Sword and Sorcery, a Novel

20

With a great deal of power, there could be brought over here, causing two places quite distant in space to connect. All the ‘between’ simply dropped out of sight; folded aside through another dimension. An awesome, incredible thing.

And, if that weird outward bend dispersed energy, drawing the fangs of an earthquake? If it shifted the winds, bringing rumor of trouble to distant Ilirian? If a certain ship and two lost souls crossed over as well, their movement lost in the shuffle? Who could blame Oberyn, or complain that Order’s finger was tipping the scales?

Simply, one moment all was darkness and cityscape, with the coals for the cook-fires just being shaken to life and dawn a faint rosy blush. Then… without portal or gate, half of Karellon stooped down away, replaced by strong wind, cold salty spray and high mountains.

Clean, wild air blew across from the sort of place where an elf trod lightly (and very well armed). Here and there scraped together and bumped like some titanic ship at a dock, terribly jarring them both. A grinding crash and loud SNAP shook both locations. Stone courtyard and road somehow melded with seashore. Just like that, the two were connected by powerful magic, but not for long or for everyone.

“Quickly,” rasped Vikran the Cleric, in a voice that was more than his own. He needn’t have bothered urging, as the young elves were already armored and moving.

Valerian shot across first, with Filimar right behind him. Next came the skinny old half-elf, who at last allowed space to unfold. Val looked around; had time for only a few quick impressions before everything went to the privy.

He stood high on a wave-lashed cliff, with thundering water that pounded the stone far below. Here, too, dawn was beginning to break, now more suggestion than hint.

Off to the east, a demon of pyre and smoke was locked in battle with something small, bright and beautiful. Alfea, he thought, lunging forward. Filimar’s grip on his arm was all that stopped Val from pitching right over the edge. Looking further, Valerian saw a tall stone pillar that crumbled away at its edges. The massif was renewed time and again by one of its scrambling occupants. More than that, Bean was there, with Lerendar, the rest of his folk and Filimar’s people.

Both young elves could feel the ones that they loved, pressed on all sides by demon-fire and slashing blades. Would have rushed straight across, but then someone said,

“You scorn my gate? Ah, well… the easy way out rarely satisfies.”

Val and Filno pivoted, looking wildly around for the source of that mocking voice. Not that the source was hiding; very much opposite. Lord Arvendahl stood to their left on a high stony ridge, the sword Grassfire lightly held in one hand. His lordship was armored in black-and-green heavy plate which he wore like a shirt, as if it weighed nothing at all. Now, having baited his trap and caught a pair of young lions, he began stalking forward. With a negligent flick of his spell-hand, Arvendahl raised mighty wards all around that fragile stone pillar, blocking aid or escape.

“As of this moment, I have only toyed with my hostages, gutter-trash,” he remarked. “But that changes, now. I have roused up a stone giant. She it is that they stand upon. Once fully awake, she will smash them like gnats while you watch from the shore. Or… you may face me in combat and try to win back their lives.”

He said this quite matter-of-factly, as though discussing a trifling chore before underlings. Right.

The fair and honorable thing to have done was to call his lordship out formally, inviting that rabid warg-son to battle. Only, no one felt very fair, or especially honorable.

Val and Filimar leapt forward together, instinctively parting to flank Lord Arvendahl. The elf’s face was a pallid, expressionless mask, his raven hair blown like smoke by the wind.

Valerian struck at the magically warded seam between pauldron and breastplate, while Filimar simply attempted to hew off Arvendahl’s head. Behind them, Vikran worked at the sigils that sealed off the slumbering giant; hunting for some chink in his lordship’s spell-work, concentration or runes.

Both Nightshade and ‘Handy’ (Filno’s blade) skittered harmlessly off that polished black-and-green armor. Harmless to Arvendahl, anyhow.

“By all means, strike me again, filth,” urged the elf-lord. He smiled in satisfaction as spurting wounds appeared on both young warriors. Blood gushed from a cut to Filimar’s armpit, while Val nearly had his throat torn out by a swift, invisible edge.

“Through my arts, you damage each other, not me. But the last blow… the one that stills your foul hearts… I reserve to myself.”

Vikran switched his chanting and gestures to heal-craft, forced to abandon his efforts at saving the hostages by the fugitives’ copious blood-loss.

“Shield Filno!” Val coughed aloud, as soon as his gashed windpipe was whole again, and blood no longer pulsed from the wound. He summoned manna from the swirling spirits of ocean, wind and bright clouds, then cast fire-bolt, cocooning Arvendahl in blistering flame. Stopped short when Filimar’s armor heated to baking, though. Had to, or else watch his screaming young friend roast alive.

Lord Arvendahl’s gem-blue eyes narrowed, reflecting nothing but hatred and scorn.

“What? Too weak-willed to save your own kin by slaying this turncoat?” sneered the high lord. “You had no qualms about betraying your master Sherazedan, cur. Why stop at this worthless scum?”

Valerian shook his head, adding his own healing magic to Vikran’s, repairing Filno’s charred skin. Meanwhile, Arvendahl circled the younger elves, silencing the cleric with a contemptuous spell.

“We’ll have no more from you, puppet-of-Oberyn. Mute,” he commanded, stalking closer to Valerian. Grassfire shone in his hand with a cold, bitter light, shooting sparks like a whetstone every time Arvendahl moved.

The cleric’s voice cut off in mid-chant. He swayed where he stood, one hand clutching his throat, the other inscribing runes in midair. Val backed away from Arvendahl, moving to keep himself between his two friends and that murderous elf-lord. Wracked his brain for ideas as Arvendahl maneuvered him nearer the cliff’s edge.

“I will not permit you to fall, Tarandahl dog, because I want your blood on my sword. Want the last sound you hear to be the shrieks of your slut and her hatchling.”

Valerian parried a sudden fierce sword cut. Saw an opening, and nearly got himself killed not taking it, for the hesitation left him wide open to Arvendahl’s blistering riposte.

Got his face laid open nearly down to the bone but escaped being killed or losing an eye. Dripping blood and hot pain made it tough to focus, but he made himself look at the sigils and runes that surrounded Lord Arvendahl. Saw the magic that his enemy had woven; the spells that bound his own attacks to Filno, and Filimar’s to him.

Strong, solid spell-work, covering everything. Nearly. Just one mistake. One small thing that his lordship had failed to consider.

Hurriedly, keeping the motion hidden behind his back, Val signed three words to Filno and Vikran.

‘Rocks not covered.’

His friend was an earth-mover, like every full-blood Arvendahl. Filimar got it at once. Vikran first stared, then nodded. The cleric had been silenced, but not paralyzed. As Valerian’s meaning sank in, the cliff rose up in a great wave, shattering at its crest to a blizzard of sharp-pointed rocks. The storm of missiles hissed through the air to hammer Lord Arvendahl. Forced him to raise a shield, diverting some of his magic.

Scuttling closer, Vikran acted as well. Drawing runes, he linked little to big. The priest scuffed a line in the dirt with his foot, then used magic to transform that scratch to a bottomless trench. The opening yawned like a mouth at Arvendahl’s back, shedding great layers of rock. Valerian ducked low, pivoted and thrust out a leg, aiming to topple the startled high lord into that sudden abyss.

He connected with a thud, knocking his lordship’s feet out of under him. Arvendahl flailed and then started to fall. Seized Valerian’s plaited blond hair (which was shorter by half after Filimar’s earlier hack-job). His swinging grip on the younger elf’s braid gave Arvendahl just enough time to cast fly, dragging Valerian halfway over the edge.

Val wasn’t fighting alone, though. Filimar ported over. Next swung Handy around in a hissing arc, chopping another six inches off his friend’s plaited hair and cutting into Arvendahl’s… Val’s, rather… left hand.

Managed to arrest Valerian’s fall and swing him away from the trench, clamping the wound shut and stopping the blood with a healing spell.

“Thank you,” grunted Valerian, levitating out of his friend’s hold. The ground spun down and away beneath him as he trailed Arvendahl into the lightening sky. The difference was, his fleeing enemy could fly, swooping easily out of Valerian’s reach. Arvendahl taunted him as they soared ever higher, sneering,

“This is it? The best you can do, traitor? I looked for an actual fight. Here, I’ll make it easy for you,” mocked the elf-lord, magically dissolving his own dark armor. “Strike, coward. Cur. Worm. Cut me down, here and now, for the power binding your kin is tied to my life. Strike! Slay the exile to save your folk and his.”

Arvendahl drifted within reach, smiling scornfully. He beckoned, then spread his arms wide, protected by nothing but costly garments. That, and the absolute certainty that Valerian wouldn’t attack him, if putting an end to the vengeful lord meant harming Filimar.

“Valno, do what you have to,” shouted his friend, over the rising sea wind. “Never mind me, Kill him!”

Valerian raised Nightshade, gazing into the hate-filled blue eyes of Lord Arvendahl. Thought of Alfea, Bean, Cinda, Lerendar, Beatriz and Zara. Of Aunt Meliara, somehow caught in this, too. Of Gildyr and Salem, swept away by the hovering monster before him. He could free or avenge them all with one plunging sword stroke… at the cost of Filimar’s life.

Or not. Chances were good that the offer was false, that everyone he loved would be killed by a stone giant, while Arvendahl sat on Filimar’s corpse and applauded the show.

“Still too weak?” demanded the raven-haired elf. “Then let me provide you a bit of incentive, traitor.”

Murmuring a command to the air, Arvendahl caused an image of Bean to appear. The fussing baby was clasped in Zara’s small arms, as a beautiful wood-elf gathered them close, trying to shield the girls with her own crouched body. A fiery ring flared up around them. It began closing in as Filno’s set… Kellen, Sandor and Arien… shouted for help and battled to kick out the flames.

“Watch, coward, as my demon…”

But Arvendahl never finished his threat. Instead, Filimar struck; raising pillar after thundering pillar of stone from that wave-hammered cliff, bent on knocking his former commander out of the sky.

That excellent distraction allowed Vikran to break through the elf-lord’s silencing spell. The freed cleric gasped aloud, took a deep breath and then picked up his chant once again.

Out on a floating rock, meanwhile, Cinda drew back her bowstring. Took careful aim with a dwarf-forged arrow, murmuring,

“Fly, More-than-she-seems!”

Just over the ranger’s head, Alfea cried out in a voice of pure music and rage, hurling her spear at Skyland.

Death was here, ready to claim its dark harvest. It was there, as well. On blood-soaked ground, as another elf clung to a dying orc. Out in the void between stars, too, where alien forces hurled mountains at giant, intelligent constructs.

Just an instant’s connection, quick as a desperate gasp… but Arvendahl sensed it. He held Grassfire, not the fated sword, but struck anyhow, aiming a thrust directly at Tarandahl’s treacherous heart.

Except that Val wasn’t there. He’d put himself into Filimar’s granite pillar, turning that fountain of rumbling stone into a massive hand. Swept it across the sky to seize Arvendahl in a tight, rocky grip. Out again, then, for he was needed; wouldn't let himself hide.

“Shield!” called Vikran, raising Oberyn’s might over both younger elves.

Across the water, Cinda’s bowstring sang. Her arrow flew true, striking the demon’s skull-face alongside Alfea’s bright spear.

Below them, Beatriz flung a potion of never-burn onto Zara, Bean and Lady Faleena. As she splashed the blue liquid, Bea took a cut from a fiery sword blade that Lerendar felt. He staggered, then turned from bashing skull-heads out of the air. Learnt to port himself at that instant, getting to his wife in time to staunch blood with his own bare hands and raw manna. As for Val…

Just for that moment, all three were in contact, letting Grassfire reach them with one darting stroke. Arvendahl cried out in triumph as magical steel cut through armor and flesh. Then a banshee wailed, high and thin as the cry of a terrified kitten. Grassfire dropped from his lordship’s numbed hand. That shriek was for him, not for Tarandahl.

Light flared. First Fallon Deathsinger, then Mandor the Charmer, materialized on the tightly clenched stony fist. Arvendahl's expression became cold and imperious, suddenly. He stopped struggling long enough to bark,

“Kill them!”

(End of part six)