Sword and Sorcery, a Novel

21

Raven-haired Ninursa was one of the Seven Gods who Decree. Or had been. Now, she flowed up from a long-hidden sidhe. Out to the surface. War was coming. Battle was soon to be joined; a fight in which every remaining pantheon, their children and lesser reflections, would find themselves caught. There was no escape and no place to hide from this last, deepest stab at reality. Fate was inexorable.

The Seven Gods were not much worshipped outside of their haven, but their adopted child… a young mortal fighter… was out in the wide world. Reason enough to risk venturing forth.

Ninursa was only a splinter of Creation and Nature, now; barely a shade of her former great self. Where once entire herds, youths and maidens had been offered in slaughter and service, these days a few pecked apples topped her crumbled stone altars. As for followers… here a grim farmer, there a shy milkmaid still sang the old hymns; still chanted her names, for good luck.

The Seven could have stayed hidden. They could have let themselves wither and fade as war swept Order and Chaos and all of the realms in between. Instead, they had chosen to act.

In her slim hands, Ninursa carried a sword. It was all that remained of Nanna and Enli, joined together in one last act of Creation. With their own divine substance, Ninursa’s first children had formed a terrible weapon; its sharpness spectral, its strike unerring. With this sword, one might cleave the breath and life from a god, without doing visible harm.

With this sword, one might transfix reality, break even adamant chains. Made from two sacrificed gods, light and dark, the weapon’s fate was uncertain. Great evil was certainly possible, but also the thrust that would cripple Chaos for eons to come.

It had been made, for good or ill. It existed. Very soon, it would summon a wielder. Not Ninursa, who had chosen to give up her own last safety and life-force by taking it out of the sidhe. Their adopted son, their dear Villem, would have to convey it the rest of the way, if only Ninursa could reach him in time. If only she had enough strength.

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Aboard Seahorse, Lerendar stood with one hand on the forward rail, leaning into the wind and the spray. With his right arm he embraced Beatriz, who held their young daughter.

Zara bounced and wriggled in her mother’s arms, exclaiming and pointing at wonders. Their sleek elven ship was now gliding into Epona’s harbor, responding to Lerendar’s docking command. As they drew nearer and the Isles’ screening mist faded, a sight of such golden beauty and peace appeared, that all aboard ship were left speechless, blinking like turnips fresh from the dirt. All but Beatriz, that is, who frowned, peering forward and murmuring,

“Renny… what? What’s everyone staring at? All I can see are some giant, bird-covered rocks and this fog!”

His wife-to-be’s curly hair was silvered all over with mist droplets, where everyone else was dry. Her eyelashes also dripped with pale dew, and her wide, dark eyes wandered sightlessly. She was a mortal. A human; long with the elves, but blinded and pent by the Bann. A problem he could now fix.

Lerendar took Zara from her mother, then handed the child to Ava, who still hovered nearby. Next, taking Bea’s face in his hands, he kissed her forehead and both dark eyes. Leaned back, afterward, still holding her face, using his thumbs to wipe off that silvery mist.

“Choice of my heart,” he said to her, “See.”

And she did, all at once wide-eyed and gasping. He hadn’t the sigils or spells to control his newly found magic, but here in the Isles, that didn’t matter.

“Oh…” she whispered. “Oh, Renn, it’s…”

“I know,” he said, when she faltered, staring and clutching at Lerendar’s arm.

Seahorse was already striking sail, slipping beneath the great arch of mithral and pearl that spanned the two arms of Epona’s great harbor wall. The sheltered port was an ancient crater, long ago claimed by the sea. At its western edge, that crater rim had collapsed, leaving a natural harbor and seawall.

Every bit of its shimmering stone was carved and jeweled, portraying ten-thousand epics. Soft light came from everywhere, not just the warm golden sun. There were people and creatures about, most making music or talking, seated on stone or on cloud. Said the bard, Andorin,

“A word of advice, Lando… good people… the Isles are very beautiful, but also dangerous to those who do not know their ways. It is terribly easy here, to forget.”

The way he said that word, the color he put on it, made clear to all that here the past was a thing one could shed like a snakeskin.

“Eat or drink nothing you haven’t paid for with coin,” the sea-elf continued. “And keep these about you at all times.”

So saying, Andorin produced a handful of dull metal amulets, spiked like burrs and hung on thin chains. Everyone from Lerendar right down to Pretty One had an amulet hung ‘round their neck, where it was just a bit heavy, slightly sharp and uncomfortable.

“What are they?” asked Katina, as Andorin looped hers and then little Bean’s.

“They are the truth, the past, and the reason you’re here, whatever that means to you. No lure of the Isles can lead you completely astray, so long as you keep your amulet on and remain together.”

“You’ll be with us, Sea-singer, won’t you?” asked Lady Alfea, placing a gentle hand on his arm. But the bard shook his head, saying,

“No, Milady. I shall remain on the shore, facing home. Something has happened, back in Averna. I feel it even through all of this lulling peace. I would keep a clear head and ready my magic, in case I am summoned.”

Andorin’s gills opened briefly, then snapped shut again, a sign of concern or surprise. Elmaris slouched over to stand by his heart-friend.

“Believe I’ll stay with you, Prince of bad manners and puddles. Unending peace and delight hold no charms for me. I’d just end up making more trouble.” (Which was probably true.)

Bronn, the dragon-scarred ranger, was next to come forward. Reflexively tugging her hood lower, she mumbled,

“I’ll go with This One and the others. If anyone strays, I’ll haul them back to the ship.”

No one had to remain with Seahorse, for the ship could take care of herself. The graceful serpent-hunter coasted into Epona’s harbor, barely raising a wake. Making for the polished white-marble docks, she cut water as clear and bright as blue glass. Her shadow matched her below, seeming to ripple and fly over sand the color of pearl.

Nearing her goal, Seahorse backwatered a bit with shimmering spectral fins, slowing to a gentle stop at the harbor’s main pier. Lines snaked themselves up from their coils on deck, looping smoothly about the pier’s golden cleats. Tugged by invisible hands, those lines hauled Seahorse snug to the padded stone wharf. Next, her gangway slid forth, rattling slightly as it crossed the distance from swaying deck to firm land.

Lerendar gathered his people, checking twice to be sure that they still had their amulets. The sky overhead was as clear and bright as the waters below, sporting slight drifting wisps of opaline cloud. The scent was a mixture of ocean, enchantment and forest, promising greater wonders ahead.

Once all was seen to and organized, the tall elf-lord preceded them down the gangway. He’d expected to meet a harbor master or public official, but no such person materialized. Lerendar settled the matter by leaving three golden coins atop a carved piling. Then, telling Seahorse,

“We’ll return once we’ve found word of my brother. See to needed repairs and scrubbing, in the meantime,”

…he brought them ashore.

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Before anything else (before even deciding where to go next) Falcon took care of her dead. There were paladins aboard, now, and one fellow high-elf, meaning that honors and final release could be given to those who’d fallen defending their ship.

Captain Hallan, Lady Meliara, the druid, wizard and paladins pooled their magics to create a ghost-ship alongside of Falcon. Shining with spectral light, the translucent vessel was Falcon, but mirror-reversed and unfocused. The name and colors were different, for it wasn’t entirely real. Shrike, was painted onto its bow, while those wandering eyes glowed a very pale green.

Spells kept the two airships tethered, as Falcon’s dead were carried across a gangplank that started out wood and ended up manna. The ocean and clouds could be seen down below, half-glimpsed through spectral planking and armor.

Gildyr lifted and carried his share of the fallen crew, bringing them over once a paladin blessed and spoke over each corpse. Seven dead, plus Captain Varric, who Hallan carried, himself. Though elsewhere the storm mounted and raged, near Falcon and Shrike those clouds did not come. They streamed westward, instead; seeming to follow Vancora, Terroc and Deathstroke.

On the Shrike’s glowing deck Gildyr, with Hallan and Falcon’s other survivors, laid out the dead. Carefully, with weapons placed alongside. At last, the job was done, though Hallan was very slow to leave Captain Varric’s body. Kept moving his brother’s sword nearer to hand, twitching the canvas shroud away from his face…

“He’ll want to be able to see.”

…finding reason on reasons to linger. Gildyr looked over at Lady Meliara. She was nearer in rank to young Hallan than any mere wood-elf and could speak to the heartbroken boy as an equal.

She nodded, stepping over to place a light hand on Hallan’s slumped shoulder. They’d tried repeatedly to bring Falcon’s dead back to life, but the way was blocked. The door shut. The dead prevented from crossing back over. That crushed hope had torn the survivors almost as badly as their crewmates’ death.

Meliara whispered to Hallan, now, speaking of duty and honor, courage and love. Of living to finish what Varric had started.

“The vessel is yours now, Captain. I am a seer. A voice of the gods. And though dark is the way, there is hope at the end, for you and for those you set sail with this night.”

Hallan blinked. Only just not crying. Very quietly, he said,

“I keep thinking, maybe it’s just a bad dream. Keep waiting for Varric to sit up and laugh at me. If… when I get back to Falcon… h- he’ll be dead for sure. He’s my brother and… and how can I turn my back and just let him be dead? Don’t the gods know that I need my brother?!"

Meliara’s breath caught. Thinking of sorrow to come, her blue eyes strayed to Villem, standing at the other end of the gangplank with Gildyr. Being mortal, he hadn’t come aboard Shrike. Turning back to the boy, she said,

“Love is always a risk, Hallan. But a risk worth taking. Give him his honors and let him go, trusting that your cry has been heard, and all will come right in the end.”

Hallan was captain, now. He had to be strong. He nodded, already older, in the manner of elves under terrible stress. Meliara preceded him back to the Falcon. Then, once he stood braced on a solid deck once more, Hallan conjured flame. As the tabaxi’s monkey piped a tune, Hallan whispered into the ball of fire he held cupped in his hands. Then, taking a very deep breath, he pitched it across the space between Falcon and Shrike.

The ghost ship burst into pale, spectral flame. Bluish-tinged fire raced up Shrike’s rigging, tank and mast. Higher still, to the great rigid float and directional sails. Down to the bodies they’d laid out on deck, as well.

Shrike moved on her own. As she turned away, pulling free of the Falcon, glowing figures came to stand at the rail and look over. One of them, red-haired and tall, was Captain Varric.

The spirit smiled fondly and lifted a hand in salute at his brother. Hallan saluted back, bidding a last farewell to the friends and crew who’d helped raise him. Beside their young captain, Laurol, Sarrit and Not-Jon added and held their own sharp salutes. Together, they stood at the rail as Shrike sailed away through the sky. Stayed there long after the ghost ship was only another bright star; a wavery dot seen through tears that no one let fall.