Sword and Sorcery, a Novel

1

Happy to the end of their days…?

Later, as a trio of paladins taught, healed and rescued their way through the land, along with their runaway oracle…

As Magister Serrio wrapped up his tour in Snowmont, preparing to head for distant Milardin…

As the Emperor readied himself to face and befriend mighty Vernax…

As an ancient and unneeded gate was removed between Starloft and the goblin tunnels…

The sun rose at last on a midwinter day. Briefly present, its pale, slanting light began the shift toward Order. Those welcome rays flooded Starloft, causing jet-dark stones to warm up and hum.

The smaller buildings inside bustled or lazed with folk just starting or ending their day. Starloft was a high-elf fortress, now; seat of the Tarandahls, where once it had housed a race of powerful giants.

Elves do not sleep, generally, but for some reason, this night, Valerian had. He awoke to dawn creeping in through one of the vast upper windows, that wintery light causing the walls of the family compound to murmur and buzz.

He was not in the nursery, although, why…? Val put that strange thought aside with an impatient headshake. Stretched himself gloriously, cleansing with a yawned spell. Rolled over, then, to kiss his wife's bare shoulder and neck. To bury his face in her tumbled blue feathery hair. She did need to sleep, and was heavily pregnant, besides. So, Val didn't wake her. Much.

"Rest," he said, as she snuggled back into the covers, craning herself blindly around for a kiss. "I am beginning the day, and will see you anon. Shall I have breakfast sent up?"

Alfea half-opened one very blue eye and mumbled something that might have been,

"Yes, please."

Smiling, he placed a hand on her belly, causing their child to move. Never got tired of that. Then her small dog (a hideous, happy, squash-faced monstrosity) wriggled over to lick him, wagging its coiled-up tail. Val accepted Pudgy's affection with patience, for Alfea's sake. She adored the brute, who wouldn't have threatened an earthworm. He patted its gargoyle head, even, before getting up out of bed.

He was still choosing an outfit for the day when one of the servants announced himself with a gentle door chime. Curious, Valerian spelled on something suitable, then went to the entrance hall of his room suite. (Five. Whole. Chambers… plus balcony, griffin-landing and garden access.) Val smiled as he sketched a quick sigil, saying,

"Enter."

Anton, one of his quarter-elf cousins, opened the door, bowed and came through. Dressed in red and gold Tarandahl livery, the young man straightened from his bow and smiled back.

"Good morning, My Lord, and fair day to you."

"Good morning, Anton," replied Valerian, conjuring daybrew, bread and fruit, complete with low table and plates, between them. "Be at ease and take refreshment, if you would."

Anton accepted daybrew and a sliced peach with murmured thanks. There were no apples. Whatever else Valerian summoned for meals, there was never a single one of those wretched, mealy horse-fruits.

Said the retainer, after spelling away the remains of his snack,

"I apologize for disturbing your morning activities, Milord, but a visitor arrived in the watches of the night, asking to speak with you."

Val cocked an eyebrow. Finished a handful of berries and drained his porcelain cup of life-giving daybrew before inquiring further.

"A visitor?"

"Yes, Milored. A wood-elf druid, by the look of him. Somewhat travel-stained and smelling rather of wolf. Able to wild-shape, is Lord Reston's guess. Gave his name as 'Gildyr Shagbark, of Lobum'."

Valerian blinked.

"Shagbark?" he repeated carefully, willing himself not to laugh.

"Indeed, Milord. A true son of the Greenwood, most insistent on seeing and speaking with you. But the staff on duty deemed it wiser to wait until morning, rather than disturb your evening repose."

The elf nodded.

"That was well done. Convey my appreciation to the late-staff, if you will… and bring the fellow round to the west formal sitting room. I shall meet with him there in half a candle-mark's time."

"Very good, Milord," said his cousin, bowing once more. "I will see that your wishes are carried out. Good day and glad tidings."

"To you and to yours, as well, Anton," returned Valerian, feeling the very first brush of concern. After all, though… What harm could there be in one shabby woodling?

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

About a quarter candle-mark later, Gildyr the druid wandered about in a very large and opulent chamber, feeling like the lone rolling marble in a cavernous feed bucket. Dominated by the Tarandahl griffin-crest, that sunny room could have held his family's entire home tree with space left over for saplings and huts. It was lavishly carpeted, too; spread with thick rugs that he just about sank into.

Breakfast had been laid out on a long ivory table by silent, efficient servants. More food than Gildyr could eat in a month of hard feasting, but he was too nervous to do more than nibble a honeyed sweet roll. Never a fan of daybrew, the druid contented himself with spring water, icy cold in its gemmed pitcher.

He hadn't been waiting long when someone thumped the end of a halberd on stone, out in the hall. Then the doors were opened by guards as someone announced,

"Lord Valerian enters!"

…which was quite modest, for high-elf nobility. Well, Gildyr was already standing, having explored the chamber as wolf, ferret and sparrow. Now he made sure to dispose of shed feathers and fur, standing up a bit straighter.

"Good morning, My Lord," he said, at the last minute, remembering to bow.

Was… surprised? Disappointed, a bit? The vision that entered the sitting room, graceful and radiant, seemed… wrong, somehow.

The ash-blond hair was correct, but lightly caught back, rather than plaited for battle. The expression on that icily beautiful face was neutral. Mildly curious, if anything at all. As for his clothing, the young dandy wore an ornate formal robe; carefully pleated, embroidered in red and gold on a background of heavy grey silk. His dark grey breeches and soft red boots would not have stood up to a garden path, much less the road. He wore no circlet of rank. Didn't need one. In this setting, his home, Valerian all but glowed like a jewel.

A fancy plaything of mithral and gems hung at his side in place of a genuine sword. But His Lordship's sleeves and white linen undercoat were so long that he probably couldn't have wielded it, anyhow. So much for Valerian.

"Good morning, and welcome," the high-elf responded, with a slight, gracious nod. "Be seated, if you please. Take ease and refreshment before we discuss why you wished to speak with me… Gildyr, I believe?"

"Yes, Milord," said the druid, risking a smile. "Gildyr Shagbark, son of Shavonne and Gilcrest. A druid of Lobum, at your service."

The high-elf's fine mouth twitched just a bit at one corner. His voice was right, Gildyr thought. Just, bland and calm rather than… than whatever it was he'd been expecting.

Valerian waved him to sit, joining the wood-elf at table. Across and aslant, naturally, as they weren't at all equal in rank. There was some eating and drinking, then, because high-elves are terribly formal. A touch of light conversation followed, regarding the weather and the state of His Imperial Majesty's roads. (Excellent... and... In need of service, considering all of the taxes one paid.)

Gildyr would rather have dined on acorn bread and squirrel stew out of dried gourds, but he did justice to the sumptuous feast laid out before him. Then, once the last belly-corner was stuffed, and magic had whisked away all of the leavings but wine and two cups, it was time for actual talk.

Valerian rose from the table, which first cleansed itself and then disappeared. Nodding permission to Gildyr, he turned and led the druid to a small grouping of comfortable chairs. The wine bottle and gemmed golden cups followed His Lordship like floating puppies, Gildyr noticed.

As they settled into the seats and their drinks poured themselves, Valerian finally got to the point.

"I must admit to some curiosity, Druid," he said, elbows propped on the arms of his chair, legs extended and fingers steepled. "I am truly uncertain why you would wish to see me, in particular. My grandfather is High Lord of Ilirian, and my father is his heir. My older brother…"

(Well... bold, reckless Lerendar was never going to desert his human life-mate. Not for the high seat of Ilirian, or for anything else. Just playing, at first, he had come to love Beatriz… but such matters were no fitting gossip for wandering druids.)

"My brother remains in the line of succession. I am… more or less officially… the family layabout. It is difficult to conceive what business might bring you here."

For his part, looking at Gildyr, Val saw a clean, but trail-worn druid, whose presence brought a mixture of deep irritation and gladness. The fellow had chosen to keep to his own rough garments rather than changing into whatever the staff had offered him. Dressed mostly in brown leather and scratchy green wool, with his dark hair caught up in an untidy bun, this Gildyr stomped about in coarse, heavy boots and a traveling cloak. Throw in the antler headdress and necklace of elk's teeth, and he looked like a common adventurer.

"I…" began Gildyr, flushing red. "I'm not sure myself, Lord Valerian. Only that… it was very important to find and speak with you."

Here, the wood-elf leaned forward in his chair, all at once feeling terribly urgent. Would have said more, but then two young girls, a goblin and half-drow, came scampering into the room from some hidden passage.

"Lord Val! Lord Val!" cried the girls, racing over to tug at his sleeves, waving pages of scribbled-on vellum. "Look! We did it, Milord! Copied all of the runes, from Fehu to Othalan! Are we done? Is that it?"

Valerian had placed an arm around both laughing minxes, magically fanning their work out before him.

"Your pardon, good druid. My, erm… pages lack appropriate manners and discipline."

Gildyr shook his head, smiling warmly.

"They're no bother at all, Milord," he said, feeling better. The goblin child was button-cute, for her species; one of many that burrowed and roamed throughout Ilirian. The half-drow had tiger stripes and hair that seemed to be formed out of rippling water (but maybe was only illusion). Both of them crowded the high-elf, all but clambering onto his lap.

Val corrected one or two brush-strokes, then approved their work, saying,

"Now, you will hie yourselves to the library, there to read the first three pages of Anselm's Bestiary," to a chorus of tragic groans. The high-elf ignored their sorrow. "After that, and your luncheon, I shall meet you outside in the upper courtyard, for sparring and spell practice."

"Then may we go play?!" begged the girls, sounding heavy-laden enough to draw tears from a rock… but not from Valerian.

"Perhaps," he allowed. "If I am pleased enough with your progress. Now, off with you… and mind you pay your respects to our visitor."

Both girls bobbed a curtsey at Gildyr, making hideous faces and giggling as they did so.

Val shook his head; a bit apologetic, more than a little defiant.

"I have some talent with magic," he told the druid, once the girls clattered out to their reading. "So, I have taken on their first training, before we set off for Karellon. They, to apprenticeship and I… to a stint in the guards." His Lordship did not seem enthused. Then, with a slight smile. "I shall miss our lessons. They are Miri and Pretty, in case that storm of babble was entirely incoherent."

For a moment, mist-grey and forest green eyes met in something close to… what? Memory? Of events that never happened at all, back in the wished-away ever-not?

"Val," Gildyr blurted, while that warmth still brought life to the haughty young lord. "Something is wrong. Like… as if… we keep coming up to this one perfect day, but no further. Don't you sense it, Milord?"

Valerian's expression hardened, and he looked away.

"I have another engagement soon, Druid," he said. "But I would hear more on this matter. After dinner, if you please. In the meantime," he arose, still not looking at Gildyr. "Be welcome in Starloft. I shall assign servants to attend you. Good day."

Two of those retainers appeared out of seemingly nowhere, smiling politely at Gildyr, who'd just been dismissed.

"I… yes. Thank you, Milord. Thank you for listening. I think, with your magic and mine, we can…"

But His Lordship was already moving, behaving now much more as Gildyr expected. That casual rudeness warmed the druid's heart, bringing a measure of hope.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Or…

As history faded to legend and myth…

As erosion and uplift wore away mountains, changed coastlines, merged continents…

As a rumbling earthquake split apart great chunks of black stone…

He sat up, feeling bleary and sick; shedding bits of clattering rock. The day was warm, having advanced to near noon. A mild breeze poked around through the nodding grasses and short, stunted trees. Something… two somethings… tore away from his body like twin, mournful sighs. One dark as smoke, the other a flashing and glitter of flame.

He felt suddenly empty. Alone for the first time in… could honestly not say how long. Just that, nothing remained here but boulders of volcanic glass and a few tumbled ruins.

He stood up in slow, cautious stages, tugging at clothing that powdered and tore like the stuff in a tomb. Move about much, and he'd find himself entirely naked, except for an icy-cold sword and some chain mail.

Spotted movement as he stood there swaying and catching his breath. Not rodents or vegetation. Five or six shadowy figures trying to hide themselves behind boulders and trees. Why? Surely he wasn't that much of a threat; held nothing of value at all but the sword. Why would anyone fear him?

Something great and terrible, some awful mistake or disaster lay behind him… but deep time had eroded his memories nearly as much as his clothing. Didn't know. Didn't care to find out. Just felt horribly guilty and sad... and completely alone.

Not much hope, he supposed, that whoever was out there had come here to help? Expecting the opposite, he drew the sword, which leapt to his hand like a live thing, crackling with bluish-white frost.

Started forward, because what could possibly happen worse than he'd already faced… and utterly ruined?

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Or maybe the end of all things?

Imagine the final battle of Chaos and Order. The fall of the gods, written in fire and blood. A planet completely resurfaced, taking aeons to harden; longer still to cool enough for life to arise. Picture the dawn of science rather than magic, as the race of Men gained ascendance, squashing whatever they couldn't control. A bleak, awful world, missing enchantment, devoted to Order. Wrested from Faerie, forever.