Sword and Sorcery, a Novel

12

The landscape and weather changed very gradually. Over the course of many days' walk, rolling scrubland turned into a blighted and mangy forest. There were not many tall trees, most of them seeming to die before they got very old. A mixed wood of beeches and oak, mainly, with a few reedy alders near the rivers and seeps. Not what he'd expected, but better than thicket or scrub.

The rain stopped, which was better, yet. While he did not much suffer from cold, nobody liked being drenched, and Nameless's mood improved noticeably. Before leaving their rock shelter he'd put some of the foodstuffs he'd purchased from Hanish up on that shelf in the back, saying,

"I was startled at fishing and tried to escape, Nameless. Some kind of reflex, I think… but there was nowhere to go."

He'd placed a hand on the rock shelter's great, tilted slab, which rose from the ground at a low angle, creating almost a cave.

"I could mark this place, maybe. Set it up as a refuge… but I think you would have to be with me, or get left behind. I could smoke-step back for you, but that would take time."

The animal flirted its tail, then darted off to find breakfast, promising nothing. So, he'd drawn a rune on one side of that tilted dark slab, using his forefinger to inscribe what came into his head. Felt right; like where he'd end up, now, if something went very wrong, very suddenly.

Next shouldered his weapons and set off, trusting Nameless to catch up once it finished its hunting. Now, after pushing westward for days, they'd at last reached a forest. Just, not the one he'd imagined. Gutted memory spoke of ancient stands of great trees. Towering giants into which folk carved their homes; a city surging with magic and power.

This place had none of that. Trees, yes, but not like the ones he almost remembered. Plenty of rabbits and lizards for Nameless, at least. For himself, there were fish in the streams and occasional quail bursting loudly out of the underbrush.

"There is a city here," he insisted, as they pushed further west through a sparse patch of birches and oak. "It is built around a huge crater, where its folk guard a secret. Something ancient and mighty they refuse to discuss. At least, I think that is so."

He'd been there? Knew someone? Vague and unsettled memories scattered like leaves in a gale. Nothing to pin down, even if he'd really wanted to try. (But he knew it was there. They just had to keep walking, was all.)

Anyhow, the forage was good and the weather quite pleasant, even at night. Few traces of other people, which he was glad of. Took them nearly a week to reach the crater, which opened up at his feet very suddenly, half-hidden by ridges of bare, jagged stone. No city at all. Just a huge, steep-walled pit half-filled with loose scree. Its western rim had collapsed, he saw, leaving no trace of cave-homes or buildings. As for the forest, there remained only vast fallen trunks turned to stone, with the great curving ribs of some beast… dragon, maybe… eroding out of the ground.

Well, he had to be certain, didn't he? Saying nothing at all to Nameless, he started to walk, skirting the edge of the crater, because action smothered despair. Shut off emotion. Refused to speculate. Didn't call out, either. Not in this blighted place.

Eastward and south of the crater, he found something resembling a long metal dart, broken in half. Spotted with rust and corrosion, it was much smaller than the crashed airship he'd entered before. More weapon than vehicle, he thought, and still partly active.

Tendrils of ice and unmaking spilled from its innards, sprawling over the ground for hundreds of feet. They buzzed subtly; not just killing, but voiding whatever they touched, filling the air with invisible poison.

Nameless leapt off of his shoulder, dashing into the gold-spotted shade of a beech tree. Screeched a perfectly sensible warning cry, as it ducked out of sight.

"Yes. Straight away," he responded, not taking his eyes from the shattered weapon.

It came to him, then, that he'd faced something similar, once, in… well, someplace else. It could not be battled directly, he thought. Could only be tricked into destroying itself, or contained.

The air all around the weapon shimmered with unseen death. Underneath it, the ground sort of broke up into particles that slowly dissolved in the void. This object, too, produced glowing red numbers and shapes. They formed a spherical cloud with the broken thing at its center. The sphere kept switching back and forth from one set of figures to another. Stuck, he reckoned. Meant to bring wider death, but prevented somehow.

Nameless clattered what he'd come to recognize as a summoning call.

"Yes," he repeated. "I hear you. Just… I think that I can contain this thing."

Maybe, if the sigil he saw in his head was correct, and if it were strong enough.

"You should go," he told Nameless. "I may not succeed, and I don't want to hurt you." With only one friend, he had to conserve and be careful. But Nameless took good advice no better than he did. Climbed up that beech tree as high as it could, but refused to run off.

"Very well. As you will have it. You'd just better hope I succeed, first try."

Of the two marks on his chest, it was the one shaped like flame that stirred as he called upon power. His hands began glowing. Sparks flared to life in the air all around him. The containment magic he saw… no… it was something he'd walked on. Something he'd tried to repair. Not just a flat drawing, it would extend down through that crumbling ground and up to the wavering, venomous sky.

Right.

On the bright side, the containment sigil was burned into his mind. He couldn't not see its constantly moving lines. Drawing the glyph wasn't difficult. Powering it up, keeping its lines from crossing… that was the problem. Something he knew how to do, though.

Time ceased to matter as he paced out the shape that he saw in his head. Up on the ground, at times. Otherwise levitating or sinking down into compliant soil and rock; here and there murmuring keywords.

Before, he'd been retracing. Repairing. Picking up pieces of someone whose death had been used to damage the sigil. Now, he was inscribing afresh. Not alone, either. There was still a hint of power in this place. A trace of people and magic long vanished away. It stirred at his call, lending strength to the spell.

How long did it take? The sun flickered and wavered too much to be sure, with eye-blinks of darkness between. Ended at last, though, leaving him drained and staggering, in a sort of safe rune-cage above the completed sigil. He spoke the last key words there: "Anka" (I empower) and "Urdo" (I protect).

Now the sparkling glyph came to life like a rotating silver prime knot. Not trefoil. Much more complex, and utterly perfect. He'd done it; sealing a broken weapon away behind magical walls, forever.

But something else took notice. It sensed his doings and called to him, uttering the same grating drone he'd first heard by a fallen giant. The summons would have enslaved him, then, had Nameless not bitten his hand almost in half.

Nameless… who was out there alone, with dark things coming, not safe in a rune cage. He smoke-stepped, using the sigil's own power to propel himself out to the beech tree. The sun was setting. Overhead leered a moon tinged with blood. Around him the ground stirred, moved by things clambering up from below.

He started to call out, but the marten dropped into his upraised arms like a trebuchet missile. Drained and exhausted, he had no defense of his own against that dark summons. Could only allow Nameless's leaping, clattering, screeching attacks to guide his retreat. Over the rim of the crater he went, where some hint of kindly green power yet lingered.

Landed like a cat, on a ledge of cracked stone. There was a cave perhaps ten yards to his right; within reach, if they hurried. Part of him wanted to hurl that wretched marten away, then climb back up to the surface and seek out the one who beckoned him. Part of him got bitten hard enough to scrape bone and slash tendons, once again breaking the spell.

He allowed himself to be herded across to the cave mouth, just as a hail of arrows began hissing down. The angle was bad, and most of them struck only rock. One pierced his cloak before he could manage a shield spell.

Edging forward, he reached the cave mouth. Now the creatures above began jabbing with spears. Not very effective or smart, for he seized the shaft of their weapons. Wrenched them right out of the attacker's hands, or hauled them bodily over the edge; flipping them, shrieking, into the crater below.

The survivors retreated, spurred by a showy (weak) firebolt. He tried to duck into the cave mouth, but couldn't. Some sort of barrier blocked his entrance, flaring brighter with each pulse of that drumming command. With his hands gripping tight to the rock face, booted feet on a crumbling ledge, he couldn't retreat or get in… But Nameless could and somehow, sinking claws and teeth into his banned friend, succeeded in dragging him past the barrier.

He felt pulled apart. Sifted. The spiraling mark on his chest broke up into glowing green motes that buzzed away northward like flies. Then he tumbled into the cave-mouth, fetching up on the chiseled steps of a shrine.

The dark call vanished completely. Here, no evil intruded. Nor would it, till the end of all things. He was too shaken to see much, at first; his breath coming ragged and heart pounding. A few things got through, though.

He smelled water and greenery, along with his own blood and general road-grime. Smelled Nameless, too. The marten was jetting a peculiar, musky alarm-scent. Tough to miss, or endure. (Hadn't known the small menace could do that.)

"If we're to have any hope of a welcome," he whispered, "you'd better quit stinking."

Reflexively cleansed and healed himself, then, drawing power from the shrine. Didn't go any deeper, yet. Just sat on the steps, not being dead. Had a look around while his breathing and heartbeat calmed.

Found himself in a large, roughly circular cavern, its stone walls flecked with tiny gold lights. They moved, creeping about on the rock, sometimes taking flight. In each glow was a winged little person. Fey-lights, he thought, the very smallest of fairies.

At first, they avoided him. Then, a few at a time, they began to drift over. He kept very still, scarcely breathing as one of them lit on his upraised knee. It leaned forward suspiciously, fists on its miniscule hips, to stare. Having no speech, it projected a series of images flavored strongly with doubt.

Meanwhile, Nameless had lost all trace of fear. Was leaping and snapping in a vain attempt to catch and eat fey-lights. Didn't get any, though.

His own mind was too slow and his concepts too big to interest the miniature fairy. It shrugged and soon left him, shooting back into the air. A swirling storm of the creatures lit up the cavern, their antics reflected in a pool of water at its base. Carved steps led down to the water's edge, where a sort of platform or seat had been chiseled, along with a small, barren altar.

Very carefully, signing apologies to the jostled fey-lights, he got to his feet, scooping up would-be cannibal Nameless, as he did so.

"Stop," he hissed. "We are visitors here. No dining on the locals."

A shrine, for certain, but not one attended for a very long time. There was no hint of offerings on that polished stone altar. Just a few drifted petals and leaves. Slowly, craning around to see if he angered anyone, he made his way down to the altar.

"I could offer you," he told Nameless, "but who'd want a foul-smelling tree rat?"

Set it down on the sandy cave floor with a stern injunction not to eat fairies. Next, from his magical pockets, he pulled a few coins. Not copper. Mithral and gold. These he set on the altar, along with five apples. Five, to reduce the endless supply and because five was his favorite number.

Wasn't sure what to do then except to say,

"I thank you for giving us refuge here. Don't mind the little one, pray-thee. He means no harm. Just playful, and always hungry."

His words rang more loudly in that holy space than he'd intended, stirring the shrine to action. Something coalesced like mist, rising up from the water to take the shape of a lovely, flower-draped female. Tall, like himself, with pointed ears and long, drifting dark hair.

"The apology is wrong-way around," she said, in a voice of water and wind. "It speaks well of you, rather, that your small companion would not take shelter unless you were admitted, as well."

He bowed deeply, unable to quite meet those glowing pale eyes.

"You know my language," he said, after rising once more.

"Yes," she replied. "Though it has not been spoken for many long ages."

"The folk here…"

"Are much-blent descendants," said the spirit of the place, sounding scornful. "They have no recollection of the past… but they are not the ones on trial. I sense that you do not belong here," she added, tilting her head, "but not why you've come. Only that you've been deeply tainted by Chaos."

A thing he didn't know enough to deny or explain. Tried, though, saying,

"I was meant to do something, but I failed, and all through this land I have seen the result. I am here, searching for a woodland city that doesn't seem to exist… because I do not know where else to go."

She came nearer without seeming to move, in the way of spirits and gods. Nameless stood up on its hind legs to sniff at her, eyes bright in that stripe of a mask, black nose quivering. He scooped the marten back up, before it could further offend; comforted as much as protective. But,

"Come to the water," she said to him. "The little one will take no harm at all. You… shall either be cleansed or destroyed. Or, you may simply depart. The flow of time here is different from that outside. Many months have elapsed there, and perhaps you are no longer hunted. The choice is yours, Last of the Old Ones."

Last…?

His grip on Nameless tightened convulsively. The marten nipped at him, but not very hard.

Last.

There was nothing left for him, out there. No place to go, nothing to lose… and not much to fear from a shrine. What, after all, was the worst it could do, when killing him seemed like a genuine mercy?

Setting Nameless aside, he stripped to his breeches, then stepped into water as cold and pure as snowmelt. There was a brief flash of pain, and a sense of disjunction, letting him see himself from outside. The water seemed almost to boil, as Chaos and darkness leached out of him. Now, the fey-lights descended in swarms, using him as a beach and a diving platform; pattering into the water like snowflakes.

The shrine-goddess manifested in front of him. Even cleansed, he would not meet her gaze until she took his chin in her hand and tilted his face up.

"Miche," she said to him. "Shorty." Then, "Mishe-tah. Short-stuff."

Just like that, she gave him back some of his past and a name, before the real one. He nodded, momentarily recalling a rough hand mussing his hair. Being tossed high and then caught again, by someone long gone.

She was suddenly further away again, saying,

"The system of springs is active once more, now that one of the Old Ones has come. It is not complete, but you have something in your possession that may help. A stone."

Several, actually, but he found the one she referred to in his magical pockets after searching a while. About the size of a sparrow's egg, with the internal sheen of a moonstone, it was warm to the touch. Couldn't say where it had come from or why he had it.

"Yes. That one. Place it onto the altar, then dip a hand in the spring and pour some of its water onto the stone."

He did as the spirit commanded. Nothing much happened, at first. The stone glowed and absorbed the water he'd poured onto it, was all.

"Give it time," said the shrine spirit, seeming to sense his disappointment. "She is one of us, torn from her cave long ago. Travel the land, Miche. Visit many of our springs. You shall find her stone awaiting you, on every altar. Repeat the anointing, each time. When you have reached hers, refresh the spring."

"How?" he asked.

The spirit spread filmy hands.

"I do not know, Miche. Only that the way will be clear when the moment arrives. Aiding her will help to heal us, as well. Then, perhaps, we may strengthen you further."

He said quietly,

"I do not have a wondrous score of successes to boast of, Goddess. One witch escaped from, one ancient weapon contained… but I guess I'm all that you've got."

The shrine spirit touched the top of his head.

"You are Last of the Old Ones, Miche. If there is still hope for this shrinking world, it lies in you and your choices. Day by day, lands vanish. Evil in the north summons creatures of darkness. Perhaps, Mishe-tah, your being here is not a banishment. Perhaps, you were sent here to fight."

It helped to think so, at least.