28
'... Alarm Alarm Alarm Alarm Alarm Alarm Alarm...'
First Mate Serda had six living crew and a near-frantic airship; all of them locked in a spiraling, gradual dive. Vancora could no longer alter its course. Not after Lord Arvendahl sabotaged the drive-system. Its gears and shafts had been fused by his strike. The delicate works had been burned to a lump of twisted hot slag, leaving Vancora paralyzed.
'...Alarm Alarm Alarm Alarm Alarm Alarm Alarm...'
The entire vessel shook as it fought to stay up and out of those roiling storm clouds; deck slanting hard, nose downward. Arvendahl’s flagship still had some manna left in the tanks, even after his lordship had drained them for power to open a gate and escape, leaving his people behind.
'...Alarm Alarm Alarm Alarm Alarm Alarm Alarm...'
There was a curse ready in Serda’s heart for that pitiless high-elf, but she had a son back home, along with her husband, Eteen. A final blessing… some whisper of hope for those about to lose their whole world… seemed more important to Serda. Let Arvendahl look to himself. Her business lay with the ship, and the scrim of hope it still held. As for the sea-queen's promise, what good was that without payment?
'...Alarm Alarm Alarm Alarm Alarm Alarm Alarm...'
“Loyd, check the life pods!” she ordered, raising her voice to be heard over wind rush and engine-howl. “See if any are fit and then find out how many they’ll hold!”
“Aye, Milady!” cried the half-elf chief, already moving. Next, turning to face another anxious aerrior, Serda snapped,
“Burgan, take Jillian with you, below. See about rigging a work-around patch from engine to rudder!”
“Aye that, Milady! Right away! Jillian, with me!” shouted Burgan, speeding off with the cabin-girl. Next, Serda whirled to face Ganter, the ship’s last engineer.
“Ganter, disconnect the rudders from their drive shafts and rig a tiller. Use a mast and gut his lordship’s cabin for rivet materials. It’s going to take muscle…” she said.
“But we’ve got plenty of that, mum,” answered Ganter, finding a faint, hopeful smile, “And a right proper Officer, too! You heard her! The rest o’ yuns… one with me, the others to strikin’ the foremast. Hurry!”
'...Alarm Alarm Alarm Alarm Alarm Alarm Alarm...'
And off they raced, each to their critical task. Meanwhile, Serda did all that she could to calm Vancora, ordering engine power-down. Soothing,
“We’re not leaving you, Dawn. My oath that I’ll stay, Princess, no matter what.”
And she meant it, a thing that the crippled airship could sense, quieting finally. Chief Loyd came hurrying up as Serda turned to rush through the aft-hatch and down to the engine room.
“Milady,” he called, lifting a hand in salute. “Reporting one life-pod in condition to fly, Ma’am. At a pinch, stripped of gear, she’ll hold six. Seven, if…”
“Six,” Serda corrected, her unwounded hand clutched to the hatch-frame, head lifted proudly, burns and all. “Vancora deserves every last chance I can give her. Six to the life-pods, if our repairs don’t work, Mister Loyd.”
He nodded.
“Aye, Milady. Six, then. I’ll see to stripping the pod and making her ready.”
As good as his word, Loyd was away. The First Officer watched him leave, then turned to start below, where each situation was critical, and everyone needed her help. Meanwhile, the airship continued its slow downward spin, as a pirate vessel slashed through the clouds like a circling shark.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Later, sixty-two miles further south:
It was an afternoon of glorious sunshine and drifting high clouds. Aboard Falcon, Villem was out on the deck. There had been multiple wounds to treat, for no one had come through that awful night completely unscathed. The medical effort and funeral rites had wearied him deeply. What happened next didn’t help.
He and the other paladins were supposed to report to the captain’s cabin for some kind of interview, but young Hallan had called a sudden delay. The redhead had grown overnight in the curious manner of stressed or endangered elves. No longer a stripling, Hallan Gelfrin was now a young man. Elf, rather.
Villem watched as the captain strode the deck from bow to stern, stopping to talk with everyone, even that poor, addled wizard. Well, those touched by the gods were said to be very good luck aboard ship, Villem reasoned, a thing all of them needed in spades.
The galley-bell pealed suddenly, announcing a meal. The young paladin heard its bright jangle but tarried awhile at the rail. Instead of going below, he lifted his face to the sun, feeling wind push the dark hair off his forehead. Just being free and alive and completely in love; giving thanks in his own way to Glorious Oberyn. Weary or not, he wasn’t in prison, and no longer under the sea. The beautiful elf-maid he loved was nearby; chatting, comforting, bringing peace by her very presence.
Villem smiled into the wind, wondering if his rumbling belly spoke louder than joyful heart. Then a faint glitter of sparks appeared in the air beside him. He immediately recognized the goddess Ninursa, who wasn't able to manifest this far from land and shouldn’t have left the safety of Underhill Sidhe.
The paladin whirled to face her, willing power and strength to the struggling goddess. With his help, she managed to conjure a fragile physical shell. Tall and lovely was Ninursa; dark-haired and smiling, her skin like bronze, her eyes two fiery coals. Her bare, slim feet did not touch Falcon’s deck. Unsubstantial she was, but not unnoticed. Time and reality warped all around her, moving the airship forward and backward in day and location; making the sun seem to rock in its heaven.
Villem reached for the goddess who’d raised him, crying out,
“My Lady, why have you come here?! It isn’t safe! You…”
Ninursa lifted a glowing hand to silence his outburst. Touched his cheek fondly a moment, then said to him,
“Precious child, hoarded time means nothing in the face of disaster. War comes, beloved one, and you must be ready. Take this. Give it to the one who will strike the last blow.”
And then, with a sudden flare of rippling light, Ninursa held a sword in her free hand. Long and wickedly sharp, with a hilt of black sky-metal, the sword had a blade that glowed pure white on one edge and deep, surly grey on the other. In it, he could sense the gods Enli and Nanna; fused, somehow. No longer conscious, their power had been harnessed together, creating one mighty, world-shaking blade.
Villem took the sword from his adoptive mother; shaking his head, flooded by thoughts of the past. As a very young child, orphaned by bandits, he’d found his way to the Underhill Sidhe, to a home that time did not touch, and pain could not enter. He’d lived there for ages in gentle childhood. Had grown only in spurts, while stepping outside to watch as the world changed, and worshippers faded away.
Now, Ninursa was dying. He could feel her beginning to falter and drift. Tried to prevent it, as first Meliara, then his fellow paladins rushed over with a stampede of crew and Captain Gelfrin.
“Wait!” cried Villem, reaching to seize Ninursa; trying to give his own life and strength to the fading goddess. “Land-mother, wait. I can…”
“Guard the blade, darling child,” she whispered, bringing her other hand up now, as well; cupping her boy’s handsome face. “Everything ends, little one. Even the gods. Take a mother’s blessing and strength. Live and remember. Take the sword to its wielder… but know that this blade may strike only once.”
She melted away into shimmering motes after that, still smiling, still gazing into his eyes. Villem reeled, fighting tears that blurred sunlight and dimmed anxious faces. Then Melly reached up to embrace the young paladin, doing her best to comfort a man who’d lost his family, twice. Captain Gelfrin ordered everyone back to their posts. Only Mr. Not-Jonn, the drow and the wizard had failed to rush over, for Villem’s shout of alarm had been loud.
Ninursa’s presence and passing harmed nothing and no one on Falcon. She wasn’t even a legend, to most of them. Older than all but the shallowest overgrown rock-carvings… but she’d meant all the world to an orphaned young boy.
Ninursa had given her life to deliver a message, providing a weapon made from two sacrificed gods. Hideously powerful, utterly neutral, to be used only once before shattering. But…
“Who does it go to?” wondered Sister Constant, eyeing the blade with distrust. “Who gets a weapon that’s just as good as it is evil?”
“A hero, I hope,” rumbled Brother Humble, the massive orc. “But there is much in this blade that would serve darkness, as well.”
Said Meliara, always practical,
“Put it away, Villem, and come get something to eat. Hunger clouds thought. We are headed to Karellon, so... Perhaps it ought to be given to His Imperial Majesty, or to the Prince Attendant, Nalderick?”
“No,” objected Constant, shaking her head. “Worldly power corrupts. In the hands of a mighty noble, such a weapon would serve only Chaos. Better a priest, or the head of our order.”
“I’d say a child of the soil,” suggested Humble. “A farmer with no ties to council or court. Not even ours.”
“What about Magister Serrio, then?” offered Meliara. “War does not pass his borders, and…”
They argued all around Villem, who barely heard. The paladin stumbled along, guided by Melly’s hand. The sword had grown its own curious sheath and was awkwardly hovering at his off-side, now; too long by half, and buzzing.
Ninursa had trusted him, going out to her death to deliver that blade. He was its bearer, for now, but soon there would be another. One he had to choose… His way.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Out of the time stream, on the far-away Isle of Epona:
Lerendar entered that curious shop, with Pretty held on one side and bent arm. His free hand hovered by the leather-wrapped hilt of his sword; ready to draw and give battle, if it came to that. Determined not to show fear, he stepped out of misty dreams and confusion, into sudden-slap clarity. Found himself in a tiny, jam-packed and shuddering store. There were so many things… most entirely foreign… stacked, piled and shelved, that the elf had to turn slantwise to make his way further inside.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
There was a very long counter at back, seeming to vanish away like a road in either direction. A small, shriveled gnome sat there, tailor-fashion. Not on the counter, but over it.
Lerendar edged his way cautiously forward, threading a path through barrels, boxes and crates. Past things that buzzed, whirred and glowed. Skirting others that faded continually in and out of existence, mostly in time to the jingling music. One brown paper- and string-wrapped parcel turned like a compass to face him as the elf-lord wound around all of that stuff. Besides the vibration and tune, there was a rattling, tooth-scraping CRUNCH, as though the whole shop were in constant motion.
Pretty One gaped like a peasant on her first trip to the fair; blinked like a tuber, fresh from the dirt. For that matter, so did Lerendar, who could not understand what he saw.
“Cor, y’r lordship… Never seen so much gear in one place, like,” whispered the goblin child, plucking at his cloak and craning around to take it all in. “What Grampa wouldn’t give ter roam this place!”
“Miche used to swear there was a Shop of True Need below Starloft, but I told him not to spout nonsense,” said Lerendar. “Guess I owe him an apology. It’s real.”
The gnome ahead snorted, having heard everything.
“Reality is what you make of it, lordling,” she remarked, sounding tart and impatient. “Hurry along… good lad. You have a task to perform, and pinning three timelines together is no simple matter, nor is it free.”
“A task?” the elf wondered aloud. “You… need something lifted or killed?”
He had magic now, for the first time ever, but hadn’t much confidence using it yet... and nobody called on Lerendar when it was time for deep thought. But he knew that folk died or were lost, trying a spell too great for their knowledge.
“No, dolt!” snapped the gnome, giving up all pretense of civility. She was terribly old, he saw, with skin that resembled scraped parchment, and hair like stiff, sun-bleached grass. Lerendar had never paid much attention to the tales spun by servants. Val was the gullible mooncalf… but his older brother knew enough to take no offense. He bowed, instead, saying,
“We are ready to face whatever task you would set us, good shopkeeper.”
She grimaced.
“Hmph. ’Good’ remains to be seen, lordling. The Shop serves all customers, regardless of their alignment. Better say ‘practical’. There is an adjustment coming. One which the Shop has a very large stake in. It will strike across worlds and timelines, and even you have a role, along with the child.”
Lerendar considered. Then, after a nudge from Pretty One, he hedged,
“We are willing to do as you say. Just… if you would, g… practical shopkeeper, what of Beatriz and Zara? Are they well? Will the Isles release them?” For he remembered his family now and was icy with dread for their safety. Alfea and Bean… Andorin, Bronn and Elmaris… Ava. Everyone.
The gnome’s expression softened a bit. Inclining her head, she replied,
“They face themselves, lordling, as everyone does on Epona. There is nothing to fear but what you bring here, yourself. For the most part, your companions are innocent. Those with a ‘past’ have chosen to keep to the shore. Wisely.”
Lerendar felt the tension drain from his muscles and heart like wine from a broken bottle. He shifted Pretty One in a half-hug meant for another small girl and then nodded.
“Very well. I thank you, shopkeeper. And what is it you'd have us do?”
The gnome smiled, not at all comfortingly. At her gesture, an aisle appeared amidst all of that high-piled stock. The noise it made was a grinding and rattling scrape, causing small items to bounce. At the end of the sudden corridor, they spotted a closed wooden door. The gnome gestured once more, this time urging them onward.
“Enter,” she rasped. “From each to each, from one to another, give your brother what he most needs.”
Lerendar pivoted, feeling electrified. Val? Here? Didn’t think to ask any questions, being more of a melee type than a philosopher. Just gave the shop gnome another quick nod and then rushed for the door, carrying Pretty One.
The aisle was twenty feet long and quite narrow, with boxes and crates stacked so high overhead that they faded from sight in the shadows. So close that they scraped his broad shoulders, forcing the elf to swing Pretty One around to a front-carry. He shielded the girl with one muscular arm, keeping the other before him, at ready.
Pretty One summoned manna, whispering words in her own growling language. They reached the iron-bound door in five rapid paces. It sprang open at a touch, revealing a small, shifting room in which…
Three.
There were three elves, three versions of Val, inside of that unstable room. Lerendar stared, turning from one to another in open confusion. They did not look much alike, but he’d have known his brother anywhere, everywhen.
One was the Val he remembered from home, but energized; alert and glowing with manna. For some reason, though, with travel-stained clothing and short-slashed hair.
The second was scrappy-looking and shy; covered in glowing, mobile tattoos. Younger than either of the others, this one seemed haunted and scarred.
The third… was a shock. Lerendar had seen assemblers and constructs, before. Knew what an animate armor was. This brother had some of all that about him. He was taller than Lerendar, even, and partly machine. Though hidden by clothing, most of his body had been encased in some kind of living metal.
All three were surrounded by a cloud of possessions, as if the shop gnome had opened their pockets to public inspection. Not just the elf-lord but Pretty One was able to see all that they carried.
“Cor…” breathed the goblin, clinging to Lerendar. “The wish broke ‘im apart, y’r lordship. Ee’s three, now.” There was a tremulous catch in her voice, but there was no time to break down.
“It’s up to us to help change this,” Lerendar told her, inching cautiously forward. His brothers did not seem to see him. Not until he stood right in front of them, anyhow, and then only fleetingly. “The shopkeeper said…”
“From each ter each, from one ter another, give y’r brother what he most needs,” recited Pretty Once, scowling in thought.
Lerendar cursed. Fights he could handle. Feats of courage, endurance or strength? None better. But… a puzzle?
“How ‘re we ter choose, y’r lordship?” asked the goblin. Lerendar started across a floor that was alternately wood, stone and pierced metal; his footsteps sometimes clattering hollowly, scraping through sand or ringing on narrow steel grate.
“I’m his brother. I can access and open his pockets, but I think you’re the one who’s going to have to decide,” admitted Lerendar, adding, “Maybe with magic.”
“Similarity,” Pretty agreed, nodding. “Grampa taught me that, then Lord Val did, too. Bring us around ‘em all, milord. Slow-like, whilst I work up a spell.”
He started with the most familiar brother, who suddenly seemed to notice him. Tried to reach forward but couldn't make physical contact.
“Hullo, Short-stuff,” said Lerendar, half-joking. “Bad form, taking off like that. Granddad’s sent me to find you. Your wife and daughter came, too.”
He wanted to embrace Valerian, bring him back from whatever danger was just past his shoulder; lurking and deadly. Kept talking, instead.
“You have something I need to take and replace, little brother.”
Pretty One had been bubbling, growling and hissing like a lidded pot boiling over. Now, the young sorceress sketched a sigil too wise for her childish years. At its completion, a few of Valerian’s dispersed possessions began to glow. Just a collection of crude, shabby goods, they were: wretched clay figures, botched cups and the like, but clearly important to someone.
“Gifts of Burrough,” said Pretty One, nudging Lerendar.
The golden-haired elf nodded, then reached over to seize that pile of worthless trash. When his hand touched the “gifts”, for just that instant, it was as though he stood face to face with his brother, clasping his shoulder.
“Lando!” Val blurted, looking a lot of things, most of all terribly glad. “I…”
Then the gifts shifted from Val’s possession to Lerendar’s, and their connection was broken. The elf-lord tried pushing them back, hoping to get some sense of his younger brother’s location, but…
“Won’t work, milord,” said Pretty One, tugging his cloak. “Wait till y’ve got what’s s’pposed ter be given ‘im. Then try again.”
“Right. I knew that,” snapped Lerendar, more harshly than he’d meant to. A sudden lump in his throat and a burning sensation at back of his eyes had any cause in the world but tears. “We’ll keep moving,” he snarled.
They went to the scruffy one, next. Tattooed and half-wild he looked, with a dozen fresh scratches on skin tanned by weather and travel. But… still Val. Still his brother. This one’s pockets contained mostly food, including one eternal-spelled apple. From pity, Lerendar shifted the spell to a half-empty day-brew pouch. No one needed that many apples. Day-brew, on the other hand, was an absolute must.
At the conclusion of Pretty One’s charm, the weapons pocket lit up. It was Vesendorin’s bow that glowed brightest. Made sense, in a way. Lerendar had pinched the bow from the family storehouse forty years earlier, giving it to Valerian as a present.
“The bow,” said Pretty One, pointing it out. The older Tarandahl hesitated, then reached into his almost-brother’s faerie pocket and took hold of that ornate wood bow. Just like before, he was all at once standing directly in front of this other-Val (who smelt quite strongly of orc). The youngster’s grey eyes widened with shock and something like recognition. Then shame took over, causing the second Val to half turn away.
“Shorty, it’s me,” Lerendar managed to say, before their connection broke down. “I’m going to…”
To nothing, because the youngster was once more a ghost, barely able to sense him.
“Look, I don’t know what’s happened, Miche, but we’re going to fix this. We’re bringing you home,” he promised, speaking to one who could not meet his gaze. Pretty One squeezed Lerendar’s shoulder.
“It’ll come right, Milord,” she promised. “Y’ gotta ‘ave faith there’s a plan, is all.”
“He needs help,” muttered Lerendar, looking away.
“An’ we’re gonna give him jus’ what he gots ter have, y’r lordship,” insisted the goblin. “But even the gods needs help from us little uns sometimes, so off we goes ter th’ next.”
It was a very good thing she was there, the elf reckoned. He nodded again, saying,
“You’re right, and we’re wasting time.”
Most intimidating and different of all was the tall, half-machine Val. It was his brother, but with very short hair and a rigid expression; his grey eyes glowing with circles and lines of bright energy. The elf-lord purposely stayed out of sight, putting off contact to study him. This brother’s pockets were nearly empty, containing a small oval stone, a strange glowing rod, a flask of ale and what looked like the hilt of a sword. At Pretty One’s sigil and spell, the sword hilt developed a crackling bluish-green halo.
“The energy blade, y’r lordship. Third magic pocket,” said Pretty One, seeming to read the thing’s nature and purpose. Lerendar braced himself, then reached into the assembler-Val’s fey space after that truncated weapon. There was a disorienting lurch. A sense of contact with not one, but two persons; one present before him, one looming behind like vast and shadowy wings.
The machine-elf detected his presence but didn’t respond with speech. Instead, something seemed to brush at the back of Lerendar’s skull as that other one tried to make contact. There was a question there. Feeling impossibly slow, Lerendar answered,
“I’m Lerendar. You’re my brother, Valerian.”
Then came a burst of conversation/ image-flood/ text so dense and so rapid, it was like being force-fed the whole Codex of Epics at the end of a stick. Lerendar reeled backward, saved by the breaking of contact. His head didn’t just hurt, it felt ten times too large and packed to the eyeballs.
Now his own faerie pockets flashed into view. They spread out like a rotating cloud; filled with weapons, gear, food, fine wine and Bea’s glass bottle. The “gentle mint”. Funnily enough, it was the love potion that lit up and glowed.
“Hunh,” he mused, taking hold of that blue glass bottle. “She told me to give it to Val. You don’t think…?”
Pretty One chewed her lip.
“I think nuthin’s an accident, milord. If Miss Bea says give that potion ter Lord Val, then that’s jus’ what we oughter do.”
Lerendar pondered the situation for a moment, frowning.
“Then, maybe I need to take back the bow of my ancestors,” he suggested, adding, “I, erm… stole it out of the storehouse forty years ago. No one’s said anything in all this time, but maybe it needs to go back.”
Pretty One gave the elf an encouraging pat, saying,
“We’re puttin’ things right, milord, one little bit at a time. Let’s give each what ‘Ee needs, and you, too.”
They went back to work, then, sensing that all of this very much mattered. That they were arming each version of Val, and themselves. To the first, most familiar brother, went Bea’s love potion, along with a quick, rough embrace.
“I’m coming,” said Lerendar. Got back,
“Karellon, Low Town,”
…before he and his brother were cut off once again, and Val disappeared like a candle flame. To that second, younger Valerian went the energy sword and a warm handclasp.
“You did what you had to,” Lerendar told him. “You and Pretty One, both. Thank you.”
There was no time for anything else. But just before this Val popped like a bubble, he looked up and met Lerendar’s gaze. Maybe believing him. Possibly not… but armed and then gone.
Last was the weirdly upsetting construct-elf; his brother’s appearance and mind stamped onto something so strange that Lerendar had to kick himself forward. The other-Val was much faster to respond than his twins had been. Seized Lerendar’s arm, asking,
“You are free? Not an asset?”
The voice was chilly and harsh, with only a hint of his brother’s habitual drawl. Lerendar nodded in reply, saying,
“I am free, and so are you, Shorty. Wherever you are.”
That-Val cocked his head with a faint whirr of sliding machinery.
“Shorty,” he repeated, and then he was gone.
In the end, there was nobody left but Pretty and Lerendar, as the shop passed away like a nightmare at dawn. They were out in the street once again, facing that grey double row of sealed buildings. There was the sound of a dulcimer being played, though; sweet, wild and beckoning. Andorin.
Pretty One wriggled, so Lerendar set the child down on a bobbing cobblestone.
“Time to go,” he said to her.
“Aye that, milord,” she agreed, nodding rapidly. “Past time, says me.”
Slipping her hand into his, the goblin drew Lerendar after the music, away from a shop that now seemed no more than delirium. But they knew where to go now. Had a notion of where to start, first.