Sword and Sorcery, a Novel

27

It was an evening of miracles, all over Karellon. Most were fairly minor; a meal doubled here, a sentence commuted there… a straightened limb or the sudden relief of old pain. There seemed to be no central focus except for the city itself. Even His Imperial Majesty, waiting alone by his dragon, gained strength… But some of those manifestations were quite grand, indeed.

Out in Low Town, Valerian put away Serrio’s message scroll, feeling the first surge of real hope he’d had since being plucked out of Starloft. There’d been no time to rest, barely a pause to draw breath once the druid turned up… and since then he’d drawn the wrath of Lord Arvendahl, been hunted by a dark goddess and crushed in the gears of some cosmic machine. Next, he’d been waylaid going through Arvendahl’s death-trap gate, by creatures who’d begged him for help. Now, Filimar’s father was dead. Murdered. All in the span of three days. All of it somehow his fault.

Filno stirred, looking back over one shoulder as Valerian guided them over the island-like stones of Bogg Street. That reeking grey mud was now pocked with small copper motes that fizzled on hitting the ground. Not an improvement. But…

“Do you hear that, Valno?” whispered the exiled young noble. “Do you hear the music?” There was a feverish intensity to Filimar’s stare that Valerian liked not at all.

“No,” he said shortly, hauling his friend to the next slimy steppingstone. “I hear nothing, and neither do you. It is a busy street, Filno. There are taverns and shops. All of this noise has confused you.”

The Constellate chapter house lay just a few yards away, but traffic was heavy; merchants, beggars and street children were everywhere. Maybe there was something; very faint, soft and sad. But if so, Val wasn’t listening.

Filimar struggled to free himself, making a scene right there in the street. He was filled with maddened strength, twisting and writhing in Valerian’s headlock. The taller elf would not let Filimar go, drawing manna from deep reserves, city ley-lines and his own future; whatever it took to hold on and keep moving. Then, just as the music that was not there called even sweeter, a genuine miracle happened.

With a noise like a herd of wallowing swine, Bogg Street’s foul mud parted all down the length of the thoroughfare. A small, clear stream of running water appeared next, coursing along between grubby banks and haphazard steppingstones. Clear, running water, and safety from evil.

Val took firm hold of Filimar, then lifted his struggling friend with a grunt and threw him. Heaved him right over that sudden bright stream. The music called, speaking in loved ones’ voices, offering peace. One of its targets was out of reach, though. Filimar, blinking and bruised, had landed hard and was back on his feet in a scrambling instant. He spotted Valerian starting to turn and reflexively lashed out to seize him.

The heart-sick young elf grabbed tight hold of cloak, shirt and blond hair, then yanked his friend over the Bogg Street River, away from that beckoning music. Next, the chapter house door banged open, releasing a flood of young urchins and one concerned cleric. He was an older half-elf with spiky white hair topping a seamed, kindly face and blue eyes. Dressed in robes the color of dawn, he ordered the children back.

“Stay behind me, Little Ones. Something has happened out here and…” Then, noticing Val and Filimar, “Oh. Your pardon, my lords. This unworthy priest didn’t see you, at first.”

The cleric bowed low, adding,

“How may the way-house of Oberyn serve?”

It was Filimar who responded, for Val had gone pale, drained and weary. Pushing raven-dark hair off his face and getting himself back together, Filno said,

“No pardon required, good priest. We would take lodging here, in…” Filimar paused, doubtfully scanning that knocked-together wood shack. ‘The best rooms you have’, he’d been about to say. Switched to “Whatever accommodation is available.”

His father was dead. His name and rank stripped, his people in flight. His future had darkened and shrunk to a bottomless void, but he had never lacked courage. Now, Filimar decided that he’d imagined the beckoning melody. Felt safer that way. Less trapped.

Lifting his head, he forced the steel back into his spine. Walked calmly over to face the old cleric, guiding his wobbly friend.

“I am Filimar, newly adopted as Tarandahl. This is my heart-friend, Valerian.” He did not ask the cleric’s name but got it anyhow. The half-elf smiled, saying,

“Welcome, my lords. The way-house of Oberyn is open to all, and I am his cleric, Vikran the younger.”

As in, son of Vikran Sanderyn, First Lord-Accountant? If so, he was a friend of the palace, and one to be treated with care and muted respect. Filno inclined his head.

“My regards to your Lord and your honored Sire as well, good priest. The welcome is accepted and…” for a moment, he almost broke down, feeling the terrible anguish of Tormun’s loss. “…and very much needed.”

Vikran the younger made a sign of blessing over them both, intoning,

“My Lord Oberyn has Acted today. I felt his will and his movement, just now. Your coming here at this time is surely a part of his plan, young lords.”

Filimar hadn’t the heart to smile or dissemble. Just stared at the cleric through eyes that held nothing but fury and pain.

“Maybe he could have ‘acted’ a bit earlier, Priest,” snarled Filimar. “Maybe he could have done something to save my father.”

His sudden torment was shared, rousing Valerian. The blond elf-lord shook off bone-deep exhaustion, managing to focus on Vikran.

“Off the street, if you please, Hand of Oberyn. We would ask your advice, as well as your shelter… but here in public is no place to speak.”

The children had gathered close, keeping behind Vikran while craning to stare at the elf-lords. The cleric shooed them out of the way.

“Back, Little Ones. Clear a path. It is rude to stare. Bow, rather. Sera, fetch water… from the new river is fine, yes. Pol, make sure the north chamber is aired out and ready. Fresh linens, please. Teena, prepare a meal for their lordships. Each of you chose three companions to aid in your work and be off.”

As those excited young orphans pattered away, Vikran gestured at the open door of his chapter house.

“Enter, my lords, with Oberyn’s blessing,” he bade them.

Inside, the house was larger than it seemed from the street. Magically so.

“Like our food and funds, accommodation grows to meet the needs of our congregation,” Vikran explained. He guided them through the front door and across the shabby first room to a battered and sagging old couch.

Filimar stiffened at the prospect of seating himself on that veteran of many rumps. Valerian plunked himself right down, though, glad to be sitting anywhere at all. After a moment, very gingerly, Filimar eased down as well (perching as close to the edge of the couch as minor lift-magic would let him).

A low wooden table was carried in by a crowd of giggling children. Then day-brew was brought on a tray, borne by a greenish young half-orc who chirped,

“Good day and Lord Oberyn’s peace, my lords. My name is Teena. Please take refreshment before your meal.” She spoke in a tremulous rush, sounding rehearsed and looking quite anxious. Valerian smiled at her.

“I thank you, Teena.” She probably had no family left to whom he might offer return blessings or service, so Val simply told her, “You are an excellent hostess.”

The girl blushed, ducking her head to conceal a shy smile.

“Thank you, Milord,” she whispered, darting out of the room with many pauses to bow and look back.

“We educate and train these little ones,” said Vikran. “Many were dropped on our steps as infants or wandered in off the streets after the death or arrest of their parents.”

The cleric worked as he spoke, first pouring hot day-brew into a trio of mismatched cups, then handing the elves each a drink. There was brown sugar, spice-bark and a small jug of milk on the tray.

The elves busied themselves with their day-brew while Vikran drew up a chair and sat down before them. He was the Feen of a high courtly family, given over in service to Oberyn, perhaps to repay a vow. Placing his hands on his knees, leaning slightly forward, the cleric gazed at his noble guests.

“Trouble clouds you like smoke, my lords, and Chaos hovers nearby… yet I sense that you are not without allies. What do you seek of Lord Oberyn, honored guests?”

Valerian glanced at Filimar, then set down his cup. The day-brew was bracing and hot. Unsweetened, because he never took sugar (unlike Filno, whose day-brew crunched when he stirred it). But they hadn’t come to this place for refreshment, or the spiced biscuits fetched to their table by that same blushing girl.

“Made ‘em myself, Milords,” she muttered, before being waved off by Vikran. Teena peered around what was no doubt the kitchen door, so Val made sure to eat one of the biscuits before saying,

“We bring nothing but trouble, Hand of Oberyn. I would not lie to you and cannot lie to your lord. We have a powerful enemy who seeks after our lives, attacking Averna when we sought shelter there. I would not have such horror descend on you, or your charges.”

Vikran’s facial seams shifted about in another broad smile. He shook his head, saying,

“I believe that Lord Oberyn is well able to care for his own, young sir. I am his hand, and I obey his will. If you are sent from this place, it will not be from fear. Speak freely and truly, dreading no censure. What seek you here?”

“Safe lodging,” admitted Valerian. “Until I have made my way through palace administration and presented myself to the Honor Guard Captain. I have an idea, as well… a notion of how I might help my new brother.” Did not mention Lord Tormun. Didn’t have to. Filimar was suddenly electric with manna and tension. “I will need your permission… and the god’s… to perform a rite of summoning, here.”

Vikran pursed his lips, nodding thoughtfully.

“I appreciate your candor, young lord. As you have said, there is no lying to the god, but you would be startled to learn how many have tried.” Then, changing the subject, “Supper will be ready, soon. No doubt you will wish to cleanse and refresh yourselves before eating, and I must consult with Lord Oberyn. Rykka, here, will see you to your room in the meantime. Be assured of at least a night’s shelter. The rest lies with heaven.”

Val smiled wearily.

“We cannot ask more, Hand of Oberyn. Many thanks, from both of us.”

The small party broke up moments later, beginning a tense, brittle wait. One that seemed even longer to she who stalked the shadows outside.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Terroc had vanished into the night, driven away by contrary winds or rebellion. Maybe just downed. Well off to starboard an intense flash of light had appeared. Another flare from the tempest below, or else manna and fuel, burning bright as a star, ignited by cannon and ram.

Lord Arvendahl hadn’t the time or attention to care. All of his will and remaining power were bent on keeping Vancora flying until he could bring the airship safely to port. The ceaseless rumble of thunder and strong, gusting winds made any descent a grave risk. He might have ordered a climb, but staying aloft at very high altitude would drain what little manna they had, even faster.

Well, there was more than one way to recharge the ship and himself. His first mate had survived, with a broken arm and a facial burn. Turning to look at her, Arvendahl snapped,

“Bring us down within lightning-strike range and then drop the stern engine mast.”

She bowed, saying,

“Yes, Milord. At once.”

The fires were out and the worst of Vancora’s hull breaches patched. What they needed most now was power. Arvendahl watched the officer hurry away to the quarter-deck, the sound of her footsteps carried off by the wind. For himself, he chose to remain at the taffrail, watching the storm. Would not let death catch him inside, away from the stars and the wind. If it came, he would not be entombed in his cabin. He would meet it head on, with a curse in his heart that nothing could alter or balk.

A few moments later, he heard the engines change pitch from stressed whine to low rumble. Felt the deck tilt beneath him as the horizon slanted. Vancora was turning further into the wind as she nosed downward. Then gears meshed and whirred as a hatch at the airship’s stern opened up. Next, with a very loud clatter, a slim mithral mast poured out of its hold. It was composed of thin metal rods held together by sections of chain and meant to trail after the airship. The mast was a hundred yards long, ending in a seven-foot, star-shaped antenna.

Rather than wait and watch as Vancora descended, dragging its mast through the clouds below, Lord Arvendahl called up his charts. The skies were notoriously free of navigational markers, but his maps were enchanted. Using them, the dark-haired elf could see precisely where his ship lay compared to that too-distant coast.

They weren’t where they needed to be. Time and again, attempting to reach Milardin… reach any port in Alandriel… they’d been driven off course. Vancora was now over three hundred miles too far east. As for the floating islands, those were mostly abodes of pirates and slavers; criminal scum. They were impossible to properly chart, in any case, for they constantly shifted about. Some were big as mountains, others as small as a fisherman’s hovel. Frequent site of marooning and murder, and no place at all for Vancora.

Arvendahl ordered another course correction once the first officer returned to his side. He kept her running… kept all of the remaining crew busy… giving them no time at all to hatch plots or grow fearful.

Didn’t surprise him a bit when a sudden glittering tendril of seawater flowed up that mithral engine mast, untroubled by rattling wind or sheets of wild lightning. It was Shanella, of course… but no matter. Let the witch speak. Let her bluster and threaten. In the meantime, Vancora’s tanks were refilling, as storm-manna surged through the trailing antenna.

That watery tendril arched up and over to touch Vancora’s deck. There, more seawater flowed into its bulging free end, forming a silvery, feminine shape. Deliberately taller than Arvendahl, standing between him and all that was left of the crew, Shanella’s doppelganger looked casually around. Then,

“You seem to be missing something, void-crawler,” sneered the ocean-witch, sounding like rumbling surf. “Twenty-one airships, perhaps? Most of your mud-creeping followers? They feed the crabs and the tube-worms, now… as you will, yourself, soon enough. I am glad of this chance to say it to your face, to deliver my people’s spite and their scorn. With pride I repeat their vow to name every one of our middens and trash pits after your fallen ships.”

That was what Shanella growled to Lord Arvendahl, but the other side of her head had a face as well, and that one was turned to his frightened crew. In a voice pitched so that only they could hear it she said,

“You need not die this night, nor lose your air-bubble ship, dry-landers. If you would live to see morning, throw Arvendahl over the side. The winds will cease, the storm will dissipate, and you may return to your homes. Or continue to follow his lead and perish. Do you know what it feels like to drown, voidlings? Or to smash on the ocean’s surface after a drop from this height?”

Young Tamar, the cabin-girl, started to sob. None of the rest made any sound at all, but the looks they exchanged were quite clear, bringing a smile to Shanella’s watery face. On the other side, Lord Arvendahl had harvested enough power to send a lance of crackling force through her simulacra and tendril, back to the cursed sea-queen, herself. With any luck at all, he’d roast her like a quail.

Dissipated that swirling, silvery image, anyhow; causing a slosh of seawater to rain down onto the deck. Revealed the spooked, half-mad crew, as well.

Arvendahl wasn’t a fool. He could tell exactly what they were thinking and guess what the sea-witch had offered them. Read the resolve in their eyes and met it with twice as much of his own. There would be no mutiny this night, or ever.

Smiling ironically, Arvendahl sent a sudden blast of power into Vancora’s steering system, his harvested storm-manna welding it into a useless lump of fused gears and bent drive shafts. That done, he opened a gate on the deck, lifted a hand in mocking salute, and stepped through to safety.

A storm of despairing shrieks, the noise of over-stressed engines and howling winds were cut off completely, as Arvendahl left them behind.