Sword and Sorcery, a Novel

5

In the turbulent world of the third wish, nothing was quiet. No healing took place, for Chaos is never sated; can never find rest. Instead of lost magic and faith, its folk turned to invention, creating enormous machines that ravaged the earth and slaughtered whole nations. Then, with their own planet crushed underfoot, its masters turned all their power and greed on the stars, finding manna there; energy, free for the taking.

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Elsewhere, down by a sluggish brown river, the night passed very slowly. Sometimes insects scuttled over his clothing and flesh. Once, a ghoul crept into view, reeking of open graves. It was too wary to feed on someone the witch had preserved like a hung gamebird, though, and soon slunk away.

All night long he struggled to rise from the muddy ground. To move any part of his body, at all. To blink, breathe freely… anything. But the dagger's paralysis-hex seemed unbreakable, leaving him stuck on the riverbank, waiting to die.

He'd begun to glow, a thing that startled him and attracted great swarms of bugs. That, in turn, drew something that scurried onto his back, quick and light as a ferret. For most of the night he couldn't see the creature. It ate insects, though. He could tell from the way that it leapt and snapped at those darting midges and flies.

Near dawn, the small animal twisted itself around to stare at his face. Odd-looking marten, with a black mask over dark-red, intelligent eyes, pointed ears and a twitching long snout. Its forepaws were clawed little hands, and its cry a shrill, creaking bark.

It studied him for a moment, then uttered a sneeze and shot off into the rushes. No matter. He'd been handy for drawing insects, not any kind of a friend… and so the lost one forgot the small creature, putting all that he had into thoughts of escape. Into just moving his hand. If he could manage that much, he could try to do more, before the witch recovered enough to come out of her hole and finish him off.

Battling hard, he managed to dig the fingers of his left hand into warm, slimy river mud, gouging four tracks. His memory spanned less than a month since waking out of the rock… but in that time he'd never done anything harder than claw at the sludge he now lay in.

The sky had gone grey, according to its puddled reflection. He had so little time left. Couldn't decide if staying alive mattered enough to keep trying. Then the black-masked creature came back, pushing something along with its twitching nose and small, clever hands. A globe of transparent force, containing a bit of fire. Not greenish corpse-glow. Clean, bright-red flame, stolen from somebody's campsite or hearth.

Making that strange, creaking bark, the marten nudged its prize forward, pushing the bottled fire against his stiff, out-flung arm. The prisoning globe vanished at once, leaving the flame to drift downward. It touched his arm, bringing warmth and a measure of strength. Then something else came to him; a surge of courage and power from terribly far away. From someone he'd long ago failed.

...And the witch's poison burnt off like marsh gas. He took a great, gasping breath, moving cramped muscles at last. By this time, he was glowing bright as the coming dawn, causing birds to awaken and flutter up out of the rushes.

Got to his feet with a grunt, trying to will the sword back. It was near. He could feel it, along with a lot of other stored things, hanging somewhere just out of sight.

The masked creature's warning bark probably saved his life, for he pivoted to face the witch's lair just as she slammed her door open.

"Aragash! Fathmorak!" she snarled at him, summoning magic. "Irithic farg!"

Her spells were acid and lightning, weakness and utter despair. They struck at body and soul together, seeking to rebind and slay him. He fought back with fire, at first. Then, when the sword returned to his hand, with daggers of ice from its blade.

The ice, she could melt. The fire she mostly deflected, sending hordes of skittering constructs and flying imps to attack him.

He managed to shield himself, but not consistently. He didn't really know how; was acting on pure reflex, bloodied and leaking from dozens of cuts. The runes of her seething dark magic were clearly visible, though, and that gave him an opening. He twisted their magic against her, making great arcs of lightning turn in mid-flight to smash the hag's lair; then sent her poisonous cloud back to its raging source, forcing her to dispel it.

Had destroyed her creations; was backing away, when he heard a noise from the east. Sounded like people. A crowd of them, moving swiftly and shouting loud threats. The witch heard them, too. Lifting her head, she screamed something vile in reply; defiant and spiteful right to the end. Lifting her arms, she next animated a trash pile, raising a pair of lurching, clattering golems.

Good time to leave, but not before aiding those oncoming villagers. So, he called to the earth without sigil or rune, and it heeded him. Plain, raw sorcery caused two massive hands of dark clay to shoot up out of the ground and capture the witch. Wild magic filled her mouth and throat up with dirt and plastered her furious eyes shut.

Should have killed her, maybe. Didn't. Just burned her golems with fire, then turned and fled, leaving the hag to the justice of those whose village she'd haunted and cursed for so long.

The masked animal followed, leaping and barking. He stooped and extended a hand, allowing the furry beast to race up his arm and onto one shoulder. After that, he cut away from the river, heading westward, where there were patches of forest and huge, rusted sections of armor.

Didn't slow down until the sun was high in the sky and all he could hear was birdsong and wind. Then, worn nearly dead, he collapsed in a thicket of briar and oak, near a small spring. Not a safe spot, but he'd run himself out and had to have rest.

The marten foraged for itself, bringing back grubs and small lizards as though meaning to share. That… was amusing. Made him smile for the first time in all his short span. (But he did not eat the grubs or the lizard.)

Found a few shriveled berries and nuts on the bushes and ground. Ate those, instead, while working to reach all the stuff he could feel stored away in his magical pockets. He'd succeeded with the sword. Had put something in and then pulled it back out again. He could do the same, surely, with food. Matter of not looking directly. Just sensing, then reaching in… Sideways? Slantwise? Across? Some way that worked every time, once he'd figured it out.

The nameless animal watched with interest as he got out clothes, boots, a bow and quiver of arrows, dagger and apples. Lots and lots of apples. No other food, at all.

Right. Mostly inside of his head, he told Nameless,

"I think that I really hate apples."

Ate a few, just the same. Then he stripped off and burned his old, mismatched garments, putting on what he'd drawn from invisible storage. Another reflex cleaned and healed him, causing soft light to sear away dirt, scars and bruises. Not the marks on his chest though. Those remained, regardless of potions or scrubbing. Problem for later.

It felt very good to be clean. To stop the roaring in his stomach, even if only with water and fruit. To Nameless, before losing himself in dreams, he whispered,

"I have not thanked you for bringing me fire. You are free to go or to stay, as you wish… but I hope you will stay."

Because no night was as dark, and no situation as bleak, with a proven friend at your side.