Sword and Sorcery, a Novel

2

In another time, aboard the air-cutter Falcon, speeding cautiously south by southwest:

Captain Hallan Gelfrin bolted a hasty meal (slamming ship’s biscuit, dried meat and a full tot of grog). Then he raced back to his… was it bad to say ‘his’? Was it disloyal to Varric? He hadn’t wanted command. Not like this. Was physically larger but not any older than he had been when Varric fell to the deck defending him, but…

But his office, his ship, his command it was, and he’d die and be lost to the winds before letting harm come to Falcon. And harm was certainly near. Though the storm had abated, an apparition took place. Almost another miracle. A spectral goddess had come aboard ship, bearing a sword that blazed black and white, mixing evil and good, Chaos and Order together. A thing of horrific power.

The unknown goddess had perished bringing that weapon to Falcon, handing it off to one of the passengers, a male human paladin. With the airship’s alarms blaring like war bells inside of his head, Hallan had raced across deck to confront that phantasm… but there had been no violence at all. Only prophecy. Only a charge.

Still in turmoil, the young elf got to his cabin, signaled the hatch open and stalked inside. The paladins were scheduled to meet with him next for their interview, but he needed to think, first.

Down a short flight of stairs, then, and across to his desk. To the mage globe and captain’s log. Hallan thumped down in the chair, then opened the book; calming himself and the vessel before beginning to write.

“Steady on, Speedy,” murmured Falcon’s redhaired young captain. “I think we’ve been given a job to do. There’s divine intervention all over this business… but we’re just the transport, and that we can handle.” His heart still twisted inside of him at the thought that Lord Oberyn would act to save some, but not all. Not Varric or Meena or Chess… And he’d go crazy thinking like that; remembering family and friends who’d sailed off with the ghost ship.

‘That weapon is cataclysmically powerful, Captain,’ said the airship, speaking in Hallan’s mind. ‘It is also perfectly neutral. A terrible fate lies on that blade and its wielder. Its presence will draw certain danger.’

“I know,” he agreed. “But there’s no dodging fate, Speedy. If our job is to get these priests and their wretched sword where they need to go… If that’s why… I mean, if we do this thing right, and miracles are happening anyhow, maybe… maybe there’s room for one more?”

In all of the fuss and bother, who’d notice one small ship and its crew saved from disaster? Who’d mark a single small hiccup in time?

Hallan took a deep breath to steady his heartrate and thoughts. On a blank page of the logbook, he wrote: Five Day 23, Month of First Thaw, year 1207 of His Imperial Majesty’s blessed reign, forenoon watch, third bell. Bearing south by southwest three degrees, 20 knots. Mild weather, near cloudless conditions. Captain Gelfrin reporting.

Next, the young high-elf proceeded to write what he’d seen, along with a few private notes. Falcon remained skeptical, but trusted him, reading his thoughts through the log.

A knock at the door and Speedy’s alert announced the first officer, Laurol Greenbow. Hallan admitted her, entering the half-elf’s name in his logbook. She saluted and bowed. Grey-haired, dark-eyed and fiercely loyal; family, rather than crew.

“The paladins are outside on deck, Captain,” said Laurol, looking concerned. “I wouldn’t let them below with that oversized simmering knife of theirs. Not if they can’t put it away, and it seems that they can’t. Orders, Sir?”

Young Hal straightened further in Varric’s… his… tall wooden seat. Said,

“If that weapon were meant to be turned on me, Laurol, I’d already be gutted. It seems fated to do something terribly evil or wonderfully good. We… I think we are only its transport. Anyhow, only a fool gets in the way of Heaven. Let them in.”

Laurol nodded.

“Aye, Captain!” she responded smartly, bowing again.

Hallan set Falcon to record the interview, as three paladins of the Constellate… an orc and two humans… tromped into his office, flanked by a hovering sword. The thing glowed and spat like hot, newly forged iron. It had begun to construct its own sheath, Hallan noticed, taking bits of this and that… seashells, rivets, a strip of wood paneling, his spare pen and a whole continent off of the mage globe… to cobble together a partial scabbard. (Not at all worrisome, that.)

More chairs appeared, created by Falcon from deck and bulkhead. Hallan let everyone enter, and then resumed the official record.

Captain Hallan Gelfrin ad Reddic, to prospective crew: “Have a seat. In order of rank within your community, if you will. Good. Now, I shall address my first comments to your senior officer or… priest, if that’s a more appropriate term. The rest will refrain from comment, until it is their turn to speak. Understood?”

(All nod understanding. Captain Gelfrin turns his attention to the most senior paladin, a female human.)

C.G.: “Your name, rank, skills and affiliation?”

Prospective Aerrior: “Sister Constant, Knight of Oberyn, silver-stripe. Once Nadia Grimveld of Bridgeton Shire in west Alandriel. As to skills, I can heal wounds, bring courage, make food and water, fight, read, write a fair hand, calm natural storm winds… and, um… I can milk goats.”

Captain Gelfrin (smiling slightly): “There are no goats aboard ship at this time, good paladin.” (Writing in logbook.) “Life history, if you please, highlighting any previous shipboard experience.”

Prospective Aerrior (seeming hesitant): “Well, we’re encouraged to leave the past behind us, Sir… but I was third daughter of the village herb-woman, so destined for the Needle, as we say in Bridgeton… Meaning the Constellate, Sir.”

Captain Gelfrin (nodding): “Understood. Continue.”

Prospective Aerrior: “Right. So, at seven years old, I was delivered to the master of acolytes at the Constellate… I am human, Sir. Seven is much older for us than it would be for an elf. I was already milking goats, making cheese and minding the youngsters by that age… but I never worked on board any boats. Didn’t learn to swim, even, until much later.”

Captain Gelfrin (nodding and writing): “So noted. There are two very important points to clear up here, Mistress Constant. First, the question of loyalty. If you take service aboard Falcon, I expect complete adherence to shipboard standards, regulations and uniform policy. Your god, Mistress Constant, will have to come second for the duration of your service on Falcon. Your oath on that. Otherwise, you will have to pay for your passage some other way or be dropped off at the nearest safe coastline or island. Are we clear on this matter?”

(Prospective aerrior grimaces. The other human and the orc shift in their seats with a very loud creaking and straining of wood.)

Prospective Aerrior: “It is vital that we get this sword to its rightful wielder, Sir. That is our task. Falcon seems like the best, fastest way to accomplish that mission. That being said, I can give you my word as a knight of the Constellate to obey all lawful orders given by you or your officers, and to promise the same on behalf of my brothers-in-Oberyn, Humble and Arnulf.”

Captain Gelfrin (regarding the paladin steadily): “That is point one cleared, then. Point two regards this weapon that you’ve brought aboard my ship.” (Captain raises a hand to forestall protest.) “I will rephrase that last statement. Say, rather, this weapon that was brought aboard by divine will, because you happened to be here, rather than down in Averna.”

(All settle. Male human paladin lowers his head, seeming distraught.)

Captain Gelfrin: “Clearly, the sword is dangerous and fated for some mighty deed, good or ill. Point two is simply that I must be assured that it’s under control at all times, Mistress Constant. I…”

Alarm! Alarm! Alarm! Alarm! Alarm!

Sudden loud klaxons tore the air and the peace to raggedy shreds. Hallan and Laurol both vaulted up out of their seats. The paladins rose, as well. Their sword began to glow brighter and hummed aloud like a hive of assemblers, still hanging point downward, half sheathed.

‘Captain, a vessel approaches from below and starboard. It is moving at 60 knots and closing fast. Estimated arrival time a tenth candle-mark,’ announced the airship.

Hallan cursed like Not-Jonn, snapping,

“Interview ended. You’re hired or put ashore at earliest convenience. Laurol, find them something to do.”

“Aye, Captain,” replied the first mate, adding, “You three, with me! And keep that ruddy great table knife out of my way!”

Hallan did not stay to watch where Laurol put all those newcomers. Just went, making best speed. Falcon made way before him, opening hatches and creating ladder-wells to aid in his rush to the airship’s main deck. Just one cursed thing after another, he thought, taking the ladder steps three at a bound.

Got topside. Was met by Mr. Sarrit and their new wood-elf third officer, Gildyr. The marine handed him a spyglass, though that onrushing black airship was already visible, moving like ebony lightning. Seen through the glass, it was sleek, dark and deadly, though not rigged for evident stealth.

“Unknown vessel, Sir,” reported his tense second officer.

“Unknown, ptah!” snarled the tabaxi, dropping down to the deck from her post in the tank rigging. “It is the Flying Cloud, or I am a fool!”

Hallan didn’t question her knowledge or lack of ship’s custom and courtesy. Not the time for it. Instead, having Falcon project his voice, he announced,

“Beat to quarters. All hands to battle stations, everyone armed. Stand by to repel boarders.”

There was a sword at Hallan’s side already, but he added a long knife and a hand-held crossbow, as well, pulling them out of his faerie pockets. Everyone else armed themselves from the ship’s stores, even Lady Shadow-claw’s pet golden monkey. His officers gathered around, grim and expectant.

It had been a beautiful, quiet day. Nearly cloudless, with wind in their favor, Karellon only a thousand miles further west. There was no outrunning the Flying Cloud, though, and not much hope of driving it off, either. Falcon was a cutter, not an imperial battleship.

But… if not speed or armament, he could always try strategy. There was a chain of floating islands visible just ahead, including Free Port. They looked like smudgy punctuation marks against a very blue afternoon sky.

“Mr. Not-Jonn,” called the captain.

“Aye, Sir!” responded his helmsman, raising his voice over wind noise, engine rumble and hissing guy-lines.

“Make your course ten degrees down and hard eastward, helmsman. Take us to Free Port.”

“Aye, Sir! Mr. Kylarion, with me. You’re about to see what this bird can do!”

Half-elf and drow returned to the helm, adjusting Falcon’s course in moments. The horizon dipped and the wind shifted. The sun arced in the sky, and the deck slanted, hard. Manna flooded the engines (a pair of perpetual motion machines) as Falcon came about. Those things and people not stowed or lashed down slid till they hit an obstruction.

Captain Gelfrin next spoke to Mr. Sarrit and Lady Shadow-claw. One hand tight to the railing, he ordered,

“Load the ship’s cannon with distortion charges, and ready a second volley. Lay a maze, Mr. Sarrit. Let’s punch a few holes.”

“Aye, Sir!” shouted the marine, racing away to his station with the tabaxi. They began firing as the Flying Cloud grew from a fast-moving dot to a knife-like dark shadow.

The cannons roared out in unison, aimed so as to create a three-dimensional spread of distortion. Falcon rocked and slewed sideways as all five guns fired their charge of spelled powder and gems. The stuff didn’t detonate until well away from the Falcon, just blossomed like heat-ripples until set off by Sarrit’s countdown.

“5… 4… 3… 2… 1… Boom!” he called out, triggering detonation. The charges erupted at his last word, causing space and time to flutter and tear between the Falcon and Cloud. Five patches of weird, silvery distortion yawned open, spread and launched tentacles, carving space and time like a set of sharp talons.

Their pursuer had to slew off, because flying through a field of distortion would tear an airship apart into different regions of space, thousands of miles distant, over a hundred-year timespan. Nor was that Falcon’s only tactic.

One hand on a humming tank line, leaning out to watch their pursuer, his red hair streaming, the captain said,

“Prepare decoys, Commander Laurol, to be deployed at my word.”

“Aye, Sir,” replied the first mate, eyes shining. Next the mortal wizard came forward, a bit wobbly but determined.

“Hey, you! High school bully!” he cried out to the captain. A scruffy, bearded fellow in a hooded blue robe, dark pants and sandals, he looked sharper… more alert… than he had since coming aboard. Still addled, though. “This dream is about to get violent, again. I’m learning the signs. Since this is all my imagination, that shouldn’t matter, except bad stuff actually hurts, here, and I don’t want to end up in prison again. So, yeah… I’m dreaming I’m some kind of wizard, right? In some crazy magical world? Cool. Cool, cool, cool. How ‘bout I do you a solid and help to get rid of our tail?”

Hallan frowned, trying to work out Murchison’s meaning. The fellow was touched by the gods and therefore sacred, so the elf stayed polite.

“By all means,” replied Hallan. “Do your best for us and your worst to them, wizard. Commander Laurol, escort this man to the starboard rail.”

Laurol nodded and bowed, a bit doubtfully.

“Aye, Sir. This way, wizard. Mind your footing and keep a hand on one of the lines, in case Speedy dodges or banks unexpectedly.”

He was no aerrior at all, looking greener than barrel-end beef. Very determined, though. Seeming as capable as he was crazy.

“What we have here,” he remarked, squinting out at that hurtling pirate ship, “is a simple physics problem, where southbound train A really does not want to meet northbound train B at 45 miles per hour after leaving their stations ten minutes apart. Awesome. Let’s… make things interesting for train B.”

Murchison made a few passes with his hands, muttering arcane words about ‘vector’ and ‘density’. The Flying Cloud had looped wide around Mr. Sarrit’s pattern of fire, still losing part of its mithral ram and a tank to an expanding patch of distortion. Somebody somewhere was going to have to look to themselves, as that shorn debris rained from the sky on them… sometime.

But… damage. They’d scored an actual hit on the Cloud, a thing no one did, ever, because the pirate ship never gave chase in clear skies and broad day-shine. Now, as the mortal wizard finished his spell, the air between the two vessels congealed, turning abruptly to dense, gummy pudding.

The Cloud attempted to turn, striking that growing lump of sticky foul goo broadside and running aground in midair. Bad enough, but Murchison wasn’t finished. Muttering nonsense about ‘weather patterns’, ‘base code’, and ‘stalled fronts’, he struck again.

The high-elf oracle drifted across Falcon’s deck to their side, as thunderclouds gathered and bolt after bolt of lightning raked the stalled pirate ship. Very few actually hit, for the Cloud was well shielded, but the vessel began to slew westward and down, glowing with Mage Trevoir’s Fire in masts and rigging.

“Cease hostilities,” commanded the high-elf seer, in a voice not her own. “We are fated to meet with this pirate ship, and to lose one of our number.” She glowed near as bright as the sword, now; outlined in heatless white flame.

The Cloud hoisted a black-and-gold standard from one of its masts, then began flashing lights in code, sending: Privateer. Imperial business. Stand by.

…which might have been simply a lie. Gods or no gods, imperial codes notwithstanding, everyone waited for Captain Gelfrin’s command. He’d come to the starboard rail. Was breathing hard, fists clenched at his sides, fighting the urge to keep striking hard. They weren’t far from the islands, now. Could make it to safety…

“Deploy decoys,” he told Laurol. “If the gods want that thing to find us, they’ll show it which one to approach.”

“Aye, Sir!” barked the first mate, giving the message to Sarrit. The marine nodded and turned to his station (a series of levers and dogging-wheels that triggered cannon, chaff and defense). At his touch, Falcon faded briefly from sight and then moved at top speed in a random direction, budding two precise doppelgängers at different heights and orientations, moving on disparate paths. Deliberately confusing, even to mages, much less to a lot of wretched, vile pirates.

Murchison leaned over the rail, then waved at himself, watching two scruffy guys waving back. Once again came that intrusive thought: This isn’t a dream, is it? I’m not home in bed, waiting to hear the alarm ring.

But he shoved it aside and then dropped his density magic, watching as the Flying Cloud resumed gliding ahead like a boat on the Styx. He kept a handful of spells ready just in case and thought a few up on the fly; cursing all elves but one for their unending battles and nonsense.

“You think perpetual itch is a joke?” raged the lost grad student. “I can make you die scratching at phantom parts you can’t ever reach, brother. Try me.”

(And where in the sizzling depths was Valerian?!)

The Flying Cloud slid onward, still sparking a bit at the edges. Weirdly, there was no crew visible on that shark-like vessel, which seemed to be flying itself.

“All hands to arms,” muttered Hallan, not taking his eyes from that silent dark shape. “Keep to your stations until I give the command to attack.”

Because, no matter what message it sent, he did not trust the Cloud. Nobody would, who had any sense. Faint curls of mist broke from its prow and that bent, damaged ram. The hull and rigging still glimmered with electrical flame. Once again, the Cloud signaled: Privateer. Imperial business. Stand by.

It passed the first decoy after slowing down for a look and a manna sweep that all but dissolved Falcon’s twin.

“It’s a vampyre,” muttered Laurol, uneasily. “Strips manna from ship and crew and then kills them.” (They’d all heard the legends.)

“Drop the second decoy,” responded her captain. “We’ll not give them any excuse to drain Falcon.”

“Aye, Sir,” said Laurol, signing the order to Sarrit. Meanwhile,

“She’s well defended,” remarked the wizard, adding. “That’s one impressive hex-map, but I can hit her with timber rot and corrosion, Mr. Authority Figure.”

“Keep your spells in readiness, wizard,” responded the captain. “And, should we come through this mess still whole and aloft, you have more than passed your interview.”

The second decoy flickered and faded above them, breaking up into motes that the Flying Cloud quickly absorbed. A vampyre, indeed. The tabaxi, Lady Shadow-claw, had set up a guttural, wavering yowl. Her golden monkey bounded on her right shoulder, screeching and making rude signs. Other than that, the wind and the engines, Falcon was silent.

“Full stop and cool heads,” said the captain. “No sudden moves or ill-considered remarks. Whether pirate or privateer, the Cloud is untrustworthy, and we no longer fly under colors.” Arvendahl’s black-and-green banner had long since been struck from the mast top. Falcon belonged to no one’s fleet, now. Had no protection at all but luck and the wits of its crew.

The Flying Cloud was over twice as long as the air-cutter, with low masts and sleek tanks that could roll into faerie pockets at need, making it even faster. More aerodynamic. Looked to be solid engine, wherever it wasn’t all gun, with no crew at all.

As Falcon slowed to a halt, the pirate ship came at them obliquely, at a sharp angle and slightly above. Mr. Not-Jonn muttered a blistering oath and nudged the cutter further to port. There were bits of lost vessels woven into the wood of that long, narrow hull like prizes of war. Falcon’s crew recognized the nameplates of Terroc and Deathstroke, along with a hundred more; all of them turning black as they faded into the Cloud. Not Vancora, though. At least, not on this side.

Captain Gelfrin waited tensely; one hand clenched white-knuckle tight to his sword hilt. Waited, searching for signs of life as the pirate vessel drew nearer. Then something appeared on the other ship’s deck, by the ram. A woman, it was, seemingly made all of transparent glass.

‘Peace,’ she signed, shining in afternoon sunlight. ‘Coming aboard.’

By this time, Lady Shadow-claw’s yowl had risen in pitch to a screech. She lunged forward, drawing two blades. Didn’t get very far. Some magical field from the Flying Cloud shot out to envelop her in mid leap. The tabaxi faded, turning semi-transparent, and barely breathing. Remained there, pinned in the air like a bug… but alive.

The glassy woman paid no attention. Just summoned a filmy gangplank, then strode down to Falcon with sharp, ringing footfalls. Sounded like a spoon striking crystal at every step.

Hallan came forward to meet her, his head held up and his shoulders straight. The crew very subtly shifted about so that each of them had a clear shot at their “visitor”. Hallan didn’t bother with pleasantries.

“Your banner and signal claim imperial business,” he snapped. “What is His Majesty’s will?”

That glassy-smooth head turned to examine the ship’s upper deck and its hovering crew, from Not-Jonn and Kaazin at the stern, to the paladins up near the bow. Looked down through the planking, as well, seeming to scan the whole vessel before demanding,

“Where is Lord Arvendahl? A great burst of manna was sensed from this vessel, surely a transport gate. Where is he hiding?!”

Her voice was cold and imperious, but human in register. Not that of a construct, an elf or a magical being. Said the captain,

“Lord Arvendahl is not aboard my ship.” The sword, he noticed, had vanished; seemingly hiding itself from the pirate. “I released a great deal of manna effecting repairs,” he lied smoothly. “That may be what you picked up.”

Those glassy clear eyes seemed to drill straight into him, but Hallan didn’t flinch or look down. He had fought tides of undead. Seen his brother and crewmates cut down defending the Falcon. That crystalline witch couldn’t scare him.

“I will search this vessel,” she hissed. “If Arvendahl is found here, I will slay the tabaxi, once third mate on the Cloud, and stupid enough to come back. If he has gated away, I shall take one of your crew to face imperial wrath in his stead.”

Hallan clenched his teeth till his jaw muscles cramped. Signed: Follow me, and then led the crystal woman through Falcon. From cabins to holds to galley, engines and crew quarters they went, with Laurol and Sarrit following at a discreet distance. Hallan pretended not to notice. Just opened the lockers and head, even; showing the pirate that his lordship wasn’t aboard.

At last, after checking the ship’s stores and his office, they returned to the main deck.

“As you can see,” growled Hallan, “there is no one aboard but my crew, and no source of manna other than tanks and engines. A mistake, I’m sure. Probably caused by yesterday’s magical storm.”

It was tough to read expression on that diamond-clear face, what with sunshine refracting right through her. She didn’t seem satisfied, though.

“By order of His Imperial Highness, Lord Arvendahl is to be brought to Karellon, at once.”

Highness, not majesty, Hallan noted, tucking the thought away for chewing on later. Not the emperor, then, but one of the princes. In the here and now, he said (meaning it),

“I very much hope that your quest is successful. But I cannot give him to you… nor will I sacrifice anyone of my crew for the Court's amusement. If it comes to that, I’ll…”

He’d been about to offer himself. Only the drow, Kaazin, strode forward. There was an undisguised sneer on his pallid face, restless scorn in those blood-red eyes as he pushed past the captain.

“I will go,” he grunted. “One prison-ship is as good as another. I can hate her as easily as I’ve hated you lot.” Spat to one side for emphasis, staring directly at the glass pirate.

“You don’t have to do this, Mr. Kylarion,” Hallan insisted quietly. “I’ve enough gold aboard to…”

“Keep your paltry coin and your worthless life, day-walker,” snapped the drow. “I am not of your crew and do not need your pity.”

Lady Meliara, Gildyr and the paladins hurried across the deck from their various posts, but Kaazin ignored every one of them. Turning to face that crystalline woman he said,

“As you have seen, your quarry is not aboard ship, and this feeble lot haven’t the wit to conceal a boot-knife or garrote, much less that varg-son, Arvendahl. If he were here, I’d have killed him already. If you seek to do so, I’m in.”

The glass woman had shifted her gaze from Hallan to Kaazin. Now she inclined her head, sending splinters of colorful light in every direction.

“Very well,” she told him. “Your offer is accepted, drow. Precede me up the gangway, and do not attempt to attack or turn back.”

A thin band of ensorcelled gold wire appeared on his left wrist, causing a scornful snort. He then turned and left, loping up the filmy gangplank between Falcon and Cloud. Never looked back and said not a word further. The crystal pirate was not as reserved, warning,

“You have not much aboard that is of interest, child, but even a small prize keeps reflexes sharp… and you have damaged my ship. Pray we do not meet again, little birds.”

They could only look on, helpless to interfere, as that glassy woman went up the gangway. It melted away in her wake, and very soon afterward, the Flying Cloud powered up and sheared off. The pirate ship picked up speed again as it banked westward. Restlessly searching; powered by vampirized manna and death. Leaving Falcon still safe… for now.