Sword and Sorcery, a Novel

9

It all seemed to happen at once, depending on the observer’s state of motion (or their sobriety). In a cramped, magic cell-bubble deep in the ocean, Gildyr politely removed a paladin’s knee from his ribcage, murmuring,

“Excuse me… so sorry…”

…only to wind up on the tabaxi’s scrunched, bony lap. She hissed at him, causing the druid to squirm right back off again. Not that he wound up anyplace better. Their cell had been thoroughly chummed with a slimy flood of torn fish. Everything reeked, there was no room at all, and no one felt hungry.

Higher up, in another shimmering bubble, the drow and his cellmate had started a game of “cuts”. They were well into the third round now, their aim being to take turns slashing each other till somebody died or cried “cease”. Thus far, both dark-elf and shark-man were bloodied and laughing. The distracted guards had gathered to watch and place bets, drifting away from their posts by the portals and gates.

In jail yet again, Gildyr looked all around. Counted heads, while quietly pushing through his own cell’s packed mass of flesh. 1… 2… 3… 4…. 5… Besides himself and the wide-pupiled, rumbling tabaxi, there was a shocked mortal wizard who kept mumbling,

“There’s no place like home, there's no place like home, there's no place like home…!”

Almost on top of the shuddering mage crouched a young human paladin. Stripped of his armor and weapons, the warrior-priest busied himself trying to channel safety and peace. Back-to-back with his human sword-brother, a tremendous male orc did his best not to use up much space, though he out-massed Gildyr, Salme and probably Val, combined. The orc, too, was unarmed; clothed in nothing but a loincloth, fish-scraps and faith. Woven between all the rest (her left foot planted firmly on Gildyr’s head) was another mortal, this one a dusky female. She was healed of her throat-wound and surprisingly calm, despite the close quarters. (“Big family, mostly all brothers,” she’d explained.) But…

“Where’s Cinda?” asked Gildyr, keeping his voice down. Looked and counted again, just to be certain, keeping one eye on those shouting, fist-pumping guards.

No ranger. Not here, not in the cell with Kaazin and Shark-bait… not anywhere at all that Gildyr could see. He might have started to fret, but Cinda Whitlock was crafty and swift, able to melt into shadow; remaining unseen, till she moved or spoke. Had the ranger avoided capture again, wondered the wood-elf? Was she off somewhere, plotting another jailbreak? Or had she been taken away by the sea-elves like Neira, Val and his aunt? More importantly, how could the druid help, if his friends were in trouble?

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Some distance away, standing in the shelter and privacy of an ornate castle balcony, Meliara turned from her nephew to face Queen Shanella. The sea-elven ruler was icy-calm, accepting what looked like imminent doom. But,

“There has to be something we can do to help return your son’s spirit,” said the golden-haired oracle.

At Shanella’s gesture, their drink-pods refilled with sting nectar.

“My most powerful healers and mages have already tried,” she replied, sounding bleak. Looking weary. “None have brought me even a moment of eye-contact.”

Meliara shook her head; gone all at once full, stubborn Tarandahl.

“With all due respect, Highness, none of your mages are us. You said yourself that we’re blessed, that the blood of empire… of gods… courses through us.”

“And there is Gildyr, as well,” put in Valerian, bowing apology before speaking. “The druid is very powerful, truly good and… a friend. He would help you because it was the right thing to do, needing no payment or threat.”

Shanella brought a drink-pod to her lips, hiding the sudden quiver of mouth and chin that betrayed old sorrow, lost hope.

“Offer not what you cannot deliver, voidlings,” she whispered, draining that poison-sweet syrup. Only,

“Take us back to the prince if you will, Highness, and…” glancing over at Val “…have your folk bring us the druid, as well,” said Meliara. “The worst we can do is fail, and then we'll just try something else.”

The sea-queen squared her slim shoulders. Lifting her head, she gazed at the nearby undersea vent. A wall of toxic, burning hot gas it was, glowing red at its seething base.

“Very well. It shall be as you ask. This one final time, I will try to escape my curse. Should you succeed, all that I have… excepting my crown… is yours. Should you fail, children of light… I will go to my death with Zaresh. Down to the vent, rather than fall into enemy hands.”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Was there movement, up at the rim of an unwatched portal? Had someone waved, allowing a good-berry to drift from above, into his crowded cell? Gildyr tracked that silvery fruit as it spiraled down through the water. Then, when it phased past the wall of the bubble, he caught the berry deftly out of the air. It was spelled with a message, seeming to whisper, ‘Be ready’ into the druid’s thoughts.

Meanwhile, the slashing attacks of Kaazin and Shark-bait had grown ever deeper, turning the waters around their cell to red murk, causing the guards to howl encouragement, place higher bets. And then, just when the noise and distraction were highest, all ten levels of hell burst apart, smashing stone, coral, and magical cells.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

They’d returned to the prince’s quarters, causing his nurses and guards to be cast from the room. It was a large and spherical chamber, colored pale blue and padded in waterproof crab-silk. A life’s worth of presents and playthings lay here and about, their display bringing no joy at all to the inmate, whose mind and attention were elsewhere.

Bound by magical tethers, Zaresh seemed to be walking along, holding the hand of someone completely invisible. Smiling a little, the prince paused and looked down from time to time, as though gazing at somebody’s upturned face.

Seeing this, Mellie's conscience suffered a twinge. Wherever he was… Zaresh was happy. Maybe in love. Had they any real right to disturb the boy’s peace? A glance at Shanella, then at Valerian, settled that question. The queen’s unguarded face was riven by torment and hope. For Shanella, the return of her son would mean everything. Meanwhile, Valerian’s expression was composed. Almost rigid. He looked as nobility does, when the needs of the realm outweigh the pleas of the heart, and there is only one’s duty ahead.

Mellie thought of her paladin, Villem. A mortal, he would not last a hundredth her lifespan… but then, Mellie did not intend to outlive him. She would seek her repose when Villem turned west, and then spend the rest of her afterlife seeking the place where mortal spirits sojourned. Perhaps an elf would be welcome there, too, if love held any power at all.

Clearing her throat, Meliara extended a hand to her nephew.

“Val, little tree, I shall require your aid.”

He took her hand. Squeezed it, briefly.

“Of course, Aunt Imele.”

She drew on his power, which was considerable and freely given. All at once doubled in strength, the oracle paced out a sigil of greater transport, sometimes on the floor, at other times sinking below it in half-phase, or kicking out into the water above. Starting with the basic ‘Great Gate’, Meliara began to shift and adjust a line here, a curve or a cross-hatch there, until the figure that shone like a cage around Zaresh sprang to life; thrumming with manna, stirring the waters to frenzy.

In the sudden maelstrom, hair and clothing whipped like flags in a gale, while toy weapons and nicknacks struck the spelled padding and clung. Mellie’s sigil consumed the magical bindings which had tethered a prince for so long. So much for the rune-work. Now she began a soft, chanting prayer, calling light, calling love. As a child of the gods, beseeching their aid.

“Innocence cries for protection, Shining Ones,” she pled, reaching not so much upward as fey-ward, into the realm of the gods. “For this blameless child, doomed before birth… and this royal lady, who committed no wrong except to be placed on a throne seized by others… For them, shift the curse, free the boy’s soul, bring him home. So cries Meliara, voice of the gods, with Valerian, servant of Firelord. Hear me and answer. I pray you, correct this injustice.”

And her prayer was heard.

The sigil flared like a star. Within it, just for a moment, they glimpsed an incredible garden. Spied colors and beings, felt sensations that beggared description. There, Zaresh stood, holding the hand of a delicate phantom. He turned to defend her, interposing his body between the girl and what seemed to him like a gaping, dark maw.

Then, as if briefly displayed by a lightning-flash, the vision was gone. Not so, Zaresh. The prince cried out, looking wildly around, shouting words they could not understand. His mother reached out once, uttered a moan and then fainted.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

In the arching void overhead, it was dawn. A fleet of great, golden airships arose from Milardin; four sleek wyverns, a swarm of skuas and one mighty sea-dragon. Powered by manna, intelligent enough to fly by themselves, the droning airships seemed to flood the sky over Alandriel’s capital city. Their shadows rippled and flowed like patches of ink over buildings, stairway and harbor, their mooring-ropes trailing behind until brought in by magic and muscle. The fleet did not linger, rising high in the air and then banking hard east, seeming to glide directly into the sun.

Lord Arvendahl paced his flagship’s rumbling command deck, closely watched by the officers; by elves over whom he held power of life, death or enslavement. With him also was Filimar, looking determined. (And maybe a little bit sick.)

“We fly to the waters shielding Averna,” snarled the High Lord, “There, we shall fire a storm of void-blasts, and demand the return of the fugitives.”

“Surely, My Lord,” began Filimar. Paused and then started again, raising his voice as the wind of their passage snatched away words. “Surely, they are all dead. The kraken was observed by thousands of…”

Arvendahl whirled to face the young lord. His blue eyes narrow and seething with rage, he snapped,

“The Tarandahl mongrel lives. The Mother has told me so. He has survived, and so have his worthless underlings. He holds the answers I seek; the key to returning what was, and I will not be prevented from seizing him.”

Filimar inclined his head, swallowing hard. Like all of those present, the Arvendahl lordling knew that their ruler had lost his mind, if not one whit of his power and wrath. But, what to do? How to return the High Lord to sanity, while warning a heart-friend of danger?

As the sun shone bright over water, as a wind spiced with flowers, ash and the sea howled around them, the elven fleet soared higher still. Eastward they flew, making best speed for Averna… and war.