Yet more freshly edited!

11

The Tabaxi appeared in a barren, snowy courtyard and found herself surrounded by startled elves. Her head was spinning, her stomach once more in open revolt, with Cap'n clinging to her fur like a big, golden tick.

This was no shadow walk but a sudden, violent shift outside of space, in no time at all… and she hated it. Caught a brief, swaying glimpse of Snowmont and Lord Orrin's gutted manse before covering her face with both clawed hands.

Salem staggered and almost fell, but then the young elf-lord, Filimar, was at her side, taking her up in his arms. His scent was shock and excitement, laced with mating-urge.

"Milady!" he exulted, face shifting wildly in the manner of bare-hides. "I've so much to tell you!" And then, to a stern, looming elf with very green eyes, "Your Highness, here is the very Lady Salem I spoke of, before!"

The elven prince nodded.

"So I gathered," he said. "Her kind are not numerous here." Turning to face Salem, he asked, "You were sent hither by Valerian, I take it?"

The Tabaxi stifled a long string of very foul words, some Taba, some nautical. On top of her spatial disorientation, this sudden uprooting had riled Salem's curse and she could feel bad luck leaking in every direction.

"Yes," she spat. "And for everyone's sake, elf-prince… you and your land… I must return to him, swiftly."

Filimar's countenance underwent a series of mobile and rubbery changes.

"Heh. As I mentioned, Your Highness, she's deeply sensitive… overcome with emotion at leaving Valno. Let us bow to the prince respectfully, Sweetling," Filimar urged with false, perky brightness. (To which Salem was largely tone deaf.) She let herself be dragged into obeisance, though, while Cap'n doffed his small hat and offered a bleary grin.

"Why did he send you away?" demanded the prince. "Has he met with further trouble?"

Salem sneezed, lashing her gold-banded tail.

"Trouble to Mrowr is like water to fish. He dwells and moves in it, unseeing… but claims that he is my host, and so cannot place me in danger."

To her extreme irritation, every elf present nodded in agreement. Even the servants.

"Guest-right forbids such abuse, Milady," said Filimar, doing something gymnastic with his eyebrows and mouth rather than flicking ears or wafting an odor. Then, spotting the darkened spell-globe that hovered at Salem's elbow, the elf-lordling seized it.

"A transport charm," he announced triumphantly. Turning to face one of his all-the-same-to-Salem followers, Filimar said, "Kellen, you've studied the Art. Bit of a sorcerer, what? Could you… recharge, reverse this thing to pull a few of us back to Valerian?"

If this Kellen had had proper ears, they would have been flat to his skull, judging by how pale he'd suddenly turned.

"Erm… well…"

"I can," said the prince, reaching over. "Give it here. All of those beastly apprenticeship years may prove useful, after all."

Salem licked at the fur of her left shoulder, smoothing it down and having a comfort wash. Cap'n perched on top of her head, peering alertly around while Salem got herself sorted.

Tristan was here in Snowmont… but her curse didn't care. He loved her still, had come all this way at great risk to himself, to salvage a bringer of ruin… and she could do nothing but turn her back, yet again.

Except… there were always cracks in the mortar of fate. Always another way in, beyond window or door. Salem could see three other females behind the elf-prince, one of them quite young. Perhaps he understood complications…?

"I must return to Mrowr, Your Highness," she told him. "There will be no end to chaos and trouble, if I do not… but I would come back to Snowmont, to one who matters greatly, afterward."

Filimar's arm tightened proudly, possessively across her shoulders. The prince stared and shook his head, muttering,

"I… leave that to High Lord Arvendahl. It is never wise to muck about in the loves of one's friends. Good luck to you, Filno, is all I can say. Now, let me alone and allow me to work. Anything Valno spelled, I can do better."

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Down in the caverns, meanwhile, Pretty One saw her kin to safety. Moving them in quick, quiet stages, she got Twitchy, Snaggle, Dogbait, Squinty and poor, wounded Black Gut into a warded bolt-hole; the last and best-hidden lair in the diggings.

"'Ere, now," she told them, helping Dogbait to cover and soothe his whimpering patient, "Y'll be safe enough till I get back with Grampa. Keep low an' stay quiet, Little uns. Grand folk doin' great deeds 'll be too busy changin' the world ter notice you lot."

She'd been lucky or blessed once before, heading off on her own; could maybe stretch her good fortune a little bit farther. Certainly Grampa and his lordship were going to need help facing whatever horror was trailing them.

The younger kitts brought her this and that by way of assistance; a sack of flash-smoke, a polished bone luck-charm and even half a dried rat.

"In case ye gets 'ungry," said Squinty. "Th' best bits 're all still in there, Pretty. I ain't et much."

She smiled at him fondly, brushing shoulders and breathing deeply of kin-scent, which was home and clan and sleeping-pile warmth, even with the elf-lord's smell added in.

"Thanks, Squint," she said. "I'll save a few bites fer once me an' Grampa come back. Yer the best sibs anyone coulda got stuck with, and everythin's gonna come right, trust me. Just keep watch, take care o' each other, and don't try nuthin' stupid. If you gotta light out, we'll meet up at th' south overlook. Nobody goes there." (On account of its being a shallow, cliffside cave.)

They sniffed, rubbed sides and shared a few mouthfuls of food; even Black Gut rallying enough to accept a strand of dried meat. Better yet, he gave her a palm-sized void bomb. Looked like a fist full of seething darkness, and wouldn't go off until she set it in place and cried,

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"Boom-Boom says go!"

Like herself and her sibs, the bomb was not big at all, but could do a lot when it really counted.

"It'll come right," the goblin repeated, taking one more look before plunging back out after Grampa.

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Slagerd was dead; eaten hollow by fungus and rot, then animated as something that jerked and shambled; shedding spores and slaughtering other gnolls. Without him, the army had fallen apart into wandering bands. They could and still did make more gnolls, transforming any corpse they encountered… but were no longer much of a threat to the elven stronghold.

"Whinn!" roared Thartaar, from the goblin throne-mound (a hill of bleached bone, piled rock and dull, rusted metal).

The priestess heard and appeared, for the Mother had strengthened his voice and his power.

"What is Her will?" asked Whinn, nervously licking her muzzle. The long strands of pierced bone that she wore rattled as Whinn bowed before Thartaar.

The larger gnoll leaned forward, clutching the arms of a rock-slab throne. Built for goblins, the seat was overwhelmed by Thartaar, who looked like an ogre squatting to void his loose bowels.

"You will go forth to find and destroy Slagerd's shell. Our clan-brother now slays more gnolls than the elves do," he growled, speaking the Dark Mother's will and saying her words. "Finish him, then bring an army from the Blighted Land to vanquish Starloft."

He gestured, causing a purple-dark blade to fall from the Mother's keeping and into his own taloned hand.

"With this knife and part of your soul, you may tear a hole between planes. She bids you waste not its power, for after three uses, the blade will claim and devour you."

Whinn snarled softly, but stalked forward, reeking of uncured elf-hide and wrath.

"What of the ceremony?" she demanded. "Who will speak the charms and spill blood to embody Her, if I am killed fighting?"

Thartaar's jaw dropped in a snaggle-toothed grin.

"If you die for the Mother, She will teach me her spells and her magic. I will help Her to claim the unmarked body and enter our world."

This failed to reassure Whinn, who took the humming and sparking weapon with gingerly care. Wrapped it up in a void bubble, realizing, as Kaazin had, how very little she mattered. Ducking her dog-like head, Whinn yapped,

"Her will is all."

Then she backed from the throne chamber, already forming her plans.

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Elsewhere, at about the same time, Valerian Tarandahl approached a wooden shop counter. It was high, like the mage council's judgment dais. He had to look up to see a withered old gnome dressed in simple dark robes. Couldn't remember if the counter had been this impressive when he first came in dragging Kaazin, or if the effect was just for him… but the rest of the place… stone floor, lofty ceiling, wandering mage-globes… seemed unchanged. There were treasures heaped up in the back, but between one glance and another, they altered composition. Strange sigils and runes flickered and crept at the edges of things; lighting this corner, bracing that portal. Too much to grasp all at once.

Well enough, he thought to himself, moving closer.

There were just four elven legends about the Shop of True Need, and all of them emphasized the success of humble, polite customers. Those who came in making haughty demands went stomping away disappointed, or left with items that turned in their hands and betrayed them. Worth remembering, that.

Val took a deep breath and bowed. Of all the things that he might have said, what came forth was,

"Good gnome, I need help. I am merely a journeyman mage. Not the best, at that… and I find myself faced with a task that is too great for my skill and my power. I need to raise a sacrificed child back to life and undo an eldritch summoning rite. I think… that I will need water of life and a scroll of revival, but… if you know better… Please tell me what I should ask for, instead."

The shop keeper's body and face were withered with age, seeming more lich than gnome, but her deep, gem-like eyes were alert.

"And what do you offer as payment, young elf?" she asked.

He was ready for that.

"All of the coin in my possession and… if needed… all that I can obtain with my scrip, from the bank," Valerian replied.

She cocked her head with an audible creaking sound.

"And if we are well stocked with coin of all lands and seek, instead, an item for barter?" inquired the shop clerk, the folds of her face shifting like puddled dark cloth.

Val hissed a short breath, thinking hard. Then,

"I suppose that my reply would depend on the nature of the item requested," he ventured carefully. "On whether it was truly mine to barter away… and if no one else would be hurt by my trading it, so."

His response must have passed muster, for the gnome inclined her head.

"To your shopping list I would add only the tincture of heart's-ease, for one who has perished in such fear and torment would be best off not recalling what happened," she advised.

Valerian nodded cautiously.

"That seems important," he agreed. "What is your price for the scroll and potions?"

The shop clerk gazed directly into his eyes. He felt something like a cold mist pass over his mind as she searched through his memory and faerie pockets. Then,

"An item of clothing will suffice," she told him. "Something embroidered, of questionable value to any but you."

Val stiffened. Started to protest, but something in the gnome's expression stopped him cold.

"The engagement has ended," said the clerk, with a very slight smile. "You freed her, yourself, young one. She will not care that you've traded something that she was forced into making and giving you."

Valerian looked away for a moment. When he returned his gaze to the shopkeeper, he managed a nod.

"Naturally not," he said, pulling the ugliest thing he owned out of its faerie pocket, folding it carefully and then levitating a bit to set it onto the polished wood counter. Couldn't seem to find a position for it that suited him, but the clerk waited until after he'd stopped fussing with the folded shirt before making it vanish. In its place appeared a sealed scroll and a pair of small vials; one shadowy, the other like dawn.

Val hesitated. Looking at the shop clerk, he found the courage to ask,

"How much for two doses?"

She hoisted a wispy hint of eyebrow.

"Two? Now, that is asking a great deal, for the cost is not doubled, but grows in proportion to need."

He said, simply,

"If I can pay it, I shall."

The gnome nodded, saying,

"Very well. You bear within you the memories of another person, regarding a love that is not yours. I will have those."

Valerian's shoulders sagged.

"They were never mine to begin with," he said, quietly. "And it will make facing her less difficult. But… I won't forget everything, will I? My own memories of our time together, I can keep, can I not?"

"Unless you've anything else to request?" hinted the clerk. But Val shook his head.

Something indefinable changed within Valerian as she spoke. Another scroll appeared on the counter, along with two more vials of potion. Having only memory removed, he didn't know enough to feel the loss.

Thought of Tam, briefly. Of asking his milk-brother's fate.

"That is information not relating to your current situation," said the gnome. "But, as you have been such an agreeable customer, consider it on the house. For whom are you asking?"

"For my nursemaid, Katina, who is his mother… and for myself."

Val did not wonder that she already knew what he'd secretly wanted to learn. This was that sort of place, according to legend.

"It has been a very long time, but I think of him, still. Tam, son of Ragnar and Katina. If you've aught of comfort that I may bring back to his mother, I would be most grateful."

The shop clerk began to speak. Neither a long time, nor short, but enough to tell of a mortal life well lived, and of descendants who might yet be found and befriended, far to the south in Alandriel.

For all that he must have packed up his supplies, turned and left, Valerian could not recall doing so. Just that he was suddenly through the portal and out of the shop, which vanished away behind him. Time flows as it will, near such places, and distance contorts.

Someone else had been drawn there by worthy desire, though, and the sight of this other put everything else from Val's thoughts. Coming violently out of his trance, he summoned power and flame.

"NO!" cried the goblin, dropping to a crouch. "Shorty! Short Stuff, please don't!"

Valerian jolted back as though he'd been slapped. Then,

"Where heard you those names?" he demanded, one hand covered in fire, the other at the hilt of his sword.

The goblin's arms were wrapped around its head and its small, shaking body. Without looking up, the creature squeaked,

"From 'is lordship, yer brother. 'Ee calls ye that! Ee told us so, 'isself!"

"Where is he?" snapped Val, stepping closer. The goblin seemed to be no more than a girl-child, but she might have been sent as a decoy, meant to lead him into an ambush.

"'Ee's with Grampa Grey Fang, yer lordship! I was lookin' ter find me Grampa, an' somehow ended up 'ere, instead… but I c'n track 'em. I got to. They needs 'elp, yer lordship. They're bein' 'unted."

Valerian let the fire die out, and took his hand off of Nightshade.

"Lead on," he said. "Quickly."