14

Elves have a terribly keen sense of smell. More so, in fact, than they care to let on. Snuffing around seems so dreadfully… physical, don’t you know. While their eyesight and hearing are legendary, they’ve also a shark-like feel for a scent-trail. In this case, the odor of blood. Orcish, mostly, along with gallons of muddy, vok-tainted native sludge. (He found himself cursing in Orvod again, a thing that should have bothered him more than it did.)

At any rate, Miche was crouched between cliff’s edge and ridge… dawn and morning… battle and flight. Now he closed his grey eyes, better to take in whatever the air had to say. Inhaled deeply and quietly, finding things out.

Blood had been spilt in tremendous amounts. Spouting hot, at first; still full of lifeforce and breath. Then merely seeping, robbed of its warmth. Last of all… there… just trickling and smeared; cold, and already clotted.

Any good hunter could follow that story, from frantic battle through wounded retreat, to “most likely dragged off and portioned by scavengers”. Miche was much more than just a good hunter, though. He was an elf; a natural predator bounded by self-imposed rules.

Now he rose from his crouch in a rattle of blue-and-black armor. Opened his eyes again, facing into the gale that shrilled and roared from the rift, far below. It smelt like jungles and rivers and rot, not orc blood, so he shifted his gaze and pivoted slightly.

The spiky dragon-back ridge smelled mostly of rock and scrubby, tough plants, but also the warm-fur-and-urine scent of three nearby dens. Too small to be what he was looking for, though. Stoat or rock-wyrm sized.

Hunh. Nothing large enough here to have dragged off a snake-arm, much less a bisected witch. Hunh, and vukrad, in heaps. The elf started moving again, stalking that orcish scent till it vanished entirely, leaving just a faint, slithery mark on the ground. He crouched down for a closer look at the trail’s end, reading a story of scuffed pebbles and broken-off stems. Here, bunched sand and pressed grasses, where a transformed snake had writhed and bled out. There, nothing at all. No blood, no scuffmarks… nothing.

“It’s been transported,” he murmured uneasily, adding, “The hag’s corpse, as well.”

His own fault, entirely. He should have dealt with those fallen remains, burning the carcass to ash, and rescuing Marget’s shorn arm. Only… he hadn’t dared leave his sister-in-heart to the Cloud and its odd glassy servant. Saving her life had seemed more important, at the time.

Drek.

The airship hovered some nine yards away, above and a little behind him, casting a very long shadow. Its torn metal gangplank still scraped at the stony ground like an impatient minotaur, raising a fountain of sparks. His own slender shade seemed to be drawn in the airship’s direction, as though he were locked there, already. Right. One problem at a time, please...

Then a drumming noise started, throbbing ragged and low, as if from a very great distance. Miche faced the sound, watching as a glowing red spiral rose in the north like a chaotic sun. He stared at it, bringing a hand up to shield the place on his chest where a mark just like that one had burned.

‘Captain,’ said the Dark Cloud, in his mind. ‘Your doings seem to have garnered attention. Perhaps it is better to go.’

“Before someone comes calling?” grumped Miche (more Erron, when dealing with Cloud and the other odd construct). “Yes, well… considering that one of our number is injured… strategic retreat does seem advisable.”

But he was not frightened off. Wasn’t running away. Facing northward again, he growled,

“I fought you to a standstill the last time, Corpse-eater. Stood as a wall with a few last troops, so the rest could escape. You know whether they made it or not, and I will not rest till I’ve wrung that secret out of you. By all means, Worm-food, come and find me. I’ll leave you a trail of your own slaughtered minions to follow. Your witch was only the first.”

Hatred, fury, shame… none of that covered what Erron was feeling.

“Round two,” growled the elf-lord, backed up by an orc and a brave, stubborn, out-of-place child. “Bring your best, Warg-son, because I have already found mine.”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Aboard Cloud, meanwhile, in a certain small cabin, things had been happening. Possibly ghosts, maybe the airship itself. Something set out to replace what was lost, not merely to heal.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

With fey-lights, wood from the bulkhead, mithral and glass, Cloud first infected the patient’s torn, bandaged shoulder, then started to build. Drew substance as well from the orc, creating a living core. Then slathered layer on layer over that, creating an arm. Intricate, alive in its own way, strong and responsive, with nerves of mithral, muscles of ebon wood and of brass. Over and through all of that flowed a substrate of crystal and manna, forming the shape of a perfect left arm. Not just attached but belonging, fed by Marget’s own lifeforce and blood. As its tendrils and probes worked their way into her brain, the orc surged back to consciousness.

Gasping, red eyes wild and still battle-hot, she sat bolt-upright in bed. Then, not sure where she was… what had happened… Marget rolled out of that creaking bunk in a sudden explosion of blankets, marten and fey-light. Landed THUNK on the floor, then vaulted upright in a graceful, elastic and powerful lunge. Reached for her weapons… Not there, piled in a corner along with her armor. Next grunted aloud, as she spotted that glassy left arm. It shone like water in the cabin’s dim lamp-glow. Alien. Frightening.

Marget twisted aside. Made a wild thrusting motion as she tried to cast the strange limb away. Came near to panic when it did not go flying right off, but…

No orc makes unneeded noise or attracts attention. Not when injured or trapped. You lived or you didn’t. That was all. Calling for help was not in a Free Person’s blood. Just, heart pounding, crouched for a fight, Marget stared at that glittering crystalline arm.

It was there. It was a part of her. It did not attack. Did nothing at all but what she reflexively made it do; wriggling fingers, making a fist and then a rude gesture, acting just like the one she’d torn off in battle and kicked at the witch.

Calming a bit, Marget brought the new arm up and flexed it, watching glass, mithral and wood bunch into a powerful bicep. Next, with her right hand, she touched the bent arm. It felt smooth and warm to her questing fingers. More than that, she could feel her real hand exploring its surface. It had sensations, just like actual flesh. Marget spread out its hand and brought it up close to her face, sniffing loudly.

Then Vrol hurtled into the room, bursting through a hatch that formed in the wall near her armor and weapons. He stopped short, staring at Marget. Those… those “faerie pockets” of his were visible now, such was his worry; jammed with day-brew, potions and bandage wrap. He had rushed here to help, though she hadn’t called for him. Short, slight, deceptively gentle… and all she had by way of a clan.

Marget straightened. Smoothed her expression. Then, as the old one’s faerie pockets faded back to obscurity, she padded forward. Put both hands (meat and construct) onto his shoulders. He levitated, bringing himself up to eye-level.

“It seems I am healed, Vrol,” she told him. “I live to fight on and fight better, because of my brother and friend.”

He touched the new arm with his hand and mind, both. Through him, there came that sudden odd shift in the colors she saw and the way that she heard things. Strange, but enjoyable. Then, relaxing a bit, he spoke.

“Cloud says to tell you: You’re welcome. Done. And I… it is…”

The last old one embraced her with sudden fierce strength, hauling her tight against rattling blue-and-black armor. Marget rested her forehead on his for a moment, finding safety and peace in one slender blond wisp of an elf.

Then his marten cut in, racing fluidly over the deck to climb up Vrol’s cloak and onto his shoulder.

“Pest!” laughed the elf. “Worthless wood rat! I leave you to watch over Meg, and you let her sprout an assembler arm?”

The black-masked animal barked excitedly, spraying a very fine smell. Meanwhile, Vrol cocked his head to one side, seeming to hear more than marten and orc.

“Right,” sighed the elf. Next, turning his gaze back to Marget, he reported,

“There is activity from the north. The Chaos-mark rises, and drums sound. I am all for drilling a hole in the sky, Meg, at the best speed and height Cloud can manage. There are shrines to awaken, and maybe that wall to push further back.”

Marget scowled.

“It speaks to you, this ghost-ship?” she rumbled nervously, low in her throat.

“Yes,” he admitted, nodding his silver-blond head. “I can hear Cloud in my thoughts, like… as I heard Javelin… Seahorse… and maybe another one. Vee, or something like that.”

Not just one, but a mob of ghost voices? Maybe parasite-syrup or purging smoke would help clear that, but she did not get a change to suggest either cure. Vrol shook his head to loosen his shadows and nonsense, instead, saying,

“We need to get moving, Meg. Cloud, here is the map.”

As she was still touching her brother, Marget could see the thing, too. It was a glowing flat image of Vroknard… but not very accurate. She was far out of her own place and time, though. Nothing she remembered held true, anymore. Only battle, kinship and trust.

“Thank you,” she said to her elven heart-brother. “It would have been a fine death… but I can arrange a better one.”

“Later,” he answered her, smiling. “Much later, Warrior.”

“That is a pact, Vrol,” said Marget, releasing the elf. “Before your own glorious end…”

“After it,” he shot back, playfully shoving the orc.

“Before, as you look on like a good and obedient male… I will bring such a war, and craft such a death, that the gods themselves will tumble straight off their clouds.”

“Aye, that. Heap of enemy corpses? Wailing relatives? Burning cities?” he teased.

Marget affectionately punched the disrespectful elf (who dodged).

“That is only the start, Vrol,” she promised, as they left that small, dusty room. “You forgot to say: ‘rivers of blood’ and ‘smoke-blackened sky’. Put that in, as well.”

All around them, Cloud began vibrating. The rescued airship next slanted upward and west, powering into the sky. There were many miles and much dangerous territory between them and Gottshan, the Walking City, site of the nearest marked shrine.

A deadly foe lay curled at their backs like a serpent, and only more trouble ahead. But here and now there was laughter, kinship and healing. Here in the racing airship, sheltered and gently blown upon, there remained a flicker of hope.