Sword and Sorcery, a Novel

Sword and Sorcery, Part 2

1

The prisoner's cell was empty, except for a pillar of raw stone that projected from floor to ceiling, containing the corpse of a low-ranking gnoll. Someone had already chewed off the victim's projecting muzzle and forearms, leaving blood to trickle sluggishly over pillar and ground. The cell reeked of kin scent, early decay and fear.

Thartaar Gash, warlock of Mother Dread, trailed a clawed finger through the black and gelatinous gore, then brought it to his mouth. Not as good as elven, he thought, but tasty enough.

The cell had ceased drifting, as if pinned in place by that magically lifted spire. Being a gnoll, Thartaar alone would have struggled to interpret what he saw, but the Mother's insight made everything clear. Only a goblin mage had the power to do such a thing, her whispers informed him.

Thartaar examined the faint shower of magical runes still spiraling up and down the stone coffin-pillar, snuffing for more information. He'd been a goblin himself, before being raised. Had been one of the first three who'd performed the old rites, down in the deep-deep, where no light ever shone, nor ever would. He retained enough of his goblin-self to recognize the hand that had drawn those shimmering symbols.

"Grey Fang," he rumbled aloud, through crusted, uneven sharp teeth. The guards behind him stiffened and clutched at their weapons. They were his clan sisters, or he'd have eaten them. Might do, anyhow, to keep the knowledge that there was a renegade mage on the loose, to himself.

Thartaar sniffed deeper, inhaling the bone-littered cell's rank stench. Grey Fang was dangerous, but enough of his blood had been spilled here to betray a deep wound. Meanwhile, the prisoner was gone. Not killed or eaten, because he was shielded by cursed elf-magic.

'No,' explained the Mother, cold and dark in his head. 'Escaped on its own, or rescued by the mage.'

Thartaar growled, low and deep in his long, corded throat. Broke into a shrill, see-saw giggle at the end, letting the Mother soothe and command. It was just another move on the gameboard, she assured him, to be countered by her strongest, most valuable piece, Thartaar.

Her power flowed through him, channeled by ancient sigils and spilt elvish blood. They'd wanted to bathe in it, down in that far deep and ever dark cavern. Allowed a mouthful of blood apiece, each, but no more. There could be no real feast, for the stolen child's carcass had to remain in place at mid-sigil. Otherwise, the Mother's will and her dark manna could not reach and empower her devoted slaves. Otherwise, there would be no more gnolls.

It was possible that Grey Fang meant to take the prisoner down to the cavern of summoning, casting foul light and removing the child's body. This could not be allowed. Nothing must threaten the Mother's rise.

Her will had entered the plane through Thartarr and Slagard and Whinn… strengthened further by the drow outlander, Kaazin. Not her physical presence, though. Not yet, because a suitable host must be found, first. Not a gnoll. Not a goblin. Something grander. Unscarred and powerful.

The matter was too complex for Thartaar, but thinking of bodies gave him a sudden idea. Coming to a decision, the warlock sketched a sigil before him, leaving an oozing green trail in the air.

A tendril of magical force reached into the stone pillar through the trapped one's gnawed muzzle, then pulled forth his body as dribbling slime. Some of the goo splashed onto Thartaar, who lapped the stuff off of his spotted hide. Slow death in terror added tang to the juices, but the gnoll disciplined himself not to overindulge. What he had in mind would require a great deal of magic and physical mass.

Instead, with rough sigil and snarled key-word he sculpted the ooze, blood and bits; forming a hulking, headless monstrosity. The two guards sensed peril, dropped their weapons and tried to run, voiding their bowels as they raced for the cave-mouth. They didn't make it. Thartaar held them in place with a barked "Stop!" Keeping them still as the developing flesh golem tore them apart for raw materials.

At last, sated and swaying, spattered with blood, the creature turned to stand before Thartaar. No head, yet. Just a great, ragged vertical maw in its chest, fanged with splintered sharp ribs.

Vomiting armor and gore, it panted aloud, slowly gaping and pinching its misshapen mouth. A circle of eye-spots surrounded the maw, able to detect light and motion, but not much else. To effectively hunt, the beast needed more.

Thartaar had a solution for that, suggested by the Mother, who was very pleased with his newly-formed toy. Reaching up, he unfastened the severed head he'd been wearing atop his own for days, now.

Holding the head in both of his hands, he first spat on it, then turned it around to face the right way. Next, he stepped up to his flesh golem and set the head atop the thing's lumpy shoulders.

A growled spell bonded the two together, causing sudden green corpse-light to flare in those sightless grey eyes. It looked at him, enough of the original soul still present to make for enjoyable vengeance.

Thartaar stepped backward to assess his handiwork. Good, thought the gnoll. Aloud, he said,

"By the blood I have drunk, the flesh and bone and still-beating heart I have eaten, I am your master. I command you: find the goblin and elf you scent here. Undo your magic and kill them both. Bring back their torn heads, as proof."

The golem resisted, but could not disobey the one who had eaten its flesh. Thartaar gave vent to a long, shrieking laugh as that which had been Keldaran set off to find and slaughter its missing son and the wounded mage.

As for the other, young elfling; the Mother had placed her shape-shifters onto its trail. Switching planes would not conceal the scurrying elf-mage, whose body might work as the Mother's host, if retrieved uninjured and whole.

"The dark one will rise," Thartaar snarled. "She will douse every light, choke every breath and freeze the last heartbeat! Her will is all!"

He would make sure of it.

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Elsewhere in that tangled and shifting cave system, Lerendar bolted awake with a sudden, shocked gasp. Would have scrambled upright, ready to fight or retreat, except that one of his legs wouldn't move. It was pinned between pieces of wood, wrapped in cloth, packed with something that shifted and probed and itched like a very pox.

Had he possessed any real magic, he would have incinerated half of the lake cavern, there and then. Instead, Lerendar scrabbled backward on cushions and fur, kicking at pots and a drowsing figure as he fought to get up.

Then one of the shades brushed at his thoughts. Tendons, whispering,

"Peace. They have kept faith."

…And they'd splinted his leg into the bargain, it appeared, though the means were itchy; unsettling.

"Something moves in the binding," he said, forcing himself not to shake. "What is inside of it?"

The goblin girl darted over from tending another patient, her eyes glowing ember-red in the dark.

"Tis 'eal-moss, Milord," she squeaked, helping the one he'd kicked over back onto its feet. "It binds an' cures, eatin' away at corruption or poison. We ain't done ye no 'urt, I promise. They wouldn't 've let us."

Through Bony, Tendons and Legless, he saw all that had taken place while he lay unconscious. How the goblins had worked to cleanse and rebind his broken leg, threatened all the while by hovering ghosts who'd have frozen their hearts had the vermin done anything wrong.

One of the creatures sidled up with a flask and a round of flat, greyish bread. Another carried a platter of fish.

"Food, yer lordship," whispered the hunched, furtive creature. "Fish, made just th' way ye likes it."

Ragged chunks of lake trout were burnt black on one side, mostly raw on the other, Lerendar observed. Exactly the way he'd earlier bungled cooking his own hasty meal by the shore. Well, they paid attention, at least.

The wounded high-elf relaxed a bit. Ignoring the prickle and creep of that wretchedly misnamed heal moss, he said,

"My thanks for the food."

Couldn't say it looked good, or terribly appetizing, but he did accept it, breaking his fast on mild, fizzy wine, bread and fish.

"Much more of this and I'll turn out like Shorty," he said, to break the stiff, anxious silence.

"Shorty?" asked the goblin girl, after a moment.

"Aye. Short-stuff. Halfling. My brother, Valerian. Eats fish like an otter. He's been off in the City, studying magic."

The girl's small face clouded.

"Sparks, that'll be. The fire mage."

The others… three crouching close, two abed, one outside standing watch… murmured charms against evil, making signs with their spindly fingers.

Lerendar swallowed a scratchy mouthful of bread, washing it down with more wine.

"Well, he isn't an ogre," began the high-elf, noting looks of genuine fear in their yellow-red eyes. "Just a little quick-tempered, is all."

Then, to change the subject,

"When do we leave? You said that you could show me the way out of this place. I am rested enough to move on. Let us proceed."

"Yer lordship is not the only concern," came a faint, creaking voice from one of the other beds.

"Grampa, no!" gasped the young female, leaping to her feet. "Rest quiet! Ye'll end yer healin' afore time!"

But the speaker had levered himself up and off of his pallet of furs, pulling the bandage and moss from his face with one hand. With the other, he summoned a wizard's staff.

Lerendar felt the shades close in around him. Didn't try to stand up because, even sitting, he was at eye level with the tottering goblin mage. The creature was horribly scarred, Lerendar saw. Deep claw marks had gouged the flesh of his pinched, wrinkled face. One eye was missing, replaced by an eerie blue mage glow.

"I be Grey Fang o' the South Cavern," rasped the creature, as though moving his face muscles hurt. "And this be what's left o' me kin. Naught but kitts, but stong an' smart, fer all that. 'Tis them brought us ter safety an' saw t' our 'ealing, milord."

The old goblin was dressed in a robe of rough brown cloth. His mane and arm hair were wispy white, and he seemed to be more supported, animated, by manna than wielding it. Said Lerendar, after battling a gutful of tense reactions,

"You are in charge here, I take it. Then to you I put the same query. When do we leave? It is urgent that I reach and warn my folk of the gnoll threat."

Grey Fang drew himself a little more upright, using his bone-and-bit-laden staff for support. Waving the girl away, he said,

"We must wait until Black Gut c'n safely travel. Yer lordship pegged 'im with a sling missile not long back, snappin' 'is collar bone."

"T'were a clean break, at least," interjected the girl. "No splinters or mess ter mop up."

Lerendar shook his head. Started to complain that his aim had been off, then thought better of it. After all, the goblins were his hosts. They'd sustained him in captivity and healed his injury. Mostly. He would have torn off his own bandage and moss like Grey Fang, if only to stop that pestiferous itching… but didn't want to be left with a hideous scar. Beatriz wouldn't like it, he felt sure.

Instead, cycling through his faerie pockets, the high-elf dug out his cracked, fizzing amulet and spell scroll; the one on which someone had scrawled a few dirty jokes and a map.

"I must admit to not ever learning my runes," he remarked, holding the scroll out to Grey Fang. "Never much cared for the classroom, but maybe there is something here that might be of use to speed healing." He did not bring forth Snap, though. Let them think him unarmed.

Lerendar's pronouns and tone were lofty, as one would speak to a balky animal, but he was trying. To be talking at all was a giant leap forward.

Unperturbed by Lerendar's rudeness, Grey Fang accepted the items, studying them with meat and mage eyes, together. He unrolled the scroll with a gesture, correcting one or two things on the map, shaking his head at the jokes. As for the spell, he said,

"This be powerful work, Milord, buildin' ter sumthin' of true might, but th' bottom edge or next page be missin'. Might be I c'n adapt it fer use in healin' or transport… but I can't say fer sure without tryin'."

The leaking amulet he wreathed in a muttered incantation, saying,

"Death spell, an' in parlous condition, at that. Would most likely 've kilt off you an' three generations o' yer kin, if ye'd tried invokin' it."

Uh-huh.

"I was saving it for a momentous occasion," said Lerendar, very much out of his depth and hating it. "Suppose it is just as well that I never used it," he grunted, feeling restless, impatient and eager to leave. Worse, his entire left leg burned and stung as thought he'd fallen asleep on an ant hill.

No. Fresh candidate for worst; he'd somehow lost most of his sense of contact with Val, as though his brother was terribly distant.

"Ye ought not ter lose 'ope," said the goblin, appearing to sense Lerendar's depression. "We be, all of us, tilted our own way, as the great ones 'as made us. Ye survived, yer lordship. Ye got loose, an' brought yer finds t' them as could 'elp yer make use of 'em."

Lerendar didn't want or need comfort from a withered old goblin. Nevertheless, hauling anxiously at his too-small blanket, the elf mumbled,

"Your help, and that of the shades, made it possible. Adapt the scroll and repair the amulet by all means, Mage, but hasten. I feel very much as though we need to escape this place. Soon."

…because something was coming.