Sword and Sorcery, a Novel

2

“A good death, wasn’t it?” Marget gasped, as she crashed to her knees on the stony ground. Sagged sideways, one arm a snake with its fangs in her flesh, the other a torn open, shredded socket. Blood spurted from her in great, heart-driven gouts; surely more than one person could lose and… and not die. Not here, not now. Not with a brother to fight for her life, as she’d fought for his.

Miche crossed the distance between them in a ported bound, reflexively leaping to catch her. Nameless shot out of his hood and into the undergrowth, screeching and barking. The elf scarcely noticed, taking Marget into his arms and kneeling in a clatter of armor to haul her close. She was in shock from terrible pain, from venom and blood loss, her red eyes already glazing.

No.

Miche poured all that he had left of his own power and lifeforce into the wounded orc, sealing blood vessels with conjured fire, numbing torn nerves and ripped flesh. Worked that writhing snake-arm’s fanged jaws loose, spelling it back to its normal arm-shape. Kept talking, as well. Praised her strength and her prowess in battle, telling of his (Erron’s) early mistakes on the practice field (which were many, and humorous).

Death hovered near; that shadowy, raven-winged specter. That last-of-all-gods. But Miche shook his head stubbornly. Linked his own life to Marget’s with a tense, muttered vow.

“I will dare the Wheel at her side, Cold One. If my heart-sister goes, so do I.” And so falls this world, he did not have to add. Death did not answer directly, making no other move than to coil like smoke. Waiting.

NO.

Nameless came scurrying back with a mouthful of scrounged leaves. Heart’s ease, bud-gentle, feverfew, comfrey and agrimony, mostly, with a few pine needles mixed in, as well.

“Thank you,” said Miche, conjuring a pot, fire and water, then crushing the herbs with one hand. Held Marget close with his right arm, rocking slightly back and forth, alternating tales with the song that takes away pain. It was a very short rhyme; a bare-bones first charm that every elf knew from young childhood and sang in the very same way, for themselves and for those that they loved.

‘Little lights, little lights, come take away pain. Little lights, little lights, make it better, again.’

Marget had sung her own version, whilst tattooing his shoulders and back, what felt like forever ago, in their cave shelter. Here on that wind-scoured ridge, Miche did the same, incorporating some of her rhythms and accent. Familiarity mattered, and he’d healed her from venom before. That mattered, too.

Rising out of his conjured fire, darting from under the pot, fey-lights began to appear. First a hand-and-a-half, then a dozen, then hundreds, all hovering close in response to the song. They settled like glittering dust on Marget’s raw, hollow arm socket, providing relief and protection from mortal infection.

She will live. She has to.

Firelord had been tightly curled up in his follower’s heart. Now, the small god expanded again; flowing outward from Miche and into the wounded orc. Warmed her up. Kept what blood she had moving and burnt away toxin, while pushing her heart to keep knocking and jerking along.

When the tea was ready, Miche took it off the fire, then blew on the greenish liquid to cool and bless it. Fished a cup out of his magical… faerie… pockets and used it to dip up and gently drip tea into Marget’s slack mouth.

A sudden fierce, hot pain, like a sword-thrust, nearly made him drop cup and orc, both. He could feel a sharp, bludgeoning point cut through his armor, slice flesh and split bone. Then he was… more. There were two others, both somehow him.

The elf’s surroundings became a weird blend of high ridge, clifftop battlefield and noisy cockpit. But just like before, when he’d met his ‘brother’ in the witch’s dark portal, Miche turned away from the contact; ashamed of whatever he’d done to deserve all this. Unable to speak to those shining, bold heroes.

Was pulled up and out and crazily through himself then, seeing… wonders. Marvels. Things for which he had no words at all, but somehow brought comfort. After that, he was once more himself. The vision receded, leaving him back on the ridge and somehow unwounded. The sun rose at last, bringing hope after darkness and pain. Miche bowed as well as he could. Started singing the Dawn Hymn, still fighting for Marget.

You are not going to win this. You cannot have her.

Nameless had darted off once again, returning with another mouthful of plants and a few late blackberries. Miche stopped singing to thank his small friend, scratching the marten’s ears before adding fresh herbs to the tea. Ate one of the blackberries, though. Found no apples at all in his faerie pockets. Just… miracle of gods and high powers… day-brew powder. Endless, blessed, day-brew powder. A gift from his brother (he thought) along with that powerful energy sword.

Nor was the morning done with surprises. Almost unnoticed over gusting wind and concern for his sister, a big, slow-moving shadow crept over them. Miche looked upward, squinting a little. Saw, unbelievably, the airship Dark Cloud.

Trailing its snapped mooring chains and part of the twisted-free gangplank, Cloud moved like a sleep-drifter; barely afloat, slow as trickling blood.

‘Captain,’ it said in his mind. “There is a bunk prepared aboard ship, with healing supplies on hand.’

The sleek, black airship flexed a ribbed steering wing, bringing itself within boarding distance of Miche. It had extruded a quarterdeck, he noticed. Raised masts and a partly full manna tank, too.

Right. Sometimes the new dawn brought wonders. Sometimes, only more trouble. As the elf gathered Marget up in arms and surged to his feet, he saw that the witch’s body was gone, along with Marget’s left arm. Maybe the work of scavengers… Maybe his enemy, picking up pieces for later.

No. She is not going to die.

Death was still present but fading. Now, that hollow-faced specter folded its wings and nodded. Then, like a mist, it was gone.

As Dark Cloud lowered a twisted gangplank, raising sparks from bare stone, Miche faced northward, looking across at a very dark and turbulent landscape.

“You failed,” he whispered. “Marget’s alive. We all are. And we’ll be ready.”