Sword and Sorcery, a Novel

25

They struggled onto that wind- and sea-scoured clifftop just as the sun touched the western horizon. Sea mud, uprooted boulders and storm-wrack were everywhere, making the going quite rough; a matter of clambering, digging or going around all of those obstacles. Clearly, the coast had been hit with a wave of mythic and horrible power. Worse, the first shelter they came to was an utter ruin. No more than a warded circle of stones, and no shelter at all against what was coming.

As the kitts pressed close, needing to touch and smell safety, Lerendar weighed their options. North or south, basically, for further inland, the way became rougher. He'd patrolled it enough to know.

Felt the trickster-shade's coin pop into his right hand as he stood, thinking… but the decision seemed too important to leave to a toss. Too many lives rode on making the right choice.

His brother's court-ball team had stopped a few yards away, amid the tangled and broken remains of a ship. He ignored them. Then, coming to a decision, Lerendar spoke aloud, saying,

"I do not want to retrace our steps. It just feels wrong, and we're in a hurry. Southward, then, toward the next shelter. The terrain is hilly, that way, and something may have survived. If not, we'll find the best spot we can, and dig in. Follow or not, as you choose."

This last had been aimed at the suspiciously glowering elves, but nobody argued. Not with darkness advancing like an enemy horde. Rising wind whipped at hair, cloaks and debris, obscuring their vision. Dried mud hid pitfalls and cracks, slowing their progress, while nightfall had no curb rein, at all. The goblins were stiff with cold, though the elves didn't feel it much. More just the frantic sense that they were going to be trapped outside on the worst, longest night of the year.

Roreck and Sherlon took turns carrying Marlie, who was still unconscious. Vashtie sped things along by scooping up a few of the youngest goblin kitts, startling Lerendar.

'What?!" she snapped. "You said we're in a hurry, and they're slowing us down."

He couldn't argue with that logic, and didn't try. Just nodded, saying,

"I thank you for helping," before pressing onward.

It was a very near thing, requiring the sort of speed that only a party of motivated elves could achieve, but they got there. Reached maybe the one surviving shipwreck shelter in all of Ilirian: a timber and stone octagonal hut built into the landward side of a shoulder-like hill. Its flag post was twisted, the white-and-gold 'safety' banner torn loose, but the structure itself remained; still warded and sound.

Locked, too, but all one had to do to get in was touch the heavy wooden door and say: Friend in need. Lerendar did so, debating whether or not to light the beacon globe on top of the hill. Its gleam was intended to summon aid from his father's patrols… but they weren't here, and all that was left of dad was his head, still in its faerie pocket. Shadows were lengthening, stars doused like candles, leaving only that winding red serpent, high overhead, for the Strider had set entirely.

Lerendar waved everyone in through the open door.

'Only enemies will see the globe's light and come seeking,' said Andorin, inside of his wavering mind. Londo disagreed, though.

'Anyone else running for shelter may see it, as well, and at least have a chance, Highness.'

'Or be lured into a baited trap, outside of the wards, where we dare not help them. Slaughtered mere yards from us,' cut in Elmaris, uncharacteristically fierce.

Lerendar sighed, turning his mental back on their argument. The fact that his facial features and clothing altered as each shade took hold, kept Roreck, Vashtie and Sherlon huddled quiet as temple mice.

"No aid beacon," he decided aloud, shutting the wooden door. It latched with a bang, igniting powerful wards. "The light will serve only to attract unwanted attention, or lure other lost travelers to their death."

Husky blond Roreck nodded after a moment, adding,

"Gods defend them, whoever they are… and… erm… we thank you, Milord, for bringing us safely to shelter."

"You are my guests," replied Lerendar, smiling with only one side of his mouth. "And, while this is no Tarandahl feast hall, there is food, drink and medicine here, to which you are welcome."

He lit the hut's glow, then, revealing ten bunks set into its walls, along with a fully stocked larder. A stone-lined fire pit and cooking tripod took up the floor's center, with logs and kindling ready for use.

Marlie was gently placed on one of the narrow beds; laid out for Sherlon to dose with potions and spells. The exhausted kitts filled up most of the others; piled and wriggling for the warmest, most pressed-against sleeping spot. They still smelt like rats… just, wet and familiar ones, now. Vashtie and Roreck split up; one watching the door, one watching Lerendar, who was too tired to feel much insulted.

They all sensed the wards powering up outside, just ahead of a wild, shrieking gale. Much too tense to relax, Lerendar broke out the spelled food and honey-wine, along with a pack of playing cards.

"No gambling," he ordered. "And, no divination, either. Chaos will warp any scrying we attempt tonight. Also…" he nodded at Marlie, twisting and raving on a bunk across from their heavy, barred door. "Keep him alive, in all the gods' names. Otherwise, he will reanimate, safe-space or not."

Sherlon blanched, but assented.

"Doing my best, Milord… and not just because I don't want to fight him. Because he's my friend, and a fellow Imperial."

Lerendar could have shot back with: My woman and child… my brother and mum… are out there, somewhere. Out where I cannot reach them to help.

…but he did not. Just settled down to tend the fire, asking any god who would listen to keep them all safe.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Westward, the last light had drained from the sky in Lobum, trickling down like spent heart's blood. High overhead, a vicious green dragon and rainbow feathered serpent were locked in battle; shrieking, swooping and diving at each other; striking with wing-talons and barbed, lashing tails. Spurting great clouds of toxic gas in Slithrox's case, while the Coatl breathed only divine, cleansing light. Wood-elf archers and Quetzali spearmen released volley after hissing, clattering volley. Unerringly accurate, striking always and only the dragon.

Where before, their missiles had bounced off of emerald scales to rain on the ground, now there were gashes and bare spots to target… as well as one could, through billows of poison and spattering flesh. Too, while the flood had not reached this far, the ground shook with the waking of giants, making it tough to take aim. The air was no better, as repeated shock waves scattered Quetzali like leaves.

Then, spotting its chance, the feathered serpent struck hard. Constricting Slithrox, it flung muscular coils around the struggling dragon, pinning its wings. They plunged, spiraling into the ground, for the serpent alone could not support both their weight.

Struck with a booming, tree-snapping crash, leveling the forest for miles in every direction. The feathered serpent sank its fangs deep into Slithrox's long neck. Not to inject poison, but to draw it forth.

The dragon cursed and thrashed, firing spells that fried the flesh from its captor's skull, but the feathered serpent hung on.

"NO!" Howled Slithrox. "They slew her, then dared to keep me alive! RELEASE ME!"

But the inexorable drainage and pressure continued. Poison, manna and hatred itself were drawn out of Slithrox, filling the Coatl… no longer colorful, no longer bright… with vengeance, pain and decay.

At battle's end, all that remained was a dragon's green egg and the battered form of a huge, feathered snake; wings broken, plumage gone wispy and grey.

Stillness descended, and relative quiet, allowing those hunkered down to emerge. The chief druid-select directed her people to aid the wounded and comfort the dying. To carefully pull from their impaling thorns, Slithrox's victims.

The lovely forest city of the wood-elves… its towering home-trees and vine-slung buildings… was gone; splintered and crushed into matchwood. The dead were unnumbered. Elder Ash bowed her grey head, having no choice but to bury her anguish. There was no time to collapse in grief. Not yet, and not for a long time to come.

Going to the Coatl's scorched head, she murmured,

"We have healers, Great One. They may be able to aid you, as once they did Slithrox."

The Coatl opened one golden eye, causing its charred lid to crumble to ash.

"There is no need, Child," it whispered. "I have lived over-long and my task is complete. There is an egg in the aerie, for my beloved tribe to tend and protect. I am content. See to your wounded, Daughter of the Greenwood, with my blessing."

There would be chaos and horror aplenty, everywhere else, but the Coatl's last magic wove such a charm of protection over Lobum that nothing of Chaos could manifest there for thousands of years.

It sighed, then, expelling its spirit and life to the waiting heavens. The body broke down into shining motes that drifted away like the sparks from a bonfire, along with that of the Quetzali dead. Whatever was touched, glowed for weeks.

Overhead, the Coatl's people flew circles, keening their grief and their pride, joined by the song of the elves. Then, at their leader's signal, the entire battle-wing left, flying off after the sunset.