Sword and Sorcery, a Novel

10

Lord Falcoridan Arvendahl was nobody’s game piece, weapon or slave. He would not be used by the powers of Chaos… but neither would Falco bow his head, submitting to insult and loss at Order’s behest.

A weapon of power had been created, was making its way toward Karellon, perhaps to the very same Tarandahl cur he intended to squash like a grape (in whatever guise or timeline the traitor infested). That godly sword had been dangled before him like bait by his captive demon, Skyland… but Arvendahl wasn’t a fool. Chaos gave nothing for free, left nothing behind but corpses, and Falco refused to be manipulated. Would not serve any but one.

As he paced amidst the weapons and artifacts of a wide and eclectic hoard, his lordship summoned food and drink for himself. Ate a meal that he barely tasted; drank bottled glory and sunshine that could not impair him. Not here.

There was more than one way to lash out at Tarandahl, he mused. His hired assassins might have failed to corner the whelp, but the boy’s weakness, everywhere, was…

“Friends. Family. He will not put them in danger. Will not turn aside from a cry for aid,” mused the raven-haired lord. He disposed of his leftover food, then magically cleansed himself, adding, “And that may be played to advantage, luring traitor and exile, both.”

Here in the ‘stronghold’ was manna aplenty (if very weird, grainy and cold). The leftover dust of unworshipped gods, it brought its user great power and insight, while turning the mind to strange thoughts, wild obsessions. Not Arvendahl, though. Like mighty Sherazedan, he was above such frailty.

Hmmm… He’d gated Tarandahl and the exile through a one-way portal on Vancora, shortly after attacking those cursed sea-elves. Their essence remained in that gate, which his lordship could open again, with sufficient power and preparation. Had to make ready, first, constructing a very specific cell, then reaching through place and time for his bait.

The traitor-apprentice and exile had loved ones and friends. Very well. Let them suffer as Arvendahl had. Let them feel the ones that they cared for, trapped and torn slowly apart. Easy enough to choose whom to take. Simple as slashing a throat, to then fashion his trap.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

“Now, the truth. Who are you, really? Why have you come here?”

“I… c- can’t… te...”

“Answer me!”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

On Seahorse, gliding through sunlit waters, they'd all gathered down in the ballroom. They were a friendly, uncritical audience, nodding polite approval as three clumsy small girls learnt to dance-fight.

Then, in mid-note and awkward hop-shuffle, people were torn away from the cabin and ported right off. Lerendar, Zara and Beatriz… Lady Alfea and Bean…even Pudgy, who sensed what was happening and barked aloud. The little dog lunged for his vanishing mistress as fast as four churning bowlegs could carry him.

At Freeport, on Falcon, another was taken. Meliara, golden voice of the gods, bowed her head.

“It is fated,” she whispered, there at the docked airship’s rail. Managed to turn to her paladin, Villem. Said, “I lo…” Then she, too, vanished away.

Off in Karellon, meanwhile, Cinda was plucked in mid-flight. Valerian’s bodyguard, she would not be stuffed in some ‘maiden’s wing’ to embroider shirts and await his return. Halfway out of a high, narrow window (unconscious guards in her path) the dark-haired ranger popped out of sight like a furious bubble.

Others were seized through space and time, both; Lady Faleena, with Arien, Sandor and Kellen. These were caught as they ported, on the final leap of their desperate flight from Milardin. More effort (but intensely satisfying) was reaching through time to seize Lord Tormun, just as that traitorous wretch was about to smash like an egg on the water.

And then, last of all (puzzling, but taken off because that’s where the blood-magic drew him) a hawk. The flame-red bird wheeled high over Karellon, not seeking prey but its kin.

All of them went between heartbeat and gasp, leaving flashes of light and the crack of collapsing air in their wake. Every one of the taken intended as bait.