Sword and Sorcery, a Novel

40

Facing his own troubles, Valerian had reached the top of that altered and mutating staircase. Had finally climbed to the lofty main landing. Beyond, glowing in lightning flash and brief, golden patches of sunshine, towered the cloud giant citadel. Its massive structures towered purple-dark and pearl white, haloed in brilliant aurorae.

Beautiful. Titanic and ancient. Almost too much for eyes, brain and heart to take in. Better yet, streaming with legible magic. Just seeing all that branded him inside with power, showing the elf two separate transport disks. One, nearer, apparently meant for travel within the cloud giant citadel. The other, further back at the end of a miles-long plaza, intended for sending one pretty much anywhere.

A three dimensional map of the stronghold appeared before Val, expanding, rotating and then sizing itself to suit him, with points of interest and comfort highlighted in gold and briefly described. Only two living inhabitants, he noted with relief; both of them seeming to be at mage-rest. Locked out of time and decay by sorcerous might. "Your basic Sleeping-beauty spell," as Murchison would have put it.

No business of Valerian's. He was here on no fairy tale quest for riches or power or love. Just… wanted out. Wanted safely back home, with whole, unpierced hide and companions.

The landing fairly bristled with traps, pits and snares. No one knew better than Frost Maiden, the tricks of a hunter. (Except maybe Hyrenn, Lord Winter.)

Thanks to mage-trace and map, Val could see the possessed Tabaxi, waiting for him by some sort of magical fountain. No doubt, she could sense him, as well. Of Kalisandra, there was no sign… but that was surely the point of a ranger.

With only two strikes remaining, Valerian did not trust himself to that quiet, unpeopled landing. Instead of risking traversal, he formed another simulacrum, giving it just enough of his essence to make it move, look and act like the second son of Keldaran, down to the life and breath. It smiled and saluted him, then started forward, keeping to crevice and shadow, and…

… the landing dropped, folded and slammed violently shut like a colossal book crushing a bug in its pages. He… part of him… was suddenly smashed to fluid and bits. Died between one magical breath and another, bringing Frost Maiden's score to one and a half.

Her silvery, mocking laughter still rang through the air when the high-elf recovered enough to try something different. Reversing gravity on himself with an emergency spell, he dropped to the underside of the landing, then sprinted along its nubby, convoluted surface. That shut her up, for a while, at least.

Val was making best speed, applying court-ball style temporal evasion tactics; patchwork landscape for heavens, roiling vapor for ground. Was just about ready to cancel the gravity spell and swing himself topside again, where that helpful map said the landing ended. Then,

"You flee like a deer before hunters, boy. Be, then, what you seem," hissed the goddess, in a voice like a wintery storm. And, unbidden, unwanted, he changed.

Was transformed into a newly born, long legged fawn. The unexpected polymorph hit hard, as his size, shape and mass altered in moments; bones, joints and muscles flowing like wet clay in somebody's powerful hands. His perspective and senses jumped, too, becoming alarmingly sharper and nearer the cloudy ground. Not so much painful as deeply confusing. Being pulled inside out and reshaped like a pair of rolled socks.

Behind him, Valerian heard the blast of a horn. Heard thundering hooves and deep, phantom baying. His deer's heart pounded wildly. His breath rasped and his newly-mobile ears flicked this way and that. He would have run, bolting from cover and fleeing that conjured wild hunt, only…

Only, he couldn't. Maybe the spiteful goddess had expected her spell to force him into the role of terrified quarry, but she was no more successful at truly transforming Valerian than he'd ever managed, himself.

Deer shape, yes. Deer skills, deer ability to run fleetly on four graceful legs? Not at all. His mind and reflexes stayed Val, and the best he could do was to wobble like a newborn colt. There were some tricks left to pull, though, and Val tried them all.

Another simulacrum, this one deer-shaped, was formed with hoof-scrape and mage-bleat. The shadow fawn glittered to life before him, flicked its white tail once and then bounded off like a true son of the forest, suddenly haloed by druid magic from somewhere nearby.

The wild hunt, that troop of doomed, driven horsemen, roared past Valerian's hiding place, which Karus and Gildyr warded together; their magic a shield.

Val ducked his slim head on its flexible neck, for to make eye contact with rider, steed, hound or fleeing prey was the worst omen possible, presaging utter disaster. The deathless hunters were bound by Titania's power to ride without ceasing, ever chasing the quarry that fey-lord or god put before them. Never to rest, until freed by Oberyn's call.

On foaming, bloody-mouthed steeds, following a pack of rabid and fear-maddened hounds, they thundered after that perfectly agile new fawn. Over the tip-tilted cloudscape, across the sky and away.

Valerian hadn't realized that it was possible for the temperature to drop any lower, but only Firelord's intervention kept him alive, now. Trapped in deer form, he wobbled up onto four spindly, self-willed long legs, made it back topside and reset his gravity.

Not even Murchison had been able to fix his problem with staying himself, staying Val, no matter the shape he took on.

"Yikes," the wizard had said (or something equally meaningless) after another failed transformation. "Oh… and I cannot emphasize this strongly enough… crap. This is a problem, My Lord. A genuine, crippling handicap."

Truly, as he'd just had to save a drowning fish from the rainwater cistern, out in back of the shop. Chafing, warm drink and magic had helped to revive the young high-elf, who'd neglected to pre-set an escape spell. Miserably, gaze focused on his cup of hot day brew, the lordling could only say,

"I am Valerian Tarandahl ad Keldaran, of Ilirian, second heir. Of Karellon, fairly useless apprentice mage. I cannot be other than that, Wizard." Not even to save his own life.

In the here and now, with the hunt score at Valerian: two, Frost Maiden, one and a half, he had to do something clever. Think, as Murchison would put it, outside of the paper container. Push the wrapping. In other words, do something stupid and bold.

Right. Taking an enormous chance on a buck-wild, reckless idea, he hoof-scraped and bleated forth a new, Valerian shaped simulacrum. Pushed so much of his life essence into the fake, that the fawn collapsed to the pearly ground, hardly breathing.

It was a cute little thing, seen from outside… and utterly helpless. Tan, with white spots and huge, long-lashed eyes. Seeing himself in both forms at once, Valerian struggled to keep his consciousness in the simulacrum. Inhabiting a magical construct felt like walking backward or breathing water with the spring stone in his mouth. He could do it. It just didn't feel right. Took real concentration to maintain.

Needing to leave in a hurry, he did his best to shield and conceal his fawn-self, which contained the genuine spark of Valerian Tarandahl. Made a cloudy den for the small creature, tucking it safely within.

Scentless and perfectly still, except for those slow, shallow breaths, his transformed body was as well protected as Val could make it… and still, he hated to leave; the silvery life thread that linked them, too precious to risk.

Then Gildyr stepped from the lee of a cloud pylon, seeming to form out of vapor and shade.

"Go, Milord," said the druid, making a gentle shooing motion with both tanned, calloused hands. "I will stand watch over your body. I promise."

A simulacrum was a being of solidified spirit and manna; impermanent, fragile, but also able to see in ways that a flesh and blood person could not. Here and now, Val saw clearly through Gildyr. That he meant what he said, and that something of desperate importance lay behind his cleaving so close to an arrogant high-elf.

Speaking aloud was difficult, in this form, but Valerian managed,

"No longer simply retainer, but friend."

Then he was off, darting from that acres-wide landing and into the cloud giant citadel, guided by map, his own senses and Firelord's grace.

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Meanwhile, back in a hellscape of slow-grinding tunnels and rat-stench, Lerendar Tarandahl staggered along like a puppet, increasingly chilled and exhausted. His vision had clouded to mist and shadows, with only the goblin-she burning ahead like a torch to guide him.

She had slowed her pace, but that was bad, too. The injured high-elf needed shelter and rest. A chance to sleep off his possession and heal. The shades could not release him out here in mid passage, where not even the crutch would have kept him upright and moving.

At last, though, they reached her goal; the lake cavern he'd earlier fled. Thought he heard… felt… others, but couldn't be certain. Was too close to the ragged, bloody red edge of unconsciousness to do more than follow the urging of plucking, insistent small hands and whispering voices.

Lost consciousness like shedding a heavy load. Like plunging down into black, icy water. So much for Lerendar.

As for the goblins… Some folk raise mighty stone obelisks or build lofty temples. Here in the lake diggings, five squealing kitts managed to lever his over-tall lordship safely off of his feet and onto a bed of warm furs. Didn't scratch nuthin' that wasn't already injured, neither.

"Blimey," grunted Dog Bait, one hand at the small of his twisted back. "Must be fifteen stone, if ee's an ounce! Toljer ye packed too much in them meal bags, Pretty."

"Don't look like ee's gonna be 'ealin nobody anytime soon, neither," grumped Squinty, who'd pulled a muscle in his shoulder.

Twitchy and Snaggle stared at the fallen elf-lord in open wonder; eyes wide, jaws flapping loose.

"Shut it, the lot o' yuns," hissed Pretty One. Besides Grey Fang, huddled nearby on a bed of his own, only she saw the shades. Like a roiling spiral of darkness, they hovered just over Junior's cold, unconscious form. "Ee ain't alone. Keep a civil tongue in yer 'eads, or 'ave 'em shriveled ter coal."

They'd all crowded into the cozy warm sleeping chamber; shaking with fear and worry and faint, gnawing hope.

"All we 'as ter do is get word ter Grim Beard that 'is lordship's alive an'... well, alive, at any rate."

"Cor!" cut in Dog Bait. "Is 'ee supposed ter be glowin' like that?"

"Dunno," said Pretty One. "They glows when they be angry or wanderin' memories… so maybe when 'urt real bad, too."

…and Junior, son of Butcher, was definitely hurt. That leg was a swollen mess. Looked like it had been splinted by spin-drunken kobolds. He was feverish, too; covered in cuts and scrapes, which frittered away like frost on a sunlit grass-blade, as the goblin kitts watched.

He overflowed two sleeping piles, having to be bolstered at blond head and snapped leg with any odd bit of rolled cloth or hide they could scrounge. Grey Fang and Black Gut had been pushed into opposite corners, in healing rest of their own.

Pretty One had to snatch Twitchy and Snaggle back from daring each other to tap his lordship and run.

"None o' that," she snapped at the younger kitts. "Ye'll rouse 'im before-time, an' if there's anythin' worse than gnolls on th' doorstep, it's wounded elves wakin' up in the 'ouse."

She shook her head, watching as Dog Bait very carefully began chewing and packing heal-moss onto Junior's shattered leg. Wistfully, the goblin girl said,

" 'Ow can sumthin' so beautiful be so awful?"

And how could they get him to Grim Beard the Half-Elf, without being shriveled to ash, where they stood?

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