawl.

They always drifted apart again, but once Lerendar had been able to seize the hilt of a broken dagger. Its blade had been snapped short diagonally, leaving a thin splinter of metal projecting like a stylus or thief's tool. Useful… were he the sort to profit from broken locks and opened chests.

Someone else had possibly used the dagger in just that way, and so Lerendar made up his mind that his fellow prisoner… former prisoner… had succeeded. That he'd left this blade-key behind to aid the next wretched captive.

In a situation like this, one had to believe something; that the dried meat, greyish bread and barely alcoholic spittle-wine would keep coming. That every so often the magic would ebb, causing his cell to pause its drift for a few candlemark's time. That, somehow, he'd find a way out of this.

A newly-gained knife should be properly blooded. If taken in battle, on the corpse of a worthy foe. If purchased or found, at its intended task.

Well, there was no fresh meat here to carve. No foemen to slash, and no prey to gut, but blood there was in plenty. Mostly Raya's and his own, from that shattered, projecting bone.

Raya… his horse… he'd had to kill her, slashing the mare's throat with a final, desperate dagger-thrust, before they could eat her alive. Then, Dad's last magic had exploded away from Keldaran's body, because… sometimes… love was stronger than hate.

The spell had reverberated outward, placing a blessing and shield over Lerendar that could not be pierced or removed. And they'd tried. The vermin had made it their work, all that terrible, freezing long day.

He could no longer walk, and was no threat at all. Soiled, bloodied and broken by Raya's weight and her flailing limbs, Lerendar ob Keldaran would fight no more, this battle. Maybe not ever, again. But still, he presented a problem. Less hostage than pain in the mangy fundament.

Shielded by last-magic, Lerendar was safe from further attack. Their snapping teeth could not reach him. Their arrows and blades turned aside or fell short.

The frustrated goblins might have just left him to die there of blood loss and shock, only… Something else, something other had scuttled up; its cry a hideous alien chuckle. Its eyes glowing corpse-fire green.

No warrior, but a necrotic mage, and no goblin, at all. Gnoll, he'd thought. Hulking and hairy, dressed in patched, mismatched hides and shriveled bits of its fallen enemies, dad's head bound atop its flat skull like a helmet.

Lerendar should have called out a challenge, should have attempted to battle the cackling warlock. Instead, he'd vomited blood and lost consciousness, thinking last of his woman and child.

And now, sometime later, here he found himself. Imprisoned, because they couldn't quite kill him. Too crippled to fight, too clumsy and slow to escape, having not earned the family sword. Yet, all was not totally spiked.

He had felt Shorty's vow. And, while his little brother was no warrior, Val was a Tarandahl, still. He was coming for Lerendar, the vow as firm as a handclasp across the long distance between them.

"I will meet you halfway or die like a man, Short-stuff," he vowed in return. Just needed a chance. A trick. Something extra to go his way.

But, as Reston Horsemaster would put it, sometimes a man makes his own luck.

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A squadron of wood-elf archers was on its way, Gildyr knew, but the high-elves would get there, first; finding two Valerians wounded, a lot of milling captives and only Arondyr to blame, for the drow mage had vanished.

Though not swift to anger (usually) high-elves were prideful. Dangerous, implacable foes who would spit their last breath and heart's blood as a curse, and never, ever, let go of a slight. As that silvery hunting horn sounded once more, Gildyr seized his near-brother's arm.

"We must go, Arondyr," he urged. "Until my comrade is back on his feet and able to explain things to his people."

Arondyr, paladin no longer, was still seated on the cold ground, embracing his restored heart-friend.

"Not much to explain," he mused. "I meant to kill both of him, and may just have done it."

Although Hilt and Mirielle were hard at work with tincture, essence and herbs, the puddled blood beneath Val kept on spreading. Gildyr inscribed a hasty sigil, whispering,

"Life of the forest… of leaf and reed… of furred, feathered and scaled ones… lend strength and breath. Hold off the darkness, I pray thee. Take my word, please, that this one has earned one more chance."

Then, unable to wait any longer, (for a circle of horse-mounted elves was quite able to nullify any escape magics) Gildyr took firmer hold of Arondyr and then said, "Away."

He and his almost brother vanished like two flakes of snow on hot stone, leaving a swirl of leaves in their wake. Karus and Astrea popped out of existence, as well, drawn to the Homewood like scraps of paper to polished amber.

Lord Galadin's party charged up a half-heartbeat later; horn blaring, hooves thudding, mounts screaming; the Tarandahl griffin banner unfurled above them, borne on a magical wind.

Galadin vaulted from the saddle, landing lightly on pocked and frost-covered ground. Sensed the only-just-vanished druid, and uttered a curse. Then,

"Healer!" he snapped, linking the fates of victims and surgeon with a harsh spell. "To your work."

She bowed deeply in reply, but High Lord Tarandahl had already moved on. Rounding upon Hilt and the half-drow child, one gauntleted hand at the hilt of his family's blade, the tall, white haired elf snapped,

"Explain."

The dwarf stood away from her erstwhile patient; feet braced apart, holding an emptied bottle of life essence, gazing stonily up at Lord Tarandahl. Clearing her throat, she said,

"We be few and scattered now, Milord. Tolerated at the fringes, where once we was mighty… but we acknowledge a noble deed done, and honor its doer. 'Is Lordship answered the war bells when no one else would, rangin' from far off ter do so. 'Ee come ter the aid o' Snowmont with naught but this 'ere girl, meself and the cat. I name him friend o' the stone-folk, now an' forever more, and I look forward someday ter toastin' his health under a proper cave roof. That be th' long and short of it, Yer Lordship. As ter why there be two of 'em… I can't say fer sure, but I expect that 'ee'll tell yer hisself, once he's been 'ealed."

To Hilt's tremendous surprise, Lord Galadin inclined his head in a very slight bow.

"Well spoken, Good Dwarf. Go, take your people and settle them. My folk will bring food and comfort, anon. As you say, once the boys have awakened, all will be made clear."

Hilt felt much of the tension run out of her small, stocky body. Felt mum's hand on her shoulder, and Dirk brushing close. Found. Saved. Both of them. Unashamed of herself, she buried her face in her hands and started to cry.

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Gildyr spent some time rooted, allowing his magically grafted dryad limb… bull spruce, as it happened… to link with the forest. Gran came by every day, pouring water and murmuring charms, using kitchen scraps as fertilizer.

It was always so peaceful to take root and just be; facing the wind and sun at one end, sinking deep into loamy soil at the other. Losing all but the thinnest pale thread of himself to being a tree. His thoughts slowed beyond candle-marks, to the eternal cycle of seasons and years.

In this way he rested, but also gained news. War bells meant nothing at all to a forest, but the passing of armies shook the ground in which roots quested and burrowed. Here, there was bark-worm. There, a lightning-struck fire released many seeds. Further south, a great felling of trees and planting of crops disrupted the natural cycle.

Gildyr-tree spread himself, driving roots downward and west, until one probing tendril blundered into a very familiar place. A good and safe one. Having reached this below-ground other home, the druid retracted the rest of himself, converting to elf-form at the end of that root.

Dropped into a smallish, roughly-hewn chamber, furnished with wood and carved stone. Unlike most goblin dwellings, this one did not drift. Just rotated slowly in place, its lone window flashing night sky or sunshine, every few candle-marks.

A woven rug covered part of the stony ground. There was a wooden bench pushed up against one curving wall. On it, looking startled, sat Grey Fang. Or, at least, this plane's version of the old goblin wizard.

"What's this?" cried Grey Fang, whose vision and hearing had faded somewhat, at the advanced age of sixty-two years. "Who's there? Pretty One, let's 'ave some more light!"

His three-year-old granddaughter pattered up from the workroom, looking harassed. Just like Gildyr's version, this Pretty had a fawn-spotted brown mane and eyes that bulged only slightly, their shade changing with mood… but normally red. Where Grey Fang was paunchy and bow-legged, Pretty was… well… less so.

"Grampaw," she fretted, "them mushrooms 'll never get sorted if ye don't let me… 'Ere, what's this? 'Oo 're you?"

Gildyr held up a blessing hand, palm outward.

"Peace," he intoned. "Joy to this house, and all those who…"

"Yeah, right. Stuff yer peace up yer bunghole, druid. What're ye doin' in Grampaw's room? Murder an' theft, most like!"

Even in this place, no goblin trusted an elf. Her brothers, Twitchy and Snaggle, came tumbling in moments later, manifestly not pretty at all.

"What's that?" snapped Grey Fang, squinting at his dimly perceived visitor. "Why's everyone mumblin' and skulkin' in shadow? Come out where I c'n see you better, if yer errand be peaceful."

Gildyr sighed. Of course, they did not know him. In this plane, his analogue had died in that glade. There had been no one for Grey Fang to rescue. Still, there was some task to perform, some quest to resolve here, before he could find his way home. Shavonne had told him so.

Obediently, the druid approached that elderly goblin, who was almost a second father, elsewhere. The ceiling was low, so Gildyr was already bowing, but he added a flourish and pulled back his antlered hood in respect.

"Honored Grey Fang, chief mage of the deeps, I am…"

"Eh? Speak up! What d'ya want ter mutter fer? Youth, these days. No respect an' no lungs on 'em. Back in my day, we knew how ter bellow!" barked the old goblin, shaking a staff carved of yew and topped with a rat skull. It clattered and chimed when he brandished it, being hung all about with charms and bits of badly-gnawed bone. This Grey Fang seemed older, more frail, than his own, Gildyr noticed. Wisps of white head-hair waved like antennae as Grey Fang peered at his guest.

"Oh. An elfling, is it? After a mating charm? Got plenty o' those, guaranteed ter produce a full, squallin' litter o' kitts. Yer tree 'll be burstin' with young 'uns in no time."

Gildyr stifled a laugh, planting his bottom on the sawn tree-ring that Twitchy hauled out for him.

"Thank you," he said, accepting candied batwing and a clay cup of mouf wien from Pretty. "I'm not in the market for mating charms, right now, but I will gladly accept one for later use. Is three silver enough?"

(Because Grey Fang always softened up after making a sale.)

"Meh," sniffed the old goblin. "We had real custom, back in the old days. A mage could grow fat an' sleek, sellin' mate-charms, alone."

He bit at the coins to test their purity. Then, satisfied, dropped them tinkling into his mole-skin pouch.

"What else c'n I do ye fer, Elfling," he asked.

Gildyr spread his hands. He'd had some idea of reviewing the plan. Of sharing his thoughts about Lord Valerian, but there was no battle twixt high-elves and goblins, here. There was no one he needed to seize and convince.

"I, um… just stopped in for some glow-wort and knot-weed. I am told that your stock is the best," he said. "Also, heal moss and heart's ease. You can't be too careful, these days."

(And he might still have to heal Val.)

Twitchy and Snaggle stared at him, clearly fascinated by the wood-elf's size and strange magic. They were younger than Pretty One, but goblins lived very short lives in any case, especially the males.

"Do ye run about in th' day all th' time?" Snaggle asked him, prodded by his whispering brother. "Do not th' 'awks an' th' 'ounds try ter snatch ye?"

"Out in the dayshine, bold as you please," Gildyr assured them, smiling. "Out there as everyone can be, once peace is declared, and Lord Valerian brought around to the truth. I am sure, once he has his brother back, that his lordship will perceive the rightness of our cause."

"Eh, what?" demanded Grey Fang, bulging one eye and squinting the other. "Valerian? Ya mean Sparks? All 'ee concerns 'imself with is dicin' an' cards. Yer better off dealin' with Grim Beard," warned Grey Fang. "Short temper, but mostly decent. An' mark ye stir yer diggins' well away from Butcher. Whatever yer wantin', ye'll not get from 'im. More likely a firebolt up the rear 'atch, with plenty o' lightning ter follow."

By this time, Pretty had bundled and wrapped Gildyr's purchase. From courtesy, and because it felt good to be among friends (even near-planar ones) Gildyr stayed long enough to finish his batwing and mouf wien. Even had seconds.

Then it was time to go. Events were still wheeling along, somewhere else, and he couldn't guarantee that the gnolls wouldn't find some way to finish off Lerendar.

Peace. Worth whatever the cost, even if it meant lying to Val, or allowing the high-elf's wounded brother to remain in captivity, just a bit longer. There was a plan in place. It was good. It would work. Gildyr sensed it. Would not let anything shake his belief.

"Old oak, Old oak," whispered the druid, as Gran had done. "Stop them from fighting. Bring peace."

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