Sword and Sorcery, a Novel

7

With a grinding of talons on rock, the snap and rattle of leathery wings, a screeching wyvern launched itself off of that towering cliff. The other, already aloft, blasted pulses of booming sound, searching the mist for echoes. Hunting.

He had their attention, his magically boosted “dragon-call” arousing territorial frenzy. The question was: Now, what? ‘Not be there’, was one answer, which suited Miche right down to his boot soles. Letting go of the rope, he smoke-stepped away from the gaping jaws of a lashing, wagon-sized head. Lost part of his cloak, but kept life and limb, reappearing thirty yards further below. There, still drifting, he called again, luring the wyverns away from Marget, Nameless and Spots. The fawn’s plaintive bleating, the orc’s sudden wild howl, were instantly muffled by distance and smothering mist.

A third very loud rumbling scream cracked the rock-face, drawing both wyverns right to him. Sinuous, gliding silhouettes in milky-white cloud, they were; with here a golden-hot eye, there a clawed wing-joint or lance of bright flame. He hovered in streaming pale mist, spotted with droplets, listening hard. His sword was in hand, but not of much use against fast-moving predators five times his size. Even though Firelord had emerged, shooting off like a blazing lure, the wyverns continued to circle, closing their noose.

‘Even the odds,’ he thought. ‘Better yet, stack them.’

He had a bow, but no sure target. Could, on the other hand, tire the hunting-pair out pursuing him, and then… what? The notion came suddenly. For lack of better, he went with plan two. Ported back to the cliff face ahead of a roaring flame-burst. And there, somehow knowing he could, Miche just melded with rock. His senses shifted, as a sort of huge, golem-elf formed on the cliff like a freshly carved, rumbling idol. Dragon-fire hit stone, making it run like water, but harming the elf not at all.

He no longer saw or heard, but sensed changes in density, instantly spotting those two little wyverns, darting and swooping like seagulls. An avalanche of stone-chips exploded away from the cliff as a massive fist shot out at the end of a vast and powerful arm. That giant clenched hand struck the first wyvern hard. Smashed the unwary creature to spreading pink blood and small bits. Too heavy, completely unsupported, Miche’s stone arm crumbled apart, raining great boulders and sand.

No matter. Before the surviving dragon could flee, a second titanic limb swung out and around like a thunderbolt. Its spread hand snatched up that wriggling predator. Inside of his prisoning grip, Miche felt the wyvern flutter about like a moth.

Then the second arm shattered. Stone-Miche lost track of the creature locked in that plummeting fist. He waited a bit, but it didn’t come back. Dead, or too wise to continue an upended battle. Problem solved. Only… now he had to return to the ledge.

Well, being one with the stone meant not having to climb or risk a blind smoke-step. Instead of converting directly to meat, bone and blood, he felt through the cliff for a tiny wrinkle with three little softlings perched on it. There.

That his stone-form experienced time differently, Miche didn’t realize until he returned to his own flesh and blood self. Until Firelord was once more tucked into his heart. Time had passed, though. A lot of it, and a keening Marget was just about ready to start down on her own, with Nameless and Spots attached to a makeshift harness.

When he clambered back onto their ledge, weary and mist-sodden, the orc uttered a frenzied howl. She lunged to his side, plucking Miche up from the rock and into a crushing, shaking, bashing-on-stone embrace.

Marget was too incoherent, he too nearly battered unconscious for much conversation, at first. Then, she half-drowned him with cold day-brew, muttering things in orc-speech that probably weren’t endearments. A couple more slaps, a few painful nips from the marten, more day-brew on him than in him, finally roused Miche completely.

“You are alive!” accused Marget, still breathing hard.

“I was,” coughed the elf. “Not so sure, any longer.” Didn’t bother to mention the stench. Not with Nameless there, barking foul insults.

“What happened, Old One?!” Marget demanded, batting the marten away with a careless swipe. “There were dragons, then you stepped off and let go of the rope. There was terrible noise and a shaking of rock… then nothing. For candle-marks, nothing! I… we thought you were ended!”

So, he had to explain the whole business to everyone, pulling accursed apples out of his magical pockets because there was nothing else left to eat. The orc grumbled but took hers, listening closely. Demanded he tell it again, after that.

The first time, she’d watched his face like a hawk, leaning forward to catch every word. The second time, she started to smile. He hadn’t the strength for a third retelling, but the orc didn’t press.

“You said that your kind like a good story,” she rumbled. “It is true, what you have told me? Or just cities on cloud-tops, again?”

He would have laughed, but it clearly mattered to Marget, so…

“Truth. Every word. My oath on it,” the elf assured her. Good enough. She sat back a bit, grunting,

“In your own way, you are a very bold fighter, Kaledar.”

Again, she was wrong, and once more on purpose. His answering smile was brief but genuine, making him shine.

“I thank you for saying so. It is all I have ever wanted, I think. To be a fighter, like… like… I don’t know.” He shook his head then, mumbling, “Can’t remember.”

Marget’s own head cocked to one side. The habitual scowl faded a bit from that grim, tattooed face.

“Your kin would surely be proud of your deeds, Old One. The fight would be told over great haunches of meat and shared flagons.”

But the elf looked away, facing streaming blank mist rather than meet Marget’s gaze.

“They are not proud, for good reason,” he told her. “I did something vile, and I can’t change what happened.” Then, forcing a smile, “Meanwhile, there will be no meat or flagons at all, unless we get off of this cursed, goblin-scratch ledge.”

Miche arose, slipping out of the musty old blanket she’d draped on his shoulders.

“I have rested enough, and I tire of apples and stone. Care to try your luck with another descent? I could conjure a mage-wind to drive off the clouds or… if you trust yourself to a giant… carry you down as part of the cliff.” Here, he mimed holding something in two cupped hands, bearing it gently downward.

“I am ready to leave,” agreed Marget, flashing her many sharp teeth in a sudden grin. “Stone hands I trust more than drifting and twirling like bait, Old One. I would have something under my feet and see this great sight for myself.”

Her confidence did much to restore the elf’s mood and his manna. Nodding, he went into the stone once more. Again, with a tremendous rumble and clatter, the cliff seemed to form a great idol. Marget clung tightly to Spots and Nameless as their ledge pushed itself outward, taking the shape of two mighty hands. Next, they began to descend, breaking out of the clouds and into the humid warmth down below.

Very humid. Terribly warm. But, out of the mist and… two candle-marks later… back onto firm, level ground. Once they’d got to the rift valley floor, Miche tumbled back out of the rock. Staggered a bit, confused by the shift in perspective and sudden return of his vision and hearing.

Marget caught him before he could fall, turning the elf around to face that towering cliff. He saw his own giant image, there. Still frowning in concentration, frozen forever in stone. Birds and fire-lizards flapped and screeched all around the rock titan, seeking their shifted nests.

Marget slapped his back.

“Truth, for certain,” she roared, adding, “No more can you be called ‘Short One’. Now you must be Uthrek. Vallerak, in your language. ‘Young Tree’.”

Miche gave no outward sign. Not this time. But ‘Vallerak’ went straight to his core and lodged there; gift of one fast becoming a friend.

He was rubbery-tired, but not yet done in. They needed security. A base camp from which to hunt and explore the surrounding damp forest. Changing the subject, he turned his back on that giant stone figure, saying,

“It is late. Nearly sixth watch, I think. We must have shelter against the night and whatever dwells in this tepid bathwater.”

There were great trees and weird, ringing shrieks all around. Chunks of dropped stone had crushed great stands of forest, revealing an ancient road. Worth looking into… later. Here and now, the light was draining like wine from a broken cup.

“Cliffs have caves,” grunted Marget, squinting upward at Miche-shaped stone. “The Free-People north camp is dug into a mountainside. I can make fire, dress meat, in such shelter. Also… anything coming to sniff out the new god will be shocked to see him in person. We can gaff them like fish as they stand there and gape.”

“No hunting my worshippers,” said the elf, smiling a little. “Only the non-believers.”

He shared the last of their water with Marget, Nameless and Spots. Then they set off, choosing eastward along the cliff, because that way lay Amur, and a third broken shrine.