Sword and Sorcery, a Novel

34

Almost entirely by accident, Lerendar learned the map's secret. Discovered through luck and blunder that giving its opposite edges a sudden, sharp tug would cause that tangle of inked ship's cordage to rise and unfold in a three-dimensional view of the tunnel system… including his own burnt-stick revisions and notes.

Always centered on him, the chart showed with glittering points the presence and motion of others, though not their identities. Well enough. Lerendar avoided contact on general principle, feeling that no one in this shifting, permanently benighted place was likely to have the best interests of a crippled high-elf at heart.

There were three fairly stable passages, he learned. One… the Firelit Corridor… which tended north-south. Another… the Dank, Smelly Way… which meandered mostly east-west and a little bit downward. A third… the Diagonal March… which plunged at an angle across all of the others, from top, to Fountain to somewhere far out of sight, down below. Added to these were wandering corridors and rolling chambers always, always in motion, except for brief stops in the deepest part of the watch.

The Diagonal March was the most obvious path to the surface, but also the most heavily traveled and least accessible to an elf on his second scrounged crutch. Some of the wandering passages were less steep, though, and intersected D.M. beyond the main guard posts.

Weirdly, the diggings were mostly deserted. There was plenty of goblin sign, and their rat-like stench lay like a fog over everything. Just… very few actual goblins.

Of prisoners, well… Lerendar found the gnoll's midden on his third day of furtive lurking. Found the well-chewed remains of his father's warband. Just shattered bones and bits of torn armor, now. Twenty dead elves who would never more ride, fight or gamble by torchlight. Friends, who he vowed to avenge… somehow.

They'd been eaten, most of their souls and manna taken in by their predator. Nothing to salvage and less to release, unless he could find and destroy whatever had consumed them.

Worse, for Lerendar, was a fragment of dad's helmet strap and badly stained golden-red cloak. His soul was trapped, then, too; unwilling strength for some hideous battle-mage.

Setting a fire here, now, would accomplish nothing. Their spirits and power were already taken. All it would do was to pinpoint his location, allowing the gnolls and goblins to find him again. Maybe lock him back up in a cell that intersected nothing, ever.

Lerendar had no choice but to move on, taking that scrap of dad's helmet and cloak along with him. Short-stuff, maybe, could do something with it, he thought. Wave his hands, mutter mumbo-jumbo and draw forth dad's spirit.

The shades, his comrades, fluttered and keened, audible only to Lerendar. Time to move on, for the midden would soon intersect the busy Main Gallery, where no doubt a huddle of goblins and gnolls waited to squat and relieve themselves. He could not fight them all, or even a few. Not like this.

Wanted his health back. Wanted a sword. Wanted to burn this place, end to end, top to bottom, leaving nothing alive but the echoes. Settled for ducking away down a shifting back passage, seething with anger and hate.

Almost got himself eaten, because of it.

Not paying attention. Only himself to blame, for Bony (Prince Andorin) shrilled a faint, unheeded warning. Lerendar lunged through the brief connection of Midden and passage. Made two thumping limps down the way, stopping cold when a cave-slime dropped from the roof and onto his head. Felt like a squishy, wet sack of mud thrown from a window.

Gummy, acidic and mutable, the horrid thing flowed over his entire head and face; blocking air, burning flesh, blurring sound. Again, Dad's last-magic saved him; keeping Lerendar just this side of perished from suffocation, until he stopped clawing and writhing. Till he ceased grinding pebbles and bone fragments into his back with his wounded-prey thrashing.

Senses blackening, chest bursting for air, hands clutching acidic goo, he at last grew still enough for the slime to spread itself out in a fragile, thin layer, preparing to feed.

That, he could battle; tearing, shredding, peeling it away with the help of his shade friends, whose chill-touch froze bits of the slime into crackling, papery shards.

(He was used to the chill-touch, by now, for goblins and gnolls could sense prey by its heat. More than once, Bony, Tendons (Elarvis Farstrider) and Legless had cooled him down to environment level, while something dark and hunched-over snuffed its way past his hiding place.)

Here and now, Lerendar scrubbed at his face and hair with goblin spittle-wine he couldn't afford to waste; sucking at air like a man two gasps from drowning. Cold… so very cold, until last-magic warmed him again. That done, the shades rustled and moved off; splitting up to keep watch while their friend recovered.

So, that was day three of "freedom". After that, it got worse.

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Back at the campsite, away in a whole other plane, Kalisandra wrenched herself free of Gildyr.

"Off!" she snapped. "Release me, Druid. I need no assistance."

Gildyr obeyed, relinquishing the high-elf maiden to stalk off and turn, her face chilly and hard; not so much lovely, as striking. Brown hair caught back in a disciplined plait, dressed in a ranger's no-color armor and cloak, she blent with the background until sudden movement or speech betrayed her.

Mirielle stamped forward, then, a mutinous look on her bluish small face. Having worked herself up to an outburst, the girl stood before Kalisandra; feet braced apart, fists on her hips.

"He's not an idiot," she objected fiercely. "He likes you, and you should be nice!"

Kalisandra stared for a moment, one eyebrow rising expressively.

"I am… addressed by a half-drow?" she wondered aloud. "Some by-blow of rapine and raid?"

Mirielle exploded, her newly-gained dagger humming with frost, twin to the one Sandy wore.

"My father's a prince!" she yelled. "And my mum didn't die! She loved him!"

Kalisandra snorted.

"And who spun you that silly fable?" the elf-maiden scoffed, shaking her head. "Never mind. I can well imagine who might think up and spread such drivel."

Only, Mirielle stood not alone. Salem's clawed hand came to rest on her trembling shoulder, as the Tabaxi's long tail curled around her, pulling the girl to her side.

"I have met him," she growled. "He is a prince, indeed. His heart is good, despite his bare hide and other shortcomings. Call me a liar, do you, elf-maid?"

Kalisandra rolled her blue and brown eyes. Would have said something caustic, but then Gildyr stepped up, as well, Karus tall as an oak, behind him.

"Her mother's a beautiful mortal, filled always with sunshine and love for her prince. Quite a powerful hedge witch, as well. You might want to watch what you say of their child… milady."

He had not heard enough of the tale that Val was forever embroidering to recall names, but that hardly mattered to Kalisandra.

"As you will have it," she said, already turning away. Then, pausing momentarily, "Only, it does no good at all to believe foolish rot about parentage. Better the truth, however hard, that somebody's comforting lies. I go to speak with your former lord. Whatever is happening, I can deal with, myself. Be not here, when we return from above."

And with that, the ranger strode off, heading for that massive stone stairway, and Val. Gildyr stared after Kalisandra, his jaw loose and eyes wide.

"Have we… just been dismissed?" he wondered aloud.

"So it would seem," replied Salem, as Cap'n howled insults from the safety of her soft, dark-furred shoulder.

Mirielle thumped herself down on the ground, drawing both knees up tight to her chest and wrapping her skinny arms close around them.

"We're not going!" she/they said, meaning it.

"Karus and I remain, as well," Gildyr decided, after consulting briefly with the great stag.

Salem's golden-striped tail lashed in agitation, her ears back nearly flat to her head.

"That one is driven by fury and secret shame," said the Tabaxi, "and it is possible to do ill while claiming only best motives. Mrowr will surely have need of us. Also, Cap'n refuses to leave."

Yet, after all, how difficult could one surly ranger be to soothe and control?

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As it happened…

Just a bit earlier, torn with emotion he wasn't prepared for, Valerian ascended the stairway. Each separate step rose higher than he was tall, having been built for giants. Fortunately, there was a wagon ramp on the right side, heading upward. Bit steep, but usable. More than that, assessing the staircase's ramp and location, a ludicrous 'couldn't possibly be… could it?' notion began to take shape in Val's head. Call it an outside hunch.

The balustrades were carved of black stone. Worn and chipped by weather and time, they towered at least four elf-heights over his head. Not that he couldn't balance without a handhold; in fact, sprinted recklessly upward, meaning to reach the clouds in one breath for sheer, mindless sport. Betting himself… let's see… a new set of Crown Game pieces against a fine cloak that he could do it, and that something up there would be worth such a dare.

Just about made it, first try. The stairway rose much higher than he'd expected, seeming to change from stone into something like sculpted mist on its way cloudward.

Near that shifting, purple-grey ceiling, he took a quick breath, then slid backward a bit, trying to decide where the terrestrial staircase ended, and what, exactly, he owed himself. (But it was cloud giant magic, for certain.)

Had just decided 'game pieces', after all, when Kalisandra showed up like the ghost of an unhappy bride. Stepping silently from shadow and mist, she gave him a piercing once-over look, then shook her head.

"So, you're not an idiot, you like me, and I should be nice," she mused, thin-lipped mouth quirking slightly.

Holy gods. Holy flame.

Val briefly considered hurling himself over the edge, only fleeing her wouldn't help matters. (And up was the answer, not down. Maybe.)

He straightened still further, folded his arms across his chest and said,

"Milady, I am pleased that you heeded my summons." (That made her scowl.) "I have something important to tell you."

"And I, you, Milord… but do proceed, as you are clearly in charge, here."

Her eyes had gone past his face to the projecting hilt of Smythe, still sheathed across his back.

"I see that things have gone very wrong for the Tarandahls. I… am truly sorry, Valerian."

Then, shaking useless sentiment out of her thoughts, she prodded,

"What did you want to say? And, keep to the point, if you please. I haven't all day."

Right. Val puffed out a quick, troubled breath, saying,

"I have met my other self, here in this plane. His memories and mine have become united. Interleaved." He laced his fingers together by way of demonstration; no small feat in stiff leather gauntlets.

"The point is, he and his Kalisandra are very close. In love, actually. They are married, in the sense that…"

"That we most certainly aren't," finished Sandy, looking less grim than he would have expected. "Understood. What of it?"

Vexing, awful, splendid female. Everything he didn't dare say that he'd always wanted.

"Just… if I do or say something overly affectionate," Val replied slowly, "I wanted you to understand why… and that part of me cannot help trying. That's it. That's mostly all, besides a possibly stupid notion of mine. You?"

Kalisandra inhaled sharply and took half a pace backward, clearly steeling herself for something unpleasant.

"My lord, I would not have you deceived," she said to him. "Lindyn has fallen. The realm of Geldaherys is no more. I have now neither lands nor standing at court. Thus, I release you from your betrothal vow. I shall escort you to Starloft in this plane and that one, as your master bade me… Do whatever I may to help restore Ilirian… and then I shall leave you. So… make a new troth, find someone else. That's the end of it."

Except that it wasn't. Valerian sensed something further. Some deeper trouble she very much wanted to hide.

"NO!" snapped Sandy, eyes blazing with sudden fury and pain. "No magic! Stay out of my head, Fisher, or…"

Or, too late. Not really meaning to, he'd glimpsed what her anger couldn't conceal… and yes, it was bad.

"Satisfied?" she whispered. "I would have spared you the humiliation of learning that all this time, you've been betrothed to a nothing. No lady at all, but the daughter of two quick-witted Feens who saw their chance and took it. That day when the palace was raided… it was all of the family who perished. Not just the lady and lord, but Kalisandra and Kesteros, as well. I have no name and no lineage… just two scheming parents and a lying, desperate counselor. You are free, My Lord. Rejoice and run off with someone better."

She was crying as Mirielle did, without movement or sound. Just tears and heartbroken silence. But that, he could deal with.

Val conjured a tear-web, stepped over and used the small, sparkling net to dry Sandy's face. Then, folding it carefully into a bird shape, he pressed the web into her nerveless right hand, folding her fingers shut with his own.

"So many tears, so many wishes, Katina told me… and she knows these things. Look at me, Kalisandra."

"Not my name. A dead girl's. Robbed from a corpse."

"The only name I know. Thus, the one I shall use," he corrected, adding, "A hundred years ago, nobody asked me whether I wanted a wife. I was a child. I would have said no. But, like it or not, I got… you. Sometimes we were friends, sometimes we hated each other. Usually, we got into trouble."

Kalisandra sobbed-laughed a little, remembering.

"Your fault, usually," she snorted.

"Only fair to say, I remember things differently," said Valerian, brushing mist-dampened hair from her face. "You deride your parents, but they loved you, and wanted the best for their children. Counselor…"

As ever, Val forgot the man's name.

"Garrod," she who was and was not Kalisandra supplied. "Counselor Garrod. Second father to me and to Kesteros, both, before my brother went off to fosterage. Garrod revealed all of this on his dying bed, two days ago."

Right. Val glanced out at the roiling clouds, then back at the heart-stricken ranger.

"He was not an intentional schemer, Milady."

"I am not noble!" she raged, jerking away from his touch. "I am just the…"

"You are as your behavior and choices reveal; very brave, very stubborn, completely honest… and impossible to forget, or to do without. Garrod meant not to deceive, but to protect the realm. Who has suffered, exactly?"

"You were lied to, Milord," she insisted, not meeting Valerian's gaze. "Your folk would never have agreed to the match, had they known that I was plucked like a cur from a litter, thrust into a dead girl's position."

Valerian wouldn't give over, though, being high-elf resolved and Tarandahl stubborn.

"It seems that I am Silmerana, now. Warden of the North, and responsible for my own decisions," he told her. "Counselor Garrod is dead, having done his duty by Family Geldaherys, as he saw it. Who else knows of this, beside you and I? Kesteros?"

She shook her head violently.

"No! It would kill him, end his chance of betterment at court. My Lord, please leave him out of this. He's just a boy…"

"He is safe," Val assured her. "And my realm is mostly in my own head, contested by goblins and gnolls, Milady… but I have a plan that will… hopefully… take me to Starloft well inside of the allotted time and any patrols. A wife I may or may not need, at the moment, but a trusted comrade, absolutely. Care to explore a cloud giant city and search for a transport disk?"

She seemed momentarily lost and bereft, uncertain how to respond. Valerian caught at her hand, the one still clutching that wish-laden tear web.

"Come on," he urged. "It'll be fun, or we'll die. Just like always."

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