Sword and Sorcery, a Novel

Almost by accident, Valerian discovered that burning off chunks of black ice released manna. Grainy and weak, but still usable. The forest was pocked and scarred with the slow-melting stuff, some of it less than fifteen feet from his warded clearing.

He burnt it in a fit of bad temper, receiving the twin surprises of lessened pain and more magic. He'd been out after herbs, Mirielle having stripped all that grew in their sheltered circle. One outcrop of dark, thrusting ice had torn through a patch of heart's ease, shriveling nearly all of it. Angry, worried for Salem and impatient to be gone, Val first kicked at the pillar of ice, then leveled a firebolt at it. Stood there blinking, completely surprised, when its destruction spurted free manna.

"Hunh. Wouldn't feed the stuff to Sherazedan at the end of a shovel… but anyone's hall in a blizzard, I suppose," Valerian muttered, cautiously blasting another one.

(That the author of those increasingly frequent ice-crags could sense their destruction, never occurred to him... but such was the limited view of a journeyman.)

Having gathered his herbs, Val returned to the fire. Hilt tossed about in her sleep, snoring uneasily, trapped in some dream that he batted away from her mind with a peace spell. The dwarf's snores altered timber and pitch for a moment, then resumed full force.

Giving Mirielle instructions for their preparation, the high-elf handed the child his gleanings, then went over to Salem. Could have begun anywhere, but a lucky notion led him to start with her nearly-flayed arm. Wasn't good enough to just hold the edges together and say, "feel better". This wanted total repair. A return to what had been, before all the damage.

He could sense something magical drifting around very nearby, fighting like mad to reach Salem. Cap'n, possibly, but kept away how? By what? Not just a scraped off tattoo or deep wound, surely.

Working carefully, Val took off the bandage, stopping blood flow with a scatter of shredded, steeped herbs and a healing sigil. Before, in a hurry, surrounded by hunting wargs, he hadn't explored the wound very thoroughly. Now, in the rising daylight, he examined the Tabaxi's arm. Saw what he hadn't noticed before.

A dark, knotted cord bound the limb, cutting deeply into her puffy and ice-darkened flesh. Braided of corpse hair, the thing was intended to block magical manifestation.

So, they'd bound Cap'n's tattoo with the cord, he thought… most likely while Salem was chained or unconscious. Then they'd done their best to destroy him and temporarily cripple her. There was a nasty ride-along spell on the death-cord, rigged to stop her heart if it was cut the wrong way.

Val studied those ugly, roiling sigils for a moment, seeing in his mind's eye the hand that had crafted all this.

In Karellon, most of the permanent magics one saw carried echoes of Sherazedan, Murchison or (very anciently) Trevoir. Everything else was transitory, the work of warlock and hedge witch. Sometimes, his aunt Meliara.

This, though… staring at hideous, green flaring sigils, Val saw blood-red eyes gazing back from a dead white face. Broke contact immediately, scribing protection from evil before using his clasp-knife to cut that foul cord through its extra-dimensional knot. Pallid energy flared from both ends, spurting like severed arteries.

Valerian picked the thing off and flung it to the ground, where it twisted and writhed like a questing dark serpent. Mirielle took up her mace, ready to pound the cord flat, but Val pushed her behind him. Such creations were evil and terribly dangerous. Sherazedan would doubtless have bottled the corpse-rope for later study, but his apprentice was unwilling to try. Wouldn't sully Firelord's gift with it, either.

Just snapped off a cantrip of banishment, sending the thing to a magically warded bin at the root of Mt. Sharys (eternal home of every failed apprenticeship project, ever). Just 'Pop', and it vanished entirely. The day looked and felt cleaner, without it.

Next checked on Salem, who'd begun to breathe easier. On her injured arm, those last few gold flecks stirred the Tabaxi's remaining dark hair. A good sign, he thought.

Closing his eyes, Val next visualized Salem as he'd first seen her; healthy, sprightly and whole; the worst thief in all Karandum, with Cap'n at her shoulder. That was the true form. What Order and Nature meant Salem to be. Chaos had marred her original state. It was up to him and the noble beast to set her to rights.

"Cap'n," he said to that impatiently swirling half-presence, "your heart-friend lies sorely injured, near unto death. She has need of you now."

To help matters along, Valerian swept a hand over and through the fire, catching dozens of bright, drifting sparks.

"By your leave, My Lord," he said, calling those sparkling motes to dance on the palm of his hand. Beautiful to look at, and maybe enough to eke out a golden tattoo.

"Connection," he ordered. "Like unto like."

Next, Val breathed gently on the sparks, causing them to flare up and spin a bit faster. That done, he made a pouring motion, tipping his hand to let the bright specks trickle downward.

"Back to what was," he commanded, using the language of Fey-wild and dawn. "Back to the truth."

Salem jerked violently. Those sparks and bright flecks joined up in midair over her arm, together tracing the outline of a golden-furred monkey. The figure rotated, flattened and shrank, drifting down like a leaf onto Salem's right shoulder.

Now things started to happen. Hair grew out, full and velvety-dark. Flesh mended, without any scars. A sawed and burnt tail became whole and banded with gold again… and Salem opened her eyes, ending the peace with an alley-fight screech.

The Tabaxi yowled, hissed and spat something in her own language, then leapt to her feet, looking wildly this way and that. Cap'n popped out of tattoo form to perch on her head. There he began grooming his partner, searching her pelt for tasty fresh bugs.

Salem reached up to capture the busy creature, taking a moment to whisper something that only he heard. Then, shifting her focus to Val, she growl-panted,

"What… has… happened? Where is Clan master Tristan?"

So, he had to tell her again, and the job didn't get any better the second time. By now, Hilt was awake and scratching herself. Mirielle held the edge of Valerian's cloak with one hand, clutching mace and herb pouch with her other.

"Milady," said Val, "I cannot explain quite why, but we are not in our own plane. What happened here is real… but it is not your reality. Lionel… Tristan… is dead in this place, but yours is alive and bored out of his mind, performing a nightly show for Magister Serrio, in the safest place he could possibly be."

Salem reached out to seize Valerian's shoulder, her restored claws snagging the cloth of his half-cloak and shirt.

"Swear it!" she snarled. "Swear upon life-bond that Tristan still lives!"

"Unless he's done something incredibly rash, yes," Val replied, pressing his own hand to hers. "War does not pass Serrio's borders, Lady Salem."

Cap'n screeched and capered, leaping from person to person; stopping at last to make hideous faces from the top of Mirielle's head. The girl was enchanted. Hilt reached for more day brew, muttering lurid and colorful curses under her morning breath.

Salem must have been listening to the newly recovered monkey. At any rate, her pupils shrank down again, and she released the elf's shoulder.

"How are we here?" she demanded. "How did we get to this unchanged-litter-sand place?!"

Right. Another situation where the literal truth... that he'd carelessly brought them all here, without asking permission... would only upset and anger his fellow exiles.

"Oh… erm…" Inspiration struck, and Val went with it, saying, "The swallowing void, when it imploded, must have produced a secondary chaos burst. I conjecture that this second wave pushed us to a nearby plane, where the three of us have analogues that are dead, or in serious trouble. Just a particularly vicious eruption of chaos, Milady."

He'd expected her to probe further. Instead, the Tabaxi's ears flattened sideways. She broke eye-contact for the first time since waking, while Cap'n busied himself industriously searching Mirielle's hair. Not suspicious behavior, at all.

"You… wouldn't know anything about how the void was released in the first place, would you?" asked the high-elf, going for casual. Just, you know… wondering.

The Cap'n chattered aloud, launching himself from Mirielle's head to Val's shoulder. Pulled first a coin, then a flower out of his pointed left ear; bowing and grinning at his audience, miming applause.

The Tabaxi shrugged, then began smoothing the fur of her beautiful tail, purring,

"How late it has grown! Surely you mean to free the other captives, Mrowr. Why waste time in idle chatter? There is vengeance and havoc to wreak!"

Right. Val was beginning to piece a few things together. Found himself worrying over Gildyr as they broke camp and set off, once more.

How was the gentle druid faring in this awful place, the elf wondered? Had Gildyr been captured by the drow or their vile, death-pale mage? And how could that orc-mating whoreson be stopped?

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23

Giving Karus a gentle caress, Gildyr took another long look at his almost-pack before slipping out of the fireglow. Being a druid, he could move unseen and arrive unlooked for; part of the magic of stealth, fang and paw.

Arondyr-almost was out there, someplace; watching the feast, though he hadn't deigned to participate. Nearly his brother, but choking on anger and black, frozen hate. A wiser kid sibling would have stayed with the others. Gildyr went forward, instead; driven to heal and to mend.

The forest around him was wholesome and life-bringing, even in winter. Acorn mast cracked underfoot. Wet pine straw gave off its spicy perfume with each step, lending Gildyr a sense of who'd been here, how long ago, and which way they'd gone; laying a trail through the air as well as on ground.

Stars burned cold and clear overhead, peeping through gaps in the cover. Gildyr listened and scent-tracked, but it wasn't Arondyr he came upon, first. Rather, huddled near death on a bare patch of ground, he saw the wreck of a beautiful she-wolf. Skeletal, mangy and sick; her yellow eyes filmed with sorrow and pain.

"Astrea!" Gildyr cried out. Jarred from his hunting trance, the druid rushed forward. "How…? What…?"

The wolf raised her head at the sound of his voice. Struggled to rise, tail thumping once on the ground, whimpering hopefully.

Gildyr had that lump of cheese out of its faerie pocket in less than a wink. Closed the small gap between them. Was reaching out to stoke the wolf's head when…

"Get away from her!" snarled Arondyr, bursting out of the shadows to his left. Collided with Gildyr like a boulder, smashing the druid away from Astrea. "Liar! Thief! Don't touch her!"

Gildyr sailed through the air as though struck by a club. Skidded into a tree, with Arondyr leaping to follow.

"No!" Gildyr protested, trying to scrabble back upright. "Arondyr, no! I wasn't…"

But the furious paladin wasn't listening.

"You don't belong here! You're not him! You're a dagger thrust straight to the heart, and when you're withdrawn, we'll do nothing but bleed!"

Seized Gildyr bodily, lifted the druid over his head and then hurled him into a thicket of twisted thorns.

Gildyr struck hard, knocking the wind straight out of his lungs and scraping him raw. Reflexively changed to his wolven-form; lowering belly to ground, whimpering a placating friend-note, a family-note, as Arondyr stalked forward.

Then Karus was there, with Gilcryst, Shavonne and poor, heart-stricken Gran.

"Stop!" the old lady pled. "Please, Forest Lord, stop them! Old oak, old oak, bring peace," she chanted, weeping and pushing between them. But,

"He's an imposter! Some wraith of the dark fells! Some chaos-spawned shadow," howled Arondyr, almost in tears.

Then Shavonne came forward, graceful and swift. Brushing lightly against her eldest son, she nudged him away from Gildyr. The auburn furred wolf was still sneezing and licking his own muzzle, but seemed more frightened than hurt. As Gilcrest, Karus and Gran saw to their visitor, Shavonne said very quietly,

"Am I a child, in your eyes? A cub, fit to hunt nothing but lace flies and mice? Is Karus a fool? If not, youngling, leave off your bluster and listen to sense." More speech than he'd heard from his mother in years.

"Not all is winter and darkness," she added, pacing slowly around the stiff paladin. "...and there is far more to life than mere survival."

Shavonne glanced at Gildyr, who'd picked himself up and was back in elf-form. Not just Gilcrest, Karus and Gran, but now Astrea, too, had joined the young druid. Returning her gaze to Arondyr, his mother went on saying things that were too hard, too painful to hear.

"He is a visitor, drawn here by some great and terrible need… yet bringing us comfort. Sometimes, Swift-foot, the Great Tree sends us balm unlooked-for. Sometimes it senses the pleas of a shattered and sorrowing heart."

Arondyr stared hard at the ground. Still seething, but starting to listen.

"Now," said Shavonne. "If you would truly have him gone, help Gildyr resolve whatever trouble has drawn him here. The war bells have sounded from Snowmont; perhaps it is that which called and detained him. Win that battle, and the planes will adjust, the branches will separate, and your brother will once more be nothing but memory. Choose well, Swift-foot."

Light eyes flicking to Astrea, Shavonne added,

"There is more than just your fate at stake."

With that, his mother turned and went back to Cubby, leaving Arondyr to watch from the shadows.

But, early next morning, using the paths of the forest, druid and paladin, she-wolf and stag, made their way south.

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Elsewhere, under cover of dust cloud and mist, a file of chained captives staffered off northward. Any who fell were beaten back upright or, if unable to rise, cut loose and left for the wargs.

A mounted drow slaver rode back and forth along that slow-moving line, inspecting his haul. The day-walker settlement had yielded several fine specimens. He stood to make a tremendous profit, could he but get them to market, below. However, the distance was great, there had been an escape, and…

He drew up his horse with a hard, sawing jerk at the reins, looking back to the south. He was being pursued. One approach sensor after another had been destroyed as the hunter… evidently a mage… drew on that frozen, stored manna.

No doubt riding at the head of some pitchfork and torch wielding rabble, this unknown wizard was a possible threat. Had doubtless been hired by sniveling relatives to rescue one of his higher-caste prisoners.

Well… thought the slaver, beginning to smile… there was more than one way to slow down a soft-hearted day-walker.

To the attentive, cringing head of his troop, the slaver made a brief signal. The half-elf fighter bowed low, earning the lash from his master for not bowing lower. Toying with a necklace of dried, pointed ears, the slaver said,

"Fetch forth one of the Snowmont slaves. A female, I think. I will have sport, and then give our persistent shadow something to think about."

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24

And the way became suddenly very much harder. Before, the worst had been warg-torn corpses and scattered body parts. Val had had to call halt after brief, bitter halt to burn the remains and release any lingering spirits.

Now… as though they'd guessed they were being pursued… the slavers began leaving deliberate victims. Most still alive and horribly injured, with the drow mage's sigil cut into their flesh like a signature. Now the halts became longer, while they pulled living people off of impaling black ice, or dug them out of the boggy ground into which they'd been staked… or worse.

At first, Valerian had done most of the healing. Soon, though, he had to leave that to Mirielle and Hilt. The high-elf was too choked with rage and hatred to soothe or mend or repair. Saw that cursed sigil wherever he turned, written in blood and entrails, or carved onto foreheads. He couldn't have healed so much as a splinter. Worse, each injured victim was one more mouth. One more fate, one more worry.

The last poor soul, broken-backed, trying to haul himself off of the road, was the pebble that tipped the landslide. Not just anyone. Sandor, one of Filimar's set, whom he'd fought alongside in another place and time.

Half-blinded, hair matted with blood from a missing ear, Sandor could not see him. He recognized Valerian's voice, though, and reached out in his friend's direction.

As Salem pulled Mirielle aside, distracting the girl with a search for more useless herbs, Val took the last thing he had… and the most powerful… out of a faerie pocket. Just a small, glassy vial, topped in plain mithril, it had come from the Fey-wild through Aunt Meliara.

"Life essence," he told Hilt, as she cradled poor Sandor. "Use it to heal him, then save the rest for your family, once they are found." He had meant to use it on Lerendar and his own other self, whose mind and injuries kept seeping over. "This must end. I will finish it."

"Be careful, yer lordship," said Hilt, taking the vial. "They're doin' this on purpose, meanin' ter make ye too wrathful ter think."

"I have a plan," replied Val, trying not to be chained up and shuffling. Trying to stay in his own, unsilenced head. "But I'll have to transform myself. In the meantime, good dwarf, give me the image of your folk, so I'll know who to free first, and defend."

Hilt reached out a hand, gazing directly into Val's eyes. Through her, he saw an older, grey-bearded dwarf woman along with a half-grown, chuckling lad. Good enough.

To Sandor, he said,

"Rest. Be healed, my friend."

"Filno…" the young nobleman gasped, reaching blindly for Val's hand; clasping tight.

"Will be here, momentarily. We escaped together, but headed in different directions to foil pursuit. You must be up and ready to greet him," Val commanded, adding, "An Arvendahl…"

Which Sandor finished,

"...an Arvendahl to the fray."

And then Valerian stalked off to make ready, far from loss and ruin and pain.

The transformation he worked took privacy, a few recycles and actual study, because changing his shape didn't come easily. But, from expanding Mirielle's story, he had an image in mind. That of a dark elf prince; ebon-skinned, ice-haired and golden eyed; armored in dusky plate. Armed with a blood drinking sword.

He needed more than that though. Needed Smythe, and he knew it. Was just about to call the sword's name three times when Mirelle came pelting up, Salem bounding behind her.

The girl skidded to a pine straw scattering halt, confused. Salem drew her borrowed dagger, yowling a warning cry. The disguise, of course.

Val backed a step, raising one hand, but…

"It's the prince," said Mirielle, purple eyes wide. "Prince Drake, from my story!"

"It is actually me," Valerian corrected, allowing his own voice to surface. "I can get closer to the one who will soon die, if he does not at once know who faces him. But," he turned to the still growling Tabaxi, "Milady, I will require your aid."

"And me," piped up Mirielle, stuffing herbs away into her belt pouch. "I can help, Milord Valerian. You need a fighter…"

"I am a fighter," he said, missing lighter days very badly. "You must remain here to defend Hilt and the injured." Of which there were far too many.

The look on his young page's face was just shy of open rebellion, so Val dipped into another faerie pocket, pulling forth a pair of silly carnival joke bracelets. They'd been won many years previous, at Serrio's fair. He and Kalisandra had used up nearly every last charge, playing stupid tricks on each other, but…

"See, here is how you may help, if it comes to that," he explained, squatting down to her eye level. "I wear one bracelet, like so… while you don the other. What they do is, for fun, when either of us taps a bracelet and says 'together', within a certain range, one bracelet will draw the other and whoever is wearing it. So, either I will be drawn back to you, and to safety…"

"Or I'll come to you, and help fight," crowed the girl.

Which… yes. Something like that. Val settled for a nod and slight smile.

"But, how will I know that you need me?" pled the little one, taking her job very seriously, indeed.

"Erm… wait for a red-and-gold mage fire, blasted up into the sky." A signal he'd used before.

The bracelets were cheaply made and colorful, tied with brightly dyed thongs. How often he'd summoned Kalisandra… right over the water. Or she, him, above a pile of raked mess in the stables. The foolishness seemed terribly long ago, but still brought a smile.

"The beautiful woman?" Mirielle guessed. "The one who thinks you're an idiot?"

Val stood up once again, putting everything out of his heart except battle readiness. This was no time for soft memory… and Sandy was perfectly safe, somewhere else.

"Watch for my signal," he ordered Mirielle. "Help Hilt treat and protect the injured."

Next, turning to face the suspicious Tabaxi, the high-elf said,

"I plan to misty step to the slave train, then create a distraction by demanding some of the captives. Possibly starting a fight, if all goes well. Your part, Milady, will be to sneak about, releasing as many others as you can. You were able to escape…"

Salem uttered a low and guttural sound.

"I chewed rope, unseen. Killed a guard with tooth and stone, then fled through shadow, as they did not think to silence me. I mourn those left in chains, Mrowr, as I mourn Clan Master Tristan. I will help you."

Val touched her shoulder, briefly, then nodded in promise.

"For Oberyn, for the dawn, they will have blood. Tell me all that you know of the enemy. How many, how armed, how organized."

The Tabaxi hugged herself. Cap'n had emerged once again, dividing his time between Salem and Mirielle. Though it hurt very much to push past the clouds of fever and grief, Salem growled,

"The slave master dominates. He is dark-elf stock with… you will not wish to hear this, Mrowr, but I think… with light-elf blood mixed. He wears full armor and bears a long sword. His magic is strong, and the others fear him."

"How many others," probed Valerian.

"I could not see the whole of the company," said the Tabaxi, "but four guards appeared many times, striding the line with lashes and clubs. Two others I saw only once, and another I slew… but I was fevered, Mrowr. My recollection may not be reliable."

"And the wargs? Hilt and I accounted for three, out in the woods, and there was the one on the road yesterday. Well, half of one."

"To my count, the slave master began with eight beasts," Salem replied, sneezing at the remembered stench of corrupted flesh.

"Then he is down to four," said Val, spying a glimmer of hope. "If his men are entirely cowed by him, they will await his word to act, which gives us a bit of advantage. In any case, we cannot delay any longer. People are dying."

Salem inclined her head.

"I am prepared, Lord Mage-Knight," she told him.

"Red and gold sky flare, if you need me," reminded Mirielle, catching the edge of Valerian's cloak. "I'll be watching the whole time. I promise."

"Then there is nothing to fear, and no possible outcome but good," said Val, touching the girl's head. She'd been favoring her left arm, he noticed, and her nose appeared to be swollen. Like himself, she felt the near presence of her injured analogue. Also like him, she hid it.

Next came something that Val had put off as long as he could. Reaching up and back, he clasped the hilt of his family's ancestral weapon. Cleared his throat. Salem, of course, had seen it before. Not Mirielle, though.

"This may prove unpleasant," he cautioned the girl, before saying, "Vesendorin, Vesendorin, Vesendorin."

There was a bright, perfectly silent explosion and flare of clean light. The hilt grew warm in Valerian's hand. Startled, he pulled the blade free of its sheath in one smooth, easy motion; wielding that four feet of steel like it weighed no more than a reed and had no inertia at all.

Smythe… Vesendorin… hummed along its length and glowed at its edges; that plain hilt and cross guard worked now with griffins and gems.

'At last', shrilled the blade. 'To battle, young Tarandahl! To honorable combat and unending fame!'

"Erm…" Val hedged, trying not to look as confused as he felt. Bathed in warm sword-glow, he plunged onward, saying, "Right. Unending fame. Could you… disguise yourself? We need to… infiltrate the enemy position, so that we may face their leader, a dark-elf who hides behind captives and underlings."

The sword's hum grew louder, more tooth-grating.

'I have faced such trash in both life and guardian state,' replied Smythe. 'Behold.'

And it began to change form, going from the blade of the Tarandahls to a glowering, saw-toothed black scimitar, banded in frost.

Salem was doing complex things with her ears and whiskers. There was a scent of chase and pounce, of struggling prey, pinned by a clawed, heavy paw.

Ready as he was ever going to be, showing nothing but confidence for Salem and Mirielle, Val said,

"Onward, then. Let us put paid to a monster."

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25

It fell out like this: Valerian arrived at the fore of the slaver's grim line, disguised as a dark-elf prince. Salem, he knew, had shadow walked over her own way. She would approach from the flanks and rear, but would need sufficient distraction before she could free any captives.

It was early afternoon, with a pale and wintery sun as high in the sky as it was going to hoist itself. The dark elf slaver had shielded his party and merchandise behind swirling grey dust, but dark vision and clear sight made the cloud no more than drifting smoke to Val's eyes.

The day was chilly, unsettled, and no wind blew, except that which lofted the slave master's cloud. A boulder-sized Warg padded forward, rumbling low in its throat; muscles shifting and bunching beneath mangy hide. That was one, but he needed the remaining three, as well.

Two half-orc guards tramped over, saw Val and then froze. One of them alarm-squealed, then thudded to its knees, dragging its fellow down with it. Further down the line, a pair of low-caste drow warriors turned to peer at the source of all the commotion.

At his back, Valerian could feel and hear Smythe producing a certain very irritating vibration, meant to reach into weak minds and strike abject terror.

The warg licked its muzzle, whimpered and began to back off. The half-orcs rose into a crouch, ready to flee or attack. One of the drow headed over. The other darted off, presumably after their leader.

Meanwhile, the captives halted their shambling march, settling numbly in place on the road. A mounted figure came thundering up on a horse that blew foam and blood as it ran.

Very confusingly, Val saw all of this from two perspectives. Here, at the head of the column and again from one side and behind, over somebody's scarred, quaking shoulder.

The horseman pulled up short, sawing at his mount's torn mouth with savage jerks to the reins. Val-in-disguise did not flinch but stepped smoothly forward, radiating haughty disdain. Disgust for a casteless mixed-blood.

Distraction, he thought, using lightning, not fire, to slaughter the nearest warg.

The horseman's thin, dead-white face hardened. Cautious, clearly suspicious, he slid from the saddle and dropped to one knee.

"My Lord," he grunted, speaking a tongue that was anciently accented, long-vowel Fey. "How may this worthless one serve?"

Val did his best to match tone and inflection, saying,

"I will examine your wares, dealer-in-flesh. My slaves are all eaten. I will have more."

The voice that he'd chosen was cultured and clipped, hinting at casual malice. From a drow perspective, the statement made perfect sense, and the trader was not averse to an early sale… but the sudden appearance of royalty, afoot and unattended, seemed… curious.

Bowing his head very slightly, the slaver said,

"As my Lord wills. Which of these boot-scrapings will My Lord deign to consider?"

An insult. Not a very subtle one, either, as the 'Prince' had indicated interest in food-slaves. It could not go undealt with.

Lighting flared from Valerian's hand, this time burning one of the slow-edging drow who'd been trying to slip around behind him. Showy and effective, though not the young high-elf's natural magic.

Made his head hurt and drained him much faster than fire. Sherazedan had insisted that they not lean on comfort, however. That they learn to wield more than one element.

A lump of split, roasted flesh was all that remained of the sneaking guard, along with some bits of charred metal. Behind Val, Smythe keened approval. As if nothing had happened, Val strolled forward, levitating slightly, disdaining contact with mere filthy ground.

The slaver's dark armor was dirty and battered. Made to live and ride in, not just for show. A necklace of severed ears, one still bloody, hung at the drow's neck. His eyes burned with frustrated hate, their natural red shading over to magma.

Twisting the blade, Val took the reins of the slaver's blown, tired beast as he glided past.

"I require a mount. Your nag will suffice."

Not Patches. A stone-grey mare with wild eyes and the slave master's sigil carved onto her face. A rattling council of shriveled heads bounced and swung from her bridle. No one he knew.

Oddly enough, he had no need to look behind him, as the Valerian-captive could see all, and was sharing. The line of prisoners trembled and cringed, most attempting to shrink from his gaze as Val stalked down the road.

From time to time he flicked a finger, indicating this dwarf and that one… a certain young Arvendahl lordling, then another… a shrinking half-drow girl child, who'd tried to shield herself with a bucket. Then, dizzy with shifting perspective, his other self, whose torn throat and maimed hands tormented Val, as well.

One of the guards scuttled along in his wake, freeing and banding the indicated captives. Val tapped a fingertip to each slave band in succession, accepting ownership and binding their will to his.

Wound up freeing seven before noise from the end of the line halted trade. Someone had put up a fight and was messily dying, back there. Val and the slaver looked southward, for a moment, then turned to each other. The drow-mix spoke first, hissing,

"A prince royal out in full dayshine, alone? I think not. Show yourself, day-walker. I like to see what I've stepped in."

A few things happened at once, as Val briefly slowed time. He dropped his transformation, causing the drow to stop moving forward and stare. In that moment's confusion, Valerian drew Smythe, then stepped in front of the captives, ordering, "Defend yourselves."

Filimar, Val-other and Hilt's mum took up rocks; the dwarf woman with also a stick she'd been hiding and working to sharpen, each stop.

"Here to fight, little day-walker?" the slaver mocked. "Sent forth to rescue one of my captives, by those with more coin than courage? Or, is one of these vermin a relative? The mage who fought like a kitten, perhaps? Had a good bit of sport, with that one."

Sparks rose up around Val. Ripples of heat made the air dance and shimmer, as flame lit up metal and ice all around.

"I would have called you an orc-mating whoreson," said the high-elf, "were that not a promotion in caste. I deliver a message from Lord Orrin, Lady Alfea and all the lost people of Snowmont, dirt-crawler." And then, he released all the rage and the flame trapped inside of him, driving the dark-elf to stumble backward and hurriedly shield.

The slave-taker snorted. Drawing a blade of his own, he paced forward, dragging its tip through the ground. Black frost radiated in lightning jags from its path as the drow said,

"Fighting alone, then? Soft as pudding, weak as well water. No more threat than a slave shackled out on the banqueting table. I am Kaazin Kylarion, the impure one. Reaver of day. Shedder of…"

Right. Blah, blah, blah.

Valerian kept himself between that small knot of freed slaves and Kaazin, who had nearly completed a frost circle. Flame-wheel cut the forming sigil in half, shredding its magic.

"I care not what you call yourself, Worm, son of midden. I am Valerian Tarandahl ad Keldaran. Of Ilirian, Silmerana. Warden of the north."

Smythe flared with fire and light in response to his words, its scream rising to storm-like intensity. Kaazin backed a pace, grinning; more skull face than humor.

"I shall dine well this night, one royal morsel at a time. But high-elves taste best when hung for a while. Brings out their flavor. So maybe I'll begin with those you valued enough to pick out for me, day-fly. Perhaps your… brother."

They struck simultaneously, fighting with magic and blades. Darkness flared. Black ice erupted in great, jagged shards from the stony ground, melted by gouts of flame.

Smythe and the saw-toothed blade crashed together, scraping along their length with a scream of stressed metal and blossoming steam. Fire exploded from Val, searing the dark-elf's right arm. Cheating, but this was no courtly duel, and Valerian was far beyond playing fair. He kept moving, keeping Smythe between himself and the drow, while shielding the wounded people behind him.

Kaazin took full advantage of that, firing ice bolts at captives too injured or slow to escape. Val fought to shield them, as well, while those he'd released dove for weapons dropped by their fleeing guards.

A crackling fire bolt and spinning twist to one side opened Kaazin's stance a bit, giving the high-elf room for a thrust. Smythe bit through armor and flesh; burning and piercing, together.

Kaazin leapt backward, seeming not to feel pain.

"Let's make this more interesting, firefly," he suggested, inscribing green sigils between them.

Val was just quick enough to change one or two, marring duration, if not their intent. A bubble of black, icy magic washed over and through him.

"No shields and no healing, day-walker. Whatever shall you do, now?"

He felt the change instantly; the blockage preventing shield force or healing. No blood would clot. No wound would cease spurting. If struck, he would bleed till he died.

More and more ice crystals burst from the ground, boxing him in. But Val was a natural athlete, honed by many seasons of court-ball. Avoiding attack while driving to score had become second nature.

Firebolt, burning hands, misty step and a loose, rapid fighting style… together with the sheer length of his sword… kept Kaazin back. But the drow had a strategy, too.

Every time that Valerian gained an advantage, started to press him, Kaazin would target a captive, forcing Val to drop his attack and defend the slave-taker's victim. Without shield magic, he could only block ice bolts by raising earth or deflecting with Smythe… and both moves left him unguarded.

A shrieking woman lost part of her leg to black ice. Valerian succeeded in reflecting most of the spell's force back at Kaazin, at the cost of a wound. He was slashed straight through his armor, which parted like cloth beneath hissing dark steel

A thin line of frostbite appeared from shoulder to hip, on his left side. Numbness began to take hold, kept from spreading by Firelord's protective grace. On the other hand, fully half of the drow's face had frozen solid.

Filimar and other-Val had been busy, slipping around behind Kaazin, unnoticed by anyone else but Valerian. The high-elf's perspective kept shifting from one view to another, seeing Kaazin before and behind; himself armored, armed and half-naked, clutching a rock.

His other self lifted a bent, twisted hand, silently calling for something better to fight with. Val summoned and threw his dagger, gashing Kaazin's face and arming Filimar, who caught the blade in midair. Next sent Nightshade hurtling, hilt first, not at Kaazin, but into the other Val's reach. Nearly dropped Smythe, reflexively matching his analogue's clumsy grab.

As the drow backed, wiping blood from his eyes, Valerian threw the last of his manna into raising earth behind his cursing enemy. The slave-taker stumbled, tripped by a knee-high wall of crumbling dirt.

Other Val and Filimar rushed at the drow from behind, stabbing and slashing wherever they could. A sudden magical gesture sent the two wounded elves flying backward, riddled with needles of ice. Through the link with his analogue, Val felt hundreds of punctures and fast spreading cold.

He was likely going to die, Dad unavenged and Lerendar left to his fate, but it was the girl, the young half-drow whose water had saved him, that Val couldn't leave. Dodging another swing of that hissing black sword, cutting at Kaazin's spell-hand, the high-elf got his bracelet off and jammed it onto the terrified girl. Managed to tap and gasp "Together", knowing that the last time he'd used it, the bracelet's joke magic had brought Kalisandra to him.

This time, the trinket worked in reverse. It vanished from sight, taking a startled youngster to safety.

Kaazin had ceased posturing. Padding forward with lion's eyes and a steady blade, he fired another ice-blast at this plane's Valerian, watching Val react as though he were the one being struck.

"Interesting," mused the slaver, casting darkness and cold. "Not just a relative, then. Some mirror form of yourself. Let's find out if the effect works both ways, shall we?"

The high-elf had lurched back into a ready stance, Smythe in position. Kaazin went for a vicious neck-slash, meaning to cleave the elf's head from his body. Smythe cut upward as Val leapt aside. Rather than take off his head, the black sword flicked at his throat, cutting armor like bread, opening the great artery that pulsed below.

He'd got his death wound and knew it, but had to keep going. Burning hand to the cut didn't heal it, but fried the gash closed long enough for Val to ready his last magic, that final curse or boon which could not be altered or blocked.

Blurrily indicating all those who'd sheltered behind him, Val grunted, "Safety," and then made ready to die. Only…

'Young Tarandahl, I have failed you,' said Smythe. 'Take my life, Silmerana. Rise and fight on.'

The blade's light went out like a doused torch. All at once merely four feet of ungainly steel, the Blade of the Tarandahls struck ground, point first.

But its magical animation, the enchantment which had kept Vesendorin's soul in that weapon for thousands of years, flowed into Valerian. Wounds healed as if they had never been. Life-stealing cold vanished. Strength returned to both of the Vals.

The emptied blade was a mockery; clumsy, awkward and useless without animation. Val should have let the cursed thing go, but found that he couldn't.

Swung Smythe up and around through main force, grunting,

"For Oberyn, for the dawn," as he brought the sword down in a wild, slashing arc. Took off Kaazin's helmet, one eye and part of his skull, spraying blood, bone and green manna everywhere.

Healed now and burning with rage, armed with Nightshade, his other self struck from behind. Drilled Kaazin straight through the entrails and both sides of his armor. Then a call split the air, eerie and wild, sounding like the fighting cry of a bull elk in rut.

Kaazin snarled a cantrip to stem the blood flow. His remaining eye gone suddenly corpse-light green, he laughed in two voices. One was his own. The other was cold and ancient and whisper-beckoning; calling to all that was lost and alone in Valerian.

Then Salem lunged through a gap in the ice to join Val, her claws and teeth streaming gore. Somewhere nearby, a wolf howled. Kaazin's terrified horse reared and plunged, trapped by pillars of steaming black ice.

For just an instant, the bond between Val and his analogue worked in their favor, allowing two views, two sword thrusts, two shrieking fire-bolts. Intense light and furious heat enveloped Kaazin, who should have fried like a wisp of dry grass. Only something… some sickly green shield… preserved him.

The dark-elf mage rose from the ground, leaking manna and blood, glowing with corpse-fire. Turning his gaze to Val, he hissed,

"My meat. Never fear, Sunbeam. We shall dine together, you and I. Soon. Mother does so enjoy guests."

An axe shot through the air, hurtling haft over head to bury itself in Kaazin's face. Ought to have finished him. Didn't.

Instead of falling, the slaver turned flat, then sideways, then vanished from sight. Just… gone. Pulled far away by something darkly powerful. Val stood there a long, numb moment, leaning upon a dead sword.

He saw Gildyr running forward, alive and uninjured, dodging black ice and smoldering corpses. A great white stag leapt at his side. There was also a tall, armored wood-elf and some pitiful, starveling wolf.

Hilt pounded up, uttering a cry that was part vented grief and fear and heart-bursting joy. Mirielle trailed her, crying something that Val scarcely heard.

He released a pent breath. He was dirty and bloodstained, without so much as an ember of manna remaining… but alive. Unexpectedly whole and still breathing, both of him.

Lacking animation, Smythe was too long and awkward to back sheath, but Val wouldn't let the sword go. Kept blade in hand as he started for Gildyr. Just glad that the druid was present; that he'd won through, somehow.

Did not see or sense Arondyr lift up his own sword, or heed Salem's frenzied warning-cry. Just raced right into a blow that whipped his head around and caved in his helmet, cracking the skull underneath.

Valerian dropped to the ground atop Smythe, dead or insensible. His analogue likewise collapsed, both of them felled with one strike.

Hilt turned from hugging and shaking her rescued people to roaring a dwarven battle-cry. Leapt completely over the elf's fallen body to plant herself, unarmed, between Val and Arondyr. Filimar wasn't as quick, but he got there; limping and gasping, half-frozen by spreading black ice.

Mirielle charged forward, swinging a very light mace. She skidded to a halt to stand with the others. Salem uttered the wild, savage scream of a panther, in her mind seeing more than one fight; more than one fallen friend. Dagger in each clawed hand, she stalked forth to meet Arondyr.

"Out of my way," snarled the paladin, sword raised for a killing blow, its voice urging murder loud in his head. Barely saw Salem as he clubbed the leaping Tabaxi aside with an armored fist.

"Take them," hissed River of Death, his hungering weapon. "Slaughter the high-elves and drowling, together with any that dare to stand in our way. Your god demands blood."

Gildyr hauled at the paladin's arm, somehow seeming to root himself into the ground.

"Stop!" he begged. "Arondyr, please listen! He wasn't attacking! He's a friend!"

But his brother was beyond reason. A long, silvery note sounded, filling the air with its crystal pure song. Still distant, but coming their way. A high-elf hunting horn, just like the ones that had sounded the day that Gildyr-of-this-plane had died.

"Life for a life," growled Arondyr, uprooting Gildyr and bashing him into a pillar of ice; knocking his not-brother senseless. The stag he blocked with a rage-hardened shield spell, adding, "We lost ours. Let them mourn theirs!"

The paladin lunged forward then, feinting at Val, but shifting direction at the last moment, plunging his blade into the fallen Valerian-analogue.

"One down," he gloated, turning back to the armored one. Only, more folk had come between them. Freed captives and… utter, confusing betrayal… his own noble beast, Astrea.

The poor, half-starved shadow slunk to place herself between defenders, unconscious elf and Arondyr. Head low, tail curving under, she whispered,

"Heart-friend… soul of my soul… do not do this."

"Out of my way!" raged Arondyr, hearing hoofbeats and hunting horns. "Out of my way, or…"

"Or you will kill me, as well? Send my death faster? Do so, then, Swift-foot. You are no more the boy that I loved."

"Do it," hissed River's voice in his head. "Slaughter the cur. Bring yourself whole and unbound to your lord. He expects nothing less."

Arondyr took a pace forward, trying to edge around Astrea, but his wolf wouldn't let him. Her golden eyes met his and, for just an instant, Arondyr was a small boy again, tumbling through leaf piles with a joyous wolf cub licking his face. Heart to heart, soul to soul, bonded forever.

His sword rose, lifted higher, catching sunlight. And… he threw it, up and away. At the peak of its flight, the weapon just vanished, along with his holy symbols and armor.

But Arondyr had crashed to his knees, weeping a hundred years of pent tears. Astrea leapt, paws on his chest, bowling him over, licking his face. There were no words.

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