11

The cave of the sigil gaped deep and oppressively cold, like a death-wound to the heart of Karandun. Four dark-torches sputtered and hissed as they spiraled their way along the chamber's rough walls. Opposed to fire and all things that lived, those bruise-black torches drained away manna and warmth, forcing Valerian to keep casting mage-glow.

Pride and a sense of the fitness of things made him enter the cave, despite what awaited him there. Plain, stupid stubbornness kept him from leaving.

The sigil itself was a dim, three-dimensional tangle of magic that hovered in mid-chamber. Originally meant to bind-up and seal-off, the rune had been attacked; its roiling motion reduced to occasional spasms. In four… no, five places, a grim dark stain and small lump pinned the sigil, creating a narrow, pentagonal gate.

The elf-lord's spell scrolls and faerie pockets were ready, and his courage screwed about as high as it was likely to go. Only, his path had been blocked. Between Val and the damaged rune stood a silent mob of dead goblins, still bearing the burns and the sword-cuts he'd dealt them in battle.

Something syrupy-dark flowed from one stiff, broken body to another as the high-elf looked on. Small faces contorted and yellow-red eyes glowed with hatred, whenever the Mother's spirit entered them. Otherwise, the goblins seemed lifeless. Empty.

The dark-torches circled nearer as Valerian hesitated, draining his life-force and smothering breath. His hand closed on the hilt of Frostbite, but he did not draw the sword. There had been death aplenty, and he was heart-sick of dealing it out.

Firelord moved in his spirit, but would not interfere. In this place and in this situation, Val was going to have to choose a path for himself.

Something brushed at his hair and his cheek like corpse-breath, then, as a honeyed voice whispered,

'Such a pretty thing. So tender and fresh. How welcome and wanted you are, lovely boy.'

Her voice was deeply seductive, calling to a part of Val that felt rejected; shoved always aside and unwanted.

'Would you like to be truly powerful? To strike back at those who sent you away, lovely boy?' she continued, inside of his head. 'Let me within, pretty child. Open your soul, and final revenge shall be yours.'

Strangely enough, Valerian thought of Kaazin; of the drow's iron determination to escape the Mother's control, whatever the cost. He shook his head, stopping invisible, cadaverous fingers from combing their way through his hair and down the side of his face.

Then, between one choked breath and the next, Val recycled himself back to senior apprenticeship, stealing time to page through each one of Sherazedan's tomes. He'd read them all, back then, word for dry word. The old lich had insisted… and now he knew why.

"I have seen what becomes of your cast-off toys, Elitheva," said Val, naming her aloud, from the tattered Red Grimoire. "They fare not well… nor am I quite as unmarked as you have been led to believe."

Her presence recoiled a bit. Long enough for Val to actually breathe, recast mage-glow and reach for the past. Kalisandra had thrown a family heirloom at him once, near the end of their betrothal ceremony. Being strong for her size, with very good aim, she'd struck his chin, cutting quite deeply. He'd kept the scar all these years; hiding rather than healing it… because whisking the injury out for display sometimes settled an argument.

Here and now, Valerian allowed the mark to resurface, feeling it once again cut down through his lower lip and the side of his chin. The Mother's presence slithered aside, back into one of the goblins, though its own damaged state kept her from staying there long.

"I am no fit host at all, Elitheva," said Valerian, taking a step forward and naming her, yet again. "I belong to another, already." He might have meant Firelord, or maybe Kalisandra, but the effect was the same, either way.

She withdrew all at once, rather than let him complete a thrice-naming. The goblins seemed to come further alive, at that; moving toward him like a tide of small and horribly injured undead.

His hand clenched reflexively tight on Frostbite's leather-wrapped hilt. An inch of steel flashed, before Valerian slammed the blade back into its sheath. Killing them again, shedding more blood in this place, would only make matters worse, he sensed; would feed the one he meant to dispel.

Val took a deep breath and another step forward, trying to edge his way around the first person he'd ever killed. Nearly bisected by a clumsy sword-cut, the goblin scout had died when Valerian fell off his horse directly on top of it. That was the first time he'd ridden to battle with Dad and Lerendar. Very nearly the last, as well.

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Here and now, when the goblin-corpse touched him, Val felt its death from the other side. The terrible fear, sudden blow, flash of pain and then darkness. The sensations hit hard. Worse than all the dead thousands he'd faced with Pretty One, because this one was his. This one, he'd butchered himself.

…and there were hundreds more ahead of him, each of them waiting their turn. Deserving it. Valerian got past two more, feeling himself trampled to death and burnt alive in the process. Hurt like every foul level of hell rolled into one, but worse than that, was debilitating. Distracting.

While he worked his way through this mob of his own wretched victims… certain to go mad before he made it halfway… something was happening. She was arranging a trap, outside. Valerian thought of Sandy, the Tabaxi and druid… of their Majesties… Filimar and his teammates. Had to act. Had to hurry, somehow.

He knew only one name, which he'd learned of from Pretty One. Taking another half-step forward, Val gasped,

"Ratchet… and them. Ratchet, if you are present here, I would speak with you. Please."

The mob of revenant goblins parted after a moment, allowing two of their number to cut through the rest of the pack. A pair of small, bare feet were topped by a cloud of ashes and bits shaped more or less like a person. Twin bright motes floating within might have been eyes. Alongside, guiding its mostly burnt-away friend, was a fellow with stoven-in ribs and half of its skull sliced away.

Valerian glanced aside, drew strength from a rapidly emptying well and then turned to address the two goblins. Signed as well as spoke, in case drifting ash couldn't hear him.

"Ratchet and… all of you, really… I need to reach and repair that sigil. If I do not, the evil that drew you here will spread to devour all Karandun. Pretty One, your kinswoman, waits just outside, first in its path."

Word and sign did not match precisely, as there were more ways to say things aloud than with gestures. But also, one might convey things with position and motion that mere speech could not. Made close to the heart, a sign gained truth and the force of a vow. Drifting downward, it spoke of regret. Arms open and out to the side conveyed: 'Guilty. Sorrowing. At your mercy.'

"I accept your judgment for what I have done, but…"

'We are being used,' signed the goblin. 'All of us.'

Valerian nodded.

"I will take whatever hell you would pour on my head, afterward. My vow, I shall not run away… but in all the gods' names, please let me through, now."

His oath swept outward like wind stirring leaves. The goblin-crowd parted, creating an aisle that led to that spasming sigil.

"I honor your forbearance," Val said to them, still using both gesture and word. "I do not say thank you, as I have not that right… but I promise to do all I can for those yet alive."

It was a loan, not a gift, and he knew it. Passing among them, he still felt echoes of violent death; was striped with quick-fading cuts and faint scorch marks. Didn't fight it or shield himself. Just kept on moving, while those he passed by lost their death wounds, becoming whole once again. In seeming, at least. So doing, in no time at all and forever, Valerian got to the damaged sigil, almost staggering.

He could sense the Mother's amusement. Her certainty that he was far too drained to work greater magic. And, perhaps she was right, for he hadn't a great deal left in him. Valerian thought of his grandfather's boon, then. "It's not much", Galadin had told him… but maybe enough to go one with.

"Granddad, I claim now your gift," the elf whispered. "Lend me strength, My Lord, that I may see this thing through to its end."

Light flashed, destroying the hovering dark-torches; filling Val with the borrowed might of Galadin and Vesendorin, both. Now, he drew Frostbite, feeling it change in his hand, watching as dawn-light coursed through its blade.

'Always knew he had it in him,' the young elf felt Vesendorin boast, as he levitated to place a boot on the rune's base-stroke. An eye-roll would have been disrespectful… utterly inappropriate… so Val stuck to business.

Dropped Frostbite's tip so that its edge touched the sigil, producing a scream like torn metal, which echoed and bounced from the walls. Then he started to walk, keeping the corrected figure clear in his mind. (Blue Grimoire, page 137, illustration and text to left bottom, with appendices. Most boring thing he'd ever been forced to skim… back then. Utterly gripping now, though.)

Just like in the mage-trial arena and court-ball field, Valerian always felt upright. It was the cavern that shifted around the young mage as he strode forward; swinging up, tilting sideways and downward while he remained stable, carving a magical path with his sword.

The going was easy enough at the start, with gathering resistance, more of a feeling of pushing his way up a very steep hill, as he came to that first bloodstain. A small, torn-off left arm was there, pinning two lines of the sigil together.

Val resheathed Frostbite, then stooped and gently worked loose the slain little one's arm.

"Elrin," he called quietly, pulling the child's toy owl-bear out of a faerie pocket. "It is time to come home. See, I have brought your best friend."

The bloodstain vanished, rising as a shower of sparks; hovering close to the toy. The sigil's lines twisted and writhed in response, but couldn't yet part. Valerian began a chant of greater summoning. Said the words in reverse, reading them right off the page in his mind. (Ascrim's Scroll of Forbidden Arts, three feet from the bottom and nearly erased.) Kept up that backward chant, unsaying it, until at last the two glowing lines came apart.

Did not expect the ensuing attack. A sudden flood of images struck as he drew Frostbite and prepared to cut through the damage: Pretty One, gutted by Orrin, clutching at entrails and blood… Nalderick, torn and devoured by cave trolls… Kalisandra, burnt up inch after inch, in the clutches of ifrits. But he could not rush to their aid. Not in the midst of a spell.

The goblins, though, could. In their hundreds, those whom he'd torn from life discorporated; streaming out through the cavern's portal. Now, Val said,

"Thank you."

...Not really deserving their help, but grateful right down to his core.