20

Turning his back on Exarod, the elf now picked up his pace. Was aware of an odd vibration long before he could pinpoint its source. Somewhere between high-pitched assembler whine and manna disturbance, it set his teeth on edge; a constant, barely detectable source of discomfort.

On top of that, there was light. Out of the west, glimpsed through stunted, bare trees, came a cold, shifting glow. Not that of sunset, mage-gleam or fire. Something else, visible mostly at night… and someone else might have been frightened.

But, Miche had learned to bury emotion. Rather than face unpleasant facts, he stuffed them away, as far and as deeply as possible. Had no other method for dealing with trouble, because in order to rest and recover, he had to wander in dream-state… Only, most of what he remembered, hurt. It was no lie to say that Nameless and Firelord kept him sane; gave him someone to talk to, someone to keep coming back for. That, and the daybrew.

Getting rest wasn't easy, but he could order his mind some by pushing forward, making plans and consulting the map. The land climbed and grew rougher as he went on. It and the map didn't often agree, but he managed to muddle along.

Finally, as he passed through those last, screening trees, he came to a sort of wall. The vibration's source, it towered far out of sight upward, and continued forever to north and south. Seemed to be made out of fragments of light. These flickered and shifted continually, blotted by patches of darkness that moved. Sometimes spreading or seeming to bud, the darkness formed patterns, but… (he fumbled after a concept, trying to pin the impossible) ... But wrongly. Doing damage, somehow.

Meanwhile, the wall crept forward, almost invisibly slow. At its base and all through the air in front, there was an odor of lightning and death.

Hunh.

Rather explained the map's dark spots. Also, the goddess's claim about vanishing land. Question was, what to do about it? Take a closer look first, he supposed.

Not being stupid, the elf plucked Nameless off of his shoulder. Set his grumbling friend on the branch of a withered elm.

"Stay here," he said aloud. Then, to the in-dwelling god, "My Lord, for safety's sake, I will ask you to come forth and wait in a tree. Yon oak seems partly alive."

The god half-emerged; a being of turbulent manna and flame. Very pointedly, Firelord manifested without any face or ears, meaning he wasn't minded to listen.

"Right. Deserve that, I guess… but at least ready yourself to depart in haste, My Lord, should trouble arise."

Arise? There'd been nothing but trouble, from the moment he'd opened his eyes. Would have laughed at his own stupidity, except that this was life, death and eternity for Firelord. For all of them.

"I'll be careful," he said to the child-god and marten. "Just a quick, closer look. I promise."

Naturally, that wasn't what happened, at all. Firelord plunged back into whatever home he'd made in his follower's heart. Nameless moved out as far as the naked branch would support its weight. Nose twitching, red eyes candle-bright in that masked little face.

Tracing a blessing over the marten, he turned to start forward, picking a cautious path across dry, blasted ground. Tiny lightning bolts shot through the soil and rock, blue-white and branching. These he mostly avoided, though a few got painfully through, until he remembered to shield. Wasn't easy, because the wall seemed to draw manna and life-force, leaving very little for use in his mage-craft.

Closer to, he began to see symbols amid all those flashes of light. Images, too, of persons and creatures and plants. Land features were in there, as well. As if the wall had somehow recorded all it consumed.

More hunh.

Well, it hadn't yet made any threatening gestures (besides ground-bolts, encroachment and general looming). So, Miche set out to learn more, waving a hand to summon a fallen branch. Behind him, Nameless screeched out a very clear warning.

"I said I'd be careful," protested the elf. "I'm using a stick, not my arm."

He took a deep breath, then stepped even nearer. Reaching out, touched one end of his wooden probe to the wall's sparking surface. The vibration increased for a moment, as rings of concentric brightness spread away from the point of contact like ripples on water.

Quickly, he pulled the branch free, to discover a very slight scorch mark and… seawater. The end of the branch was wet. More than that, something had changed on his map. A very small region of brightness appeared at its far eastern edge, where the chart showed nothing but ocean.

Extra more hunh.

"So… stepping through here, puts you out there, but possibly not still alive when you reach the far border."

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

Or else you were part of the wall, like all of the persons and things it engulfed. A sudden thought struck. Once more, he pulled out the object he'd been given, back at the start of his journey. Must have been the right idea, as the cylinder's inner lights started swirling like mad. To Nameless and Lordling, Miche said,

"There's a shrine over there. I can see it marked on the map, just a few yards away. I intend to touch this relic to the wall. I said I would investigate, and we can't leave without making an effort. Just be ready, in case doing so brings on another giant or summons."

Plainly the Marten and Firelord didn't approve. The one kept up a ceaseless, chittering bark, while the other turned even further away, facing some direction that didn't exist.

Well, you couldn't be popular all of the time. Somebody… someone he'd known had told him,

"I am not in command to make friends. I'm here to stop these murderous jackerds from killing each other." Could not see a face or recall when he'd heard it. Just knew.

There was no time to chase memories, though. Not in the face of an end-wall. Shoving confusion and worry aside, he stepped to arm's length and then tapped that glowing cylinder right to the barrier.

The effect was immediate. Those shifting dark patterns scattered, fleeing the contact point like a flock of wild birds. Some of the images vanished, as well, only these became real. Solid. Right there before him, as the wall swept backward over a mile and a half.

Trees, small animals, the rocky shrine and a violent scuffle appeared. All at once there were orcs. Three of them. Two males and a female. Tough to say who was more shocked; elf, or howling combatants.

Roughly thrusting the artifact into its magical pocket, Miche dived out of the way. Hit the ground and kept rolling. Had to, as a flying dead body came crashing straight at him. The female orc had gutted a male with her dagger, tearing him open from crotch to chin in a sudden fountain of blood. Twisted to catch and then throw him at the elf, like a tumbling, gut-leaking axe.

Next, she pivoted, getting a headlock on the remaining male. That one struggled and cursed, fighting hard to escape her. Didn't work. She gritted her teeth, grunted aloud, and then snapped his neck with a wet-sounding crick. Dropped the second male's corpse a moment later. Shook herself, then straightened to full, seven-foot height.

Very tall, very muscular, she had greyish-green tattooed skin, small tusks and masses of dark, braided hair. Dressed in scuffed leather and patches of chain mail, she looked to be wielding an armory. In those first startled moments, Miche saw two swords crossed at her back, a brace of javelins and a pair of razor-sharp axes.

There was also the dagger, which she wiped on her thigh and re-sheathed, never taking her golden-red eyes off the elf. Seeming more glum than aggressive, she rumbled,

"You are the stuff of legend and children's tales, Old One. What mean you by coming to trouble the free lands?"

In actual speech. Using a language he knew. Accented, but still recognizable… which was why he answered the question, rather than drawing his sword. Warily stepping forward, he said,

"I awoke in this place two months ago. Why I'm here, I know not… except that I might have been exiled."

She scowled, but that seemed like a normal expression, so he did not take offense.

"You, too, uh?" the orc sighed. "Well, that lot were the last, I expect. There'll be no more attempts at mating-right." Then, looking around herself with mounting confusion, "What's happened to the forest? What is that lightning-wall yonder?"

The elf shrugged.

"A story that far predates my arrival, Lady Orc. Short answer being, I don't know… but I'm doing my best to find out."

She studied him for a moment, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Then, jerking her head at the wall,

"My old clan resides there, behind this strange lightning. Are they dead?"

The elf shook his head, no.

"I think not, Lady Orc. Say, stored, rather. Like scrolls in a library. You were in there, as well, with… erm… your late suitors, until the wall receded."

She grunted once more, seeming to reach a conclusion.

"My name is not 'Lady'. It is Margeta Thorn. Marget, for short. You have halted a mating rite, elf, causing the deaths of two who thought they could best me, together. You can now fight me, yourself, or come along as I find a new clan. Choose."

Erm… fight? As in, battle to claim her over-large charms? Oh, muck and ash, no.

"Marget, then. I can't seem to remember my name," he replied, with rapid mental gymnastics. (Yes, she'd just slaughtered two fellow orcs. No, that wasn't a crime, among mountain tribes. The males had fought, failed and perished. That was the way of things.) "But the shrine goddess said I was 'Miche'," added the elf, with a very slight bow.

Marget snorted.

"Short One? That fits… but seems more like a nickname. Um… Kester?"

"No."

"Argot?"

"Definite no."

He'd unthinkingly drawn a sign of rest over both bloody corpses, releasing whatever orcs had by way of a soul. Now, glancing at their killer, he said,

"I will give your late suitors clean fire, Lady Marget, so they do not fall prey to the raven or wolf. Will you speak words in their memory?"

Marget nodded.

"Thormund and Vork. They were not very good fighters. May they find rest in the hunting grounds." Then, distracted, still trying out possible names, "Waldric?"

"No," he responded, calling flame from within.

She hopped backward, once, surprised when Miche's firebolts reduced both corpses to glittering ash.

"You should call yourself Smokey or Sparky, instead," she muttered, regaining her poise. But the elf shook his head. 'Sparky the campfire god', someone had mocked.

"That's not it, either," he told her. Then, changing the subject, "I am tasked with waking the local shrine, along with a number of others. It is likely to be a long journey, Milady. If we travel together, you may find a new clan and a proper claimant for mating."

"A fine plan… Galvin."

"No," he laughed, for the second time in two months. Went and fetched Nameless, then, introducing the marten as, "Nameless, my friend."

"Explains the smell," said Marget, nearly losing a finger poking the beast. "Most old ones were said to reek of flowers and starshine, or some such foolishness. You smell like a clansman… Landon."

Stung, he glared at the marten, who yawned.

"Not Landon, either," growled Miche. Then, nodding at a diagonal crack amid slabs of piled stone, "There is the shrine, but I'm not sure you'll be able to enter."

Marget grunted, turning away.

"Wouldn't want to," she rumbled. "Fey-dust and falling star nonsense. Mucks with time, if half of the tales are true. I will hunt and scout, until you emerge. If you do not, if something restrains you, I will take it apart, stone by stone."

And she meant it, too. The elf caught sight of something, then, just past her shoulder, close to the shrine. Looked like… but couldn't be…

Himself?