17

It was Gildyr's doing; a move he'd made suddenly, performing one of his frequent, wild swerves. He hadn't had much of a choice, though. Not really.

In that moment of frenzied tension… noble victims rescued, their lordships safely retrieved, the sending vanquished… Gildyr had seen his chance, and he'd taken it. High Lord Tarandahl was distracted, hunting the source of that nearly fatal attack. Lord Reston, busy keeping Starloft's populace under control. Lady Alyanara focused on healing the damage, meanwhile, reversing all traces of Chaos. A bit further off, caught up in a storm of anguish and love, Lerendar wouldn't have noticed if you'd set him on fire. As for his friends, the bard, rogue and outcast cared only for him. So much for the Tarandahls.

There was a great deal of noise and activity. People and hounds swarmed everywhere, plowing the rubble in search of survivors. The joy, the coming together, whenever someone was found!

In all this confusion, no one gave thought to Valerian… or so it first seemed. The young elf-lord lay on a folded cloak near the edge of that tilted platform. Beside him were heaped the broken chunks of a rock-crystal griffin. His Lordship was perfectly still. Better yet, unattended.

Work of a moment to glide right over and crouch at his side, lifting the high-elf's cold hand. The beat at his wrist was rapid, uneven. His breathing, shallow. Val's half-open eyes were focused on nothing. That made sense, if the visions that Gildyr had seen were accurate. If the drift of herbs on water, stirred by the wood-elf's own breath, spoke true. If so, Val had to leave Starloft. Now.

"What are you doing?" someone demanded, slipping from shadow and piled, broken rock. Turning his head, Gildyr found himself looking past leather, armor and wool at Cinda's grim face. Being a ranger, she could stay hidden till motion or speech betrayed her. "He shouldn't be moved, yet," she snapped. "I've dosed him with potion, and healers are coming. If you're trying to help, Druid, lend manna."

"Gildyr," muttered the wood-elf, not really expecting her to use his name. Instead, looking up at the scowling female, he murmured a privacy spell and said, "He has to be moved, as far and as fast as possible, Milady."

Her face hardened; growing cold in the day's fading light.

"I'm not a lady. I'm nothing and no one. Like you," she snapped, adding, "Unless you convince me, quick, why Valerian needs to go anywhere, I'm calling the guards. The High Lord already suspects you. He won't bother with prison, Druid. Talk fast."

Sure. Seemed that her humble origin hadn't sweetened Cinda, one bit. Rather than take offense, though, Gildyr tried hard to explain.

"He's in danger, here. We all are, but Valerian especially, because most of this chaos centers on him, somehow… and because he's not whole."

The ranger snorted at that, amusement lighting her blue and brown eyes.

"I beg to correct you, Shagbark. Having been with him often, His Lordship is missing no parts. He is entirely whole, and perfectly functional."

Gildyr felt himself blush. Not having ever… himself… engaged in… Anyhow, he shook his head, face burning hot.

"Not what I meant, Honored Ranger. I believe that Valerian was split when fate came apart at a major turning point. That he's in more than one place, now… which has opened the realms to Chaos. It's causing outbursts beyond what's expected, if this was just Midworld, breaking away from perfection."

Shaking his head, the druid got to his feet, urging,

"Don't you see? Can't you feel it? You were there, too. You were part of all this. We've got to change the narrative, remove him, I think, to a physical space where his alternates are. If you care for him…"

"More than you know or he does, Druid," she practically spat, all humor suddenly gone.

"Then help me get him to safety, where we can come up with an actual plan. Here, sooner than later, he's going to get killed."

Cinda Whitlock was a prickly and difficult person. Proud, in her own wretched way. Also, in love.

"Very well," she said, guardedly. "But, if you're lying to me, Wood-elf, there won't be enough of you left for your folk to scrape up and burn."

Warning delivered, Cinda stepped aside. Then, glancing around to be certain that no one was watching, she called on her goddess, drawing manna to power a three-person shadow-step. Gildyr stooped to lift Valerian, who…

"Oof… maybe more salads than cream-cakes for a while, Milord."

…was heavier than he looked.

"Or you could try lifting more than just twigs and dry leaves," growled Cinda, clamping a hand iron-tight to the wood-elf's slim shoulder.

Moments later, they'd vanished; gone between heartbeat and breath. Mostly unseen.

XXXXXXXXX

'I hate this place, I hate its folk… hear me all gods and powers, I hate this accursed whole land!'

Which he meant, with every last shred of his being. Smoldered and sparked at the edges, having just absorbed an entire field's worth of bale-fire. Only, it wasn't the first thing that happened that day, nor the worst.

Right. He'd set Nameless back down on the crater floor, then risen, summoning weapons and power. A goblinoid fighter had released the marten (maybe because of that nose-burning stench), made a kind of salute and then vanished. Which… was tough to explain.

"Stay close," he said to his friend, busy grooming itself with rough tongue and claws, now. "Things happen whenever you wander off."

Nervously dusting both hands on his breeches, the elf picked a likely spot and then started back up the crater wall. The giant's explosion had done serious damage to an already crumbling rim, making the climb even harder. Cracked rock, loose scree and shards of hot metal kept him very focused on each cautious handhold and step.

Would have been simpler to levitate, but a floating elf makes an outstanding target, and this one meant to avoid further piercings. So… no levitation or smoke-step, which he hadn't the manna for, anyhow.

Doing things physically took longer, but he finally got to the top and climbed over. Up on the surface, a light wind batted the grasses and leaves. Birds trilled, hopping and pecking from snapped, swinging branches to fresh-broken rock. Insects chirped. A nearby stream bubbled and chuckled its way through a stony bed, which had shifted considerably.

No sign of persons or goblins, though. Just an open blue sky and sparse forest, along with hundreds of shattered stone trees. The giant's path was quite clear. Arrow-straight, it carved a swath northward some five yards wide, length unknown and unguessable.

The explosion-pit lay off to his right, still dusty and settling. Unsafe to explore, and not his goal, anyway. It was easy enough to pick up the goblin's trail. The creature was no master of stealth; breaking twigs and stomping small plants as it shambled south. He followed a bit, but then stopped, because…

What if it had only meant to return a kindness? Giving the marten back, because the elf had quickly and cleanly put down a doomed scout? Possible, he supposed… but a fragile truce and prone to misunderstanding.

Not wishing to alarm the creature, he followed no further. Didn't say anything, either. Stood looking around for a bit, then searched his magical pockets for some kind of gift.

Found a decent long knife and some of Hanish's bread. Set them, as the peddler had done, on a folded cloth that he placed on the ground. There was something… about goblins, or peace with them. Something important he'd realized, back in the some-when.

Here and now, making sure that Nameless kept up, he backed off and turned to start westward, again. The fiery presence was still inside of him, nearly as drained as he was.

Something odd about that. Once, he felt sure, the being would have used him as some kind of game piece or… sword-arm? Now, he was giving it shelter. He thought that he recalled the being; that it was maybe one of the spirits that left him, back when he woke out of rock. If so… would the other return, as well?

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

He had no answer for that, except to stay sharp and keep moving, making himself a surly and difficult target. Day after day he pressed onward, not letting up or relaxing.

Further west, the ground grew rougher. The map showed nothing at all of the gullies and cliffs he encountered. Just smooth hills, with a city-dot close to a flickering shrine. Frustrating chart, more distraction than help. He persisted, though, thinking that another goddess awakened might add to his small hoard of facts. Or at least redraw the map. ('Update', he thought, out of nowhere. Update the map, not fix or replace it.)

The nights grew cold as he crested a ridge, leaving the flatlands behind. Stopped to look back once, seeing a broad, empty plain; blue with distance and blurry with mist. And there, just visible, rose the broken stump of a mighty fortress. Looked like the shattered horn on a dragon's skull, from this distance. He stared for a while, saying to Nameless,

"Of that heap of rocks, I was lord."

But he didn't know why. Couldn't say when, or what had become of the place and its people. Just turned his back and kept going; running from failure and ghosts.

Some days later they stopped and made camp at a clearing. He scouted it thoroughly first, pocketing berries and kindling. Then, having placed wards and built a small fire, he sat down to apples, water and more roasted fish. If the map could be trusted, he'd pass the city of Exarod sometime the next day, reaching the edge of darkness, soon afterward.

He'd run out of bread (bad) and daybrew (still worse). Didn't want to approach the city but needed supplies.

"What do you think," he asked Nameless, who'd caught something crunchy that squeaked once, then resigned itself to the fate of all prey. "Go among strangelings, or live without daybrew?"

The marten glanced up from its meal, but expressed no opinion. Something else happened, though. As he reached over to turn his speared fish, that presence shot out of his body, darting into the hissing and popping campfire. There, it took physical form, standing up in the flames as a person.

Unburnt, a small red-haired boy reached out to touch the crisp trout, then pulled back his hand and put greasy fingers into his mouth, tasting the food. Made a rude face, too, crinkling eyes the color of hearth-glow and sunrise.

"Well," said the elf, defensively, "it isn't meant for a god."

For, very obviously, that's what the boy was. Slim and malnourished in this near-empty place, but a god, nonetheless.

"Firelord," said the elf, partly recalling a title and name. Feeling a bundle of things that wouldn't stop changing.

"Fire-ward," repeated the bright one, in the voice of a very loud child, speaking from many directions at once. Small pebbles rattled and bounced. Leaves dropped spiraling into the fire, while Nameless scurried to hide behind Miche.

It felt wrong to cringe or abase himself. The god wouldn't like it, he sensed. Instead, the elf gathered an offering and fed it into the flames. Not just apples, either. Gems, and part of his dinner. Next, he sat tailor-fashion, hovering slightly over the ground. Made up a story of Firelord's war against monstrous serpents, making him out to be terribly fierce in battle. A hero.

The child-god listened with interest, coming out of the fire to lean into… partly through, actually… his lone follower. Felt like a shower of sparks.

"That's me. Brave and strong me," said the small god, forming a blade out of fire. "But… why little?"

"You are small because you lack worship, My Lord, but we should come to a settlement soon, and there we can build you a shrine. You'll grow larger, as your worship expands."

The little one cocked his head to one side, much as the goddess had done, back at the spring.

"You love me?" he asked, looking serious. "You are mine?"

"I…" the elf spread his hands. "I have two months of memory to call on, My Lord, and sometimes flashes of what came before. We woke up together, I think, along with… something else."

The child-god's face scrunched, at that; his features literally folding up and away. One bright eye appeared a few moments later. Then, above it, the other.

"A dark one," said the much-reduced god, despite not having a mouth. "Evil."

"Definitely evil. But gone, I think," replied the elf, trying to sound reassuring. "Off troubling somebody else."

The child nodded.

"I will be strong again. I will destroy her. You will help."

Nameless had taken refuge, scrabbling up the elf's cloak and into his hood. From there, it peered at the god through a screen of gold hair. Made no sound at all. In fact, hardly seemed to be breathing as the elf replied,

"One bite starts a feast, and one step, a great journey, My Lord. First, let us work on building your power."

A weak and un-worshipped god was vulnerable, something told him; prey to things like the witch, who… might not be dead. He shook his head, blocking thoughts of that hellish time in her den; when he'd been trapped and enslaved, fighting not to obey.

They were going to have to be very careful, he realized, old one and god being more of a prize than a wandering elf, on his own. There wasn't much rest for Miche that evening. What with Nameless scraping a nest in his clothing, the child-god plunging from fire to follower all through the night, and his own searing worry. Couldn't wait to get up.

The next day, bright and early, he beat the dawn setting off again. Wasn't surprised to find no city at all, when he reached the marked spot. The map didn't lie, though. It was just old and inaccurate. There was no Exarod here. Only a small, wretched town and some genuine trouble.

Nameless was tucked back into his hood, Firelord once more an indwelling spirit, both as safe as the elf could make them. Edging nearer, he smelled burning. Heard a crackling roar. Saw rolling and tumbling dark smoke, lit from below by the sullen glow of fast-spreading flame.

A millet field had been set alight; now it was burning like paper. The elf hesitated, out of sight at the edge of that scrubby forest. Not his business, he figured. Let the strangelings burn whatever they wanted to.

Then… sickened and shocked… he spotted two children, screaming for help in a cage at mid-field. A sacrifice.

Reacting faster than thought, the elf smoke-stepped from forest to field, crunching stubble, embers and ash at each landing, raising great pillars of flame. There were townsfolk posted around the sacrificed field, wielding buckets and towels. Two of them kept back a shrieking young woman. Not there to help, just to prevent the fire from reaching their warped little town.

He ignored them. Got to the children's small, thorny cage with no time at all to free them. Instead, he called fire, his life-long ally and friend. Pulled all of it into himself like a bracing-strong drink, feeling its burn, but not hurt. The child-god inside of him glowed like a star, causing the sign on his chest to shine through armor and clothing.

Together, he and Firelord turned their gaze to the townsfolk, who'd dropped to the ground on their faces, squealing gibberish and making signs in the dirt. Except for the screaming woman, that is. Released, now, she plunged through the blackened field, her brown hair and long skirt catching fire more times than he bothered to count. She ran with her arms outstretched, calling something like "Laga! Vardo!"

At his signal and word, her clothes did not burn. Nor did the rippling heat or acrid dark smoke stop her. The children reached out through the thorn-wrapped bars of their cage, careless of scratches and cuts.

"Ama!" they called back, shouting excitedly when a man appeared. He was injured, limping across in the woman's wake.

From the townsfolk came worship. But, twisted. Degraded. More like the buzzing of flies on a corpse than real love for a god. Firelord recoiled inside of him, repelled by their groveling. Feeling sick, he opened the cage, releasing a girl and small boy. They tumbled out and hugged him, despite his stern face and bright glow. He didn't push them away.

The woman arrived moments later. Weeping aloud, she knelt down to scoop her babies into a tight embrace. Kissed the tear-streaks and soot from their faces. Then, looking up, she whispered something that might have been thanks, had he let himself listen.

The dark-haired man reached his family by then, puffing and coughing, slapping at sparks. He had a black eye and was missing several teeth, the elf saw, their sockets still bloody and raw in a bruised, swollen jaw.

Well, that he could heal; setting right the small hurts and clearing the drug that still lurked in the children's blood. To them, he must have seemed like a god. He shook his head when they tried to kneel down, though. Hated this place and didn't seek worship. Just wanted out. Away. Gone.

He traced a blessing over his would-be followers and then backed off through crunching stubble and ash. Someone else had come over, by then, picking a mincing path through the sacrificed field. Looked like the village headman, to judge by his tarnished jewelry and carved wooden rod.

Bowing low, the fellow started a florid, chittering speech, full of broad gestures. Didn't get very far, though. All at once, the elf's vision darkened. Blood thundered loud in his ears. No warning at all, just hauled off and punched the chieftain, his sudden right-cross crunching bone, sending the man flying back into his straggling folk.

Felt good. Wrong, but deeply, enjoyably good. Behind him, the kids' father managed to turn laughter into a coughing fit. The woman just gasped. He flinched when she reached out to pull at his cloak. Turning, he saw that she held out a small, cloth-wrapped bundle. Inside, once she loosened its leather ties, there was food and a stash of copper coins. The family's whole wealth, he guessed. What they'd gathered to flee with.

He shook his head again, gently folding her hands back over the offered goods with his own. Not everything here was warped. Not everyone, evil. For their sake, he didn't go without casting a blessing on the town's well and resetting its faded wards. There was infection here; a loathsome, ignorant malice that crept in like mist.

Strengthened wards would help that, he thought, standing there in a beaten-earth square, surrounded by huts that clustered like mushrooms. Only two other matters of note took place in Exarod. First, among the piled offerings left at the village altar, he found daybrew powder; fragrant and dark in a fine leather pouch. That he accepted, along with some cheese and brown bread.

Second, a girl came hurrying forth as he reached the town border. Like the rest, she was short, with rounded ears and brown hair. Her clothing was old, but clean, and her expression tearful. In her hands she held something that struggled and mewled.

A white kitten, he saw, its back broken by somebody's careless misstep or cruelty. The kitten's hind legs and its tail were crushed. It had no control of its bowels, dribbling onto the girl's hands as she held it out to him.

She said something, then. Pleading for help, he thought. Firelord didn't care. Hated this place and wanted away. Nameless… head on his left shoulder, still in the cloak hood… was mildly hungry. The innocent kitten, in too much pain and confusion to know what was happening. It kept trying to rise, crying out when it couldn't.

The kitten had one black ear, a black tail-tip and a tiny grey smudge on its nose, he saw. Blue, frantic eyes, with shock-widened pupils. The girl started crying.

Well, he wasn't a god, and manna ought not to be wasted, but… He took the kitten from her trembling hands. Stroked it, reaching in with his thoughts and Firelord's might to straighten and fix shattered limbs, crushed nerves, misplaced organs.

Power left him, flowing into the kitten, which gained more than just life, that day. It blinked at him, then wobbled up onto all fours again. Set about furiously washing itself as he handed it back to the girl who'd trusted. Who'd dared, while most of the townsfolk hid in their huts.

She and the rescued family followed him out to the edge of the woods. Might have gone with him farther, but he smoke-stepped away. There was nothing but trouble and danger where he was headed, and maybe the town would be better, now. Maybe there'd be no more children set out to burn in a sacrificed field.

Maybe.