Sword and Sorcery, a Novel

32

As for the show, back at the high-elf encampment, that began well enough. Once the sky had faded from turquoise to violet and gold, once cookfires and torches lit up throughout camp like cheerful red stars, Cap'n pulled a reed pipe from his vest. Next, with an ear-piercing screech, the monkey raced up a glow-pole to perch at its top. Made a great show of bowing in every direction before playing the short, four-note fanfare with which any show started, anywhere in Karandun.

From hinterland puppetry to Karellon masked drama, one had only to hear 'Dah-dah-dun-DAH' to know that entertainment was offered. Hearing that fanfare, one felt in one's pockets or purse for a coin, looking about for wagons, show-tent or stage.

…And high-elves were no less susceptible than anyone else to the lure of escape and excitement (if very rigid about what they'd accept). So Cap'n blew the fanfare, causing folk to first look, then drift over. Once a small crowd had gathered, he shifted into an off-kilter but sprightly tune: Drunk Dance. Everyone knew it, and nearly everyone smiled. Half-elven children clapped along, shouting "Oh, my head!" at the appropriate points in the melody.

Everyone laughed when Salem came reeling out of a prop door, over which they had hung a hand-lettered tavern sign. 'The Speckled Sow', it read, over the sketch of a drunken, hiccuping pig. That in itself set the tone, as the Speckled Sow was famously the starting point of every comic, impossible, bound-to-go-wrong quest tale, ever.

Using what bits and bobs the elves hadn't confiscated, Salem had transformed herself into the Sultry Wench. Her dance was a thing of hilarious beauty, as she seemed always about to fall on her face or reel into the growing crowd, teetering along to the tune's bouncy rhythm.

Tremendously athletic and graceful, the Tabaxi stagger-danced onto another part of the scene, where Mirielle, dressed as the Grumpy Shopkeeper, was pretending to mop a floor. Her mop was really a broom, but the crowd understood, and saw what was meant.

Salem pirouetted and leapt, kicking her legs and waving both arms. At just the right moment, when everyone's expectations were highest, she knocked over Mirielle's bucket, sending bits of torn paper and cloth flying onto the floor.

The Grumpy Shopkeeper was young, but made up to seem older; padded front and back with cushions for stoutness. Pantomiming wrath (as she'd seen so often from Hilt) she picked up her bucket and flung the rest of its torn paper contents at Salem, who staggered back as though thoroughly wetted.

Next, the Shopkeeper took up her mop and gave chase to the Sultry Wench, comically flailing and bashing; knocking things over, creating still more of a mess. A swiftly tugged cord freed the hen, who fluttered down, squawking, into mid-chase, adding confusion and humor. Salem did most of the actual work, covering Mirielle's inexperience with her antics, making any mistakes seem intentional.

Cap'n played faster and faster, meanwhile, switching tunes from 'Drunk Dance' to 'Folly Run'. Then, at just the right moment, he fell crashingly silent as, in broad, can't-miss-it acting, Mirielle stepped onto Salem's tail. Now, Cap'n switched to 'Steam Kettle Explosion', which lasted 1-2-3-4-5. Everyone counted along to its rhythm (even the elves).

Salem's fur stood straight out. Her gold-banded tail rose and expanded. Her pupils grew so large that the shine almost vanished from her wide eyes. Then, the chase was reversed, with the Tabaxi performing her best fighting-monk dance moves as she bounded and lunged after that poor, stout, struggling Shopkeeper.

Everything was rigged, of course, to set itself upright and fly back together (except for the pie, which the hen was now happily pecking at). At the end of it all, nearly everything was back where it started, and Mirielle yanked at a bag in her sleeve, causing more torn-paper 'water' to fill up her bucket. The music stopped with a merry trill, leaving Tabaxi and half-drow panting, holding hands, to bow for their audience.

Well, high-elves did not applaud or call out. That wasn't their way. Too crass. They did, however, fling a generous rainstorm of coins on the stage. And if young Lord Valerian, there with Kalisandra and Reston, happened to scuff out part of the mage-circle… who noticed, in all of the fun?

Cap'n scampered about, collecting more money. At one point, landing on Salem's shoulder, the monkey whispered,

"We keeps th' lass. She be a natural."

This other Val, who was only somewhat Mrowr, came to her next, bowed and said,

"Milady, I fear that there has been a dreadful misunderstanding. If you will follow me, I shall convey you to quarters more befitting one of your rank and station."

Salem studied the high-elf's almost familiar face. Took in his nearly-right scent.

"Where is he?" she demanded.

"Gone," said this-Valerian, quietly. "He rides north on my horse. To Starloft, where he has asked me to bid you join him. There are mounts and provisions prepared."

"I do not ride," growled the Tabaxi. "Your beasts will not bear me. At home, we use the great lizards. Yet, I am swift. Provide a mount for the Kitten, and a pack animal, and we shall away to join Mrowr. Great thanks for your aid, elf-lord."

"We need friends," said Val, speaking as both of them. "And you have not once turned away. Our… his… situation is bleak, though, and dangerous. We will most likely attempt to send you away, should your life be imperiled."

"Won't work," stated Mirielle, from around behind Salem. "We'll just keep coming back. And he promised!"

Kalisandra had been quiet and still. Now she gave Mirielle a sheathed dagger; handing the weapon over with obvious difficulty.

"This is Icicle," she said, closing Mirielle's hands upon the knife with her own. "I pass it on, together with Frost Maiden's blessing. May she smile upon you as she once did on me."

Valerian placed an arm around Kalisandra, who had given up something terribly precious in this plane, to gain what mattered still more. Himself.

In Mirielle's hands the dagger grew cold and developed a faint, blue-white glitter.

"See? The goddess accepts you," whispered the ranger, her voice catching slightly.

Val drew her closer, kissing the top of her head and murmuring words meant for nobody else but his woman.

Said Reston to Salem, providing some cover,

"Here is a writ of safe passage, Milady. Wherever you venture in Arvendahl or Tarandahl lands, doors and hands will be open. However… erm…"

"Do not try to steal from your hosts," finished Val, pitching in for his floundering uncle. "You're not that good, and no one's that stupid."

They departed shortly thereafter, hard on the trail of ex-planar Valerian; moving like tails were on fire and whiskers were singed.

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Gildyr ranged northward with Karus, meanwhile, from a general sense that his elf-lord friend would be drawn to Starloft, in this plane or any. He traveled mostly in wild shape, as whatever would best suit the need; being sometimes a stag beside Karus, sometimes a free-wheeling, sharp-eyed hawk and sometimes a silvery trout (but never where His Lordship might loose an arrow.)

The wood-elf hurried, without seeming to do so. Grey Fang… all of the unchanged goblins… depended on him. On Gildyr hung all of their hope for freedom and peace. For release from the ravening gnoll-curse. Pressed to the edge, between mountain and flame, they had done something awful.

"I do not excuse me folk," said Grey Fang, when Gildyr had answered his summons, that day. "They was desperate. So near the end we could count our numbers on the hands of a few… but there weren't no call ter reopen the curse rift. Goin' gnoll ain't no kind of answer. Not really. Tis exchangin' one death fer another, pretendin' that choice somehow makes it all better."

Gnolls.

They'd performed the dark rites; pouring entrails and blood onto a sigil inscribed on the floor of a deep, hidden cave; one blocked off with rubble and stones for time out of mind.

The victim had to be innocent, young, and an enemy species. Grey Fang had not told him what or who the war-priests had chosen… but blood had been spilt on the ancient sigil, wetting a long-parched throat.

"She came at their call," Grey Fang had told him, looking troubled and grim; gnarled hands wringing and washing each other repeatedly. "Just like all them old legends said. The Mother came from 'er realm an' gave 'em the power ter fight off even a high-elf… by givin' in ter 'er darkness. There ain't no more time fer treaty or talk, Lad. The gnoll faction grows with each goblin death, and they're 'ungry fer terror an' blood."

There was worse, though.

"They've already kilt 'is Lordship an' taken the heir. Not cause they wanted 'im… gnolls ain't that patient. 'Cause 'is sire's last-magic kept 'im from further 'arm. Junior's a captive. We knows where 'ee is… an' th' elven stronghold 'll soon be under attack. I've told it all, Lad, trustin' ye'll 'elp an old grump set things right. She must be stopped, an' our people freed o' the gnoll curse. Strike me down if ye think I be lyin'... I'll not fight ye, Lad… but these old 'ands brought ye safely from danger an' back ter th' light o' yer people. This old carcass 'asn't much fight left in it, maybe… but, with 'elp, enough ter drive off the Mother, once more. I place meself an' me folk in yer 'ands, Gildyr. We've nowheres else ter turn."

What remained of the goblin mage's family… Pretty One, Twitchy, Snaggle, Black Gut, squinty and Dog-bait… looked up at their wood-elf friend hopefully, trusting he'd make it all better.

And, somehow, he had to. Right now, it all depended on Val, Lord Tarandahl, Warden of the North. If Gildyr could explain the situation, make the young high-elf listen… offer him knowledge of Lerendar, maybe… then the curse could be dealt with and lasting peace forged.

Gildyr had to believe that, even though Arondyr had thought him a fool. Sitting by the fire, that last night together, the former paladin had said,

"You mean well, boy, but you're stupid and overly trusting."

Poking at the flames with a branch, Arondyr went on to say,

"I have little direct experience with your Valerian… but a high-elf he is and remains. No more able to bend or shift course than a crashing boulder. He will react with rage and with pride." Then, truthfully, pulling a rueful face, "I would have, before."

Astrea lifted her noble head, thumping her tail once or twice in the leaf litter, sending some warm, private thought.

"But all that is over, for me," continued Arondyr, caressing the wolf's velvet ears. "I am forsworn, and no longer possessed by my god or his wrath. You are not Cubby, but I wish you well, and say to you now what I would say to him, which is: beware the arrogant rage of a high-elf who feels himself betrayed and beset. He will slaughter you and your goblins, not pausing to so much as shake off the blood."

Gildyr scrunched his knees up tight to his chest, slowly shaking his head.

"You don't know him as I've come to, Arondyr. He can be reasoned with. You turned from the path of hatred, and so may Valerian. I just have to show him Grey Fang and the littles… explain what has happened. Tell him of Lerendar. My plan will work."

Arondyr sighed, then reached into a faerie pocket and pulled something forth. Not food or wine, this time, but a small, ornate hand mirror.

"As you will," he said, not wishing to argue the matter. "Moving on, I wanted to give this to you. It is a scry-glass. Gran got it for me, when first I set out on patrol, so that we could always see each other. Then you… Cubby, that is… got killed by a manticore, driven into our lands by a Starloft hunting party… and Gran fell into mourning. For cycles on cycles, there was nothing there but grey mist, call and wish however I might. So… all that is past. Only to say that, now you've come to us, the mirror is active again. But… it is you she needs. Not me. It has never been me."

Shaking his head, Arondyr tossed the scry-glass to Gildyr, so-very-nearly his lost little brother.

"Take it, please, and speak with her often. It will make this second loss easier to bear."

Gildyr took the small mirror, which showed… not his own reflection, but the inside of their home tree, with Gran bustling about getting supper. He looked up at Arondyr's expressionless face. At those no-longer-gold eyes, those angular features deflated of pride. Gently, Gildyr said,

"She loves you, Arondyr. They all do. Twas only grief pushed everything else from their hearts. But, I will take the glass and use it, with thanks. If… if you don't mind… I would speak with you, as well. My Arondyr is… well…"

"A bit of a flaming orifice?" Arnodyr suggested, beginning to smile. Then, "Yes, Cubby. I would very much like that."

They'd parted as friends, with Gildyr still clinging to faith in his plan, while Arondyr went off to find… something. Someone to fill up the void left behind by the loss of his god. And, now?

"I can make this work," Gildyr promised himself, as he wild-shaped and tree-ported north. "Old Oak, Old Oak, give me all the right words. Make me convincing. Help me to reach a proud, broken heart."

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And somewhen, somewhere else, Lerendar plotted escape. Once he'd healed enough to lean on a crutch made of crawler spine, the wounded high-elf took a flying long chance that had almost no hope of succeeding.

Prayed, first; lighting a fire with tinder and flint, invoking the family god.

"Firelord, lover of battle, who hardens steel and the hearts of his people… for the love you bear to my family, hear me, Ancestor. Valerian comes to this place, meaning to help me. He is more yours than I've ever been, but I promise… everything. My life, my pride, my hope of succession… just let me get out in time to warn him and Starloft. I ask only this: let me get out of this cell, My Lord. Tip the odds in my favor, Shining One, and I will ask no more, forever. Not for me… for those who shelter behind me. Please hear me, My Lord."

Might have been only a stray, errant breeze from a rolling-past side tunnel, but that small, crackling fire flared up momentarily. Lerendar chose to take that as: Yes.

No invoked flame could be left to die out, unattended and starving for fuel. Carefully, saying all the right things, Lerendar doused the holy flame with previous ashes, bringing the god's other self into being.

He did not follow Ashlord… that was Reston's unique confusion… but also, he wasn't a fool. Fire and Ash were but parts of the same mighty lord, consort of Lady Flame. So…

"Winter and nightfall and well-crafted strike, bringer of future life and prosperity, I greet you."

Nestled in ashes, the embers glowed briefly. A very good sign.

"I have more than usual need for stealth and secrecy, Silent One. Bless me with both, now, I pray."

That seen to, he banked the fire completely; taking one ember for future use. Then, feeling he'd accomplished something, Lerendar acted.

His rumbling, spherical cell had just about reached its intersection with Bony's. Lerendar limped into position, leaning heavily on that long, polished spine. Panting hard, too, because everything hurt and every move was a battle.

His faerie pockets were jammed with oddments and hoarded food; anything he'd thought might prove useful. What made him laugh; so many arrows, but not one wretched bow. Not even a twisted-sinew and bent-branch first effort. What need had Lord Lerendar, leader of battles, for trash he'd have killed for, now?

Right. So… the prison cells came together, growing suddenly near twice as large. Lerendar hobbled over to the new far wall, where Bony lay in several parts; draped in moldering cloth and rust-pocked armor, still chained to the floor.

It was so very hard to lever himself to a seated position, one leg outstretched, beside Bony, but Lerendar did it.

"My friend," he gasped, placing a hand on the nearest, rat-nibbled bone. "Today, we escape or I die here, beside you. Tug the line with whomever you worship. Need all the help we can get."

Held to that bone and the magic that locked it in place in this prison, saying,

"Let the binding runes cover me. Just, please, let this work."

Now the cells began rolling apart once again, trapping Lerendar in their increasingly narrow intersection. He was a betting man; would wager on anything… and he knew that the odds were against him. That he was likely to end up swept back into his own prison, or smeared like a bug on one of the walls, but it was all he could think of. The only (maybe) way out.

Lerendar watched as the space became ever smaller. Only at the last moment shutting his eyes before on-rushing stone. And…

…and he was still in Bony's cell, feeling the tingle of binding-magic sift entirely through him. Lerendar whooped aloud, shaking Bony's arm. (Tearing it loose, actually.)

"Victory!" He shouted. "For Oberyn and the dawn, my friend! We have found our way out!"

Needing to focus on staying unseen, where before he'd have fought his way clear, the scruffy blond high-elf could not linger, nor carry off Bony's remains.

Instead, he addressed his dead friend, saying,

"I see here and honor a warrior, fallen defending the light. If there is aught you would have me deliver, anything you want me to take from this place, I stand ready, friend Bony."

Not worded precisely, but then a faint greenish flicker appeared in that loose-jawed skull. A faerie pocket sagged open just over the skeleton's chest. Lerendar, who could move at a thought (except for that broken leg) reflexively caught the item that dropped from it.

Found himself holding a golden ring of ancient design, with a much-rubbed crest at its flattened top; the Kalistiel sea serpent, coiled around a blue gem. Lerendar bowed from the waist, with difficulty.

"Son of the currents and thundering surf, I shall see that this treasure of your house is returned to your people. Rest, Sailor, and give me water's blessing of always finding a path."

Had still Legless and Tendons to visit and do the same for, scurry-for-safety be three-times-accursed. He was a Tarandahl, and that meant heroic, ridiculous faith to a vow. "Stubborn" did not begin to describe them.

From Tendons, Lerendar received a picture stone, spelled to display a laughing young she-elf. Thinking of Beatriz, Lerendar promised that this, too, would find its way home.

Legless had nothing to give but a faint, last-magic blessing. From a man who'd had no one, whom nobody mourned, Lerendar received stillness and silence. Blending-in-background, so long as he didn't move. More suited to a trembling fawn than a warrior… but very much welcome in this awful place.

"May your spirits stay with me," he invited all three. "May we step into sunshine together."

And then it was time to get moving. The spell-scroll map that he'd found in a corridor had gotten here, somehow. Brought by someone who'd meant to break into this tangle of burrows and get away, clean. It was someplace to start, at least, provided he could find the stable intersection marked: fountain.

Question was, Firelit Corridor, or dim, Dusty Crevice? This cell, like all of the rest, passed by both options, along with the Pit and the Spider-Cleft.

Lerendar pondered a moment, then pulled a lucky coin from his heart-nearest faerie pocket. Halfling… Zara… had got it for him at Serrio's fair, claiming that Pappa was safe, now, forever.

"Heads, Firelit Corridor," he announced aloud. "Tails, the Crevice."

Then he thumb-flipped and caught the cheap fairing, which had Serrio's image on one side and "guaranteed luck" stamped on the other. Caught the coin in midair with almost his usual flourish, then opened his hand to find…

"Crevice it is. Wary and quiet we go then, my friends, abjuring battle for stealth. Onward."

Hoping that a child's simple faith was armor enough, Lerendar waited his moment, till cell and dim crevice aligned, then lunged through the gap and out into darkness, just barely not getting sliced. Did lose half of his crutch, but, hey... you couldn't have everything.