17
As a powerful earthquake tore through Milardin and down to the turbulent ocean beyond…
As three sleek imperial dreadnoughts slid from concealment to hang in the skies over Freeport…
As the remaining folk aboard Seahorse counted heads and took stock of their losses…
A sudden portal appeared in the chapter-house courtyard, scattering orphans like leaves.
A roaring she-orc slapped a red globe from the witch’s tight grasp, instead of just striking her head off.
The Entertainment Division scored yet again, feeding a particularly fiendish version of the Halting Problem to OS1210’s main system. They used a forgotten, largely unshielded ‘hold-music’ link to slip right in like a blade between ribs, just about shutting the station entirely down.
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Lady Alfea was good clean through, but neither stupid nor weak. Summoning lightning out of a clear night sky, Fee willed a spear into existence. Long, wickedly sharp and pulsing with runes, the weapon glowed like the wrath-of-Heaven it was, and it fitted her grip precisely.
“You have set a trap for a lion,” she said to that skull-faced tornado of blades, “using a dragon for bait!”
A feathered serpent, to be exact. A Quetzali princess thrust from her home in the clouds but filled with the sky’s divine fire.
“Vagruk, I name you,” she said to the demon, lashing out with her spear. Its barbed head struck through a host of whirling sword-blades and into the fire-shot smog underneath. “Foul smoke of the enemy’s corpses, begone!”
Skyland laughed wildly. The demon came apart all at once, dissolving into a shower of skulls and sword-blades that rained down like fiery hail on the people below.
“And Seraphea I name you, doxy; driven by lust to drop from your heaven and tangle your limbs with a cursed elf!”
Far below, Arvendahl’s hostages heard the chiming voice of a Quetzali warrior, the crackling roar of a demon, but they had little time to react or pay heed. Blazing skulls swirled around them, snapping sharp fangs and jetting dark flame. Fiery swords hissed down from the sky, wielding themselves as they fought to reach the circle’s mid-point, seeming to target young Zara and Bean.
Lord Tormun shored up their pillar, raising stone from the seafloor; creating a series of platforms from which they could fight. To Lerendar, he bellowed,
“My coin says, if we put down that demon, these heads and the blades stop at once. Fifty gold, Northerner! You in?”
Lerendar couldn’t resist a bet (and neither could Cinda). Over the clamor of thundering surf and rumbling stone, over the chaos of battle, he shouted,
“Accepted, Dirt-heaver! A hundred gold says I land the first blow!”
Sadly, (for them) the ranger was already in motion; springing from one crazily tilted stone platform to the next; black arrow fitted and ready to fly.
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Back in the chapter house courtyard, Vikran shepherded gaping young orphans away from that sudden portal, pushing them into the safe house with spells. Meanwhile, Valerian studied his lordship’s mage-craft, closely examining the sigils and runes with which Arvendahl had opened the way.
“I know where they are,” he told Filimar, glancing briefly aside from those swirling and flickering symbols. “North, on the haunted coast.”
Filimar’s gem-blue eyes narrowed.
“That’s a long way to misty-step, Valno. We’d be drained to an inch of our lives when we got there. What else can we…”
“By the power of Oberyn,” cut in Vikran, having shut the house door and set wards. “I can bring there over here. Not porting or gating but folding the land in between.”
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Valerian worked up a few handy travel spells, recycling himself over and over for time to think. Now, gazing intently at Vikran, he said,
“That is very great magic, Hand of Oberyn. Something that only a god could empower. Will there be harm to the lands in between? To all those being so ‘folded’?”
Because they mattered, and Val would not slide to Lord Arvendahl on an ocean of innocent blood.
“They shall not be harmed,” promised Vikran (in more than his own voice, once again). “In fact, …total coincidence… such flexure of space may deflect the odd earthquake or tidal wave.”
Filimar’s slim, dark eyebrows shot up into his hairline.
“Psikreth!” he spat. “Of course, that whoreson descendant of swine would bring down Milardin!” Turning from Val to the cleric, he urged,
“Hurry, please! I’ve people, friends, everything there! Do what you must, old man! Just take us to Arvendahl! Help us to stop him!”
The cleric nodded. Then, raising his voice and bowing his head, chanting aloud in a strong, steady voice, Vikran once more channeled his god.
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Elsewhere, Miche had to turn sideways to get through the portal, time in which Dark Cloud saw fit to act. Using the little manna it had, the airship sent armor. Black and ice-blue, ghostly at first, those adamant plates and helm streamed from their rack in the hold to congeal around Miche.
…who was not done with surprises. Rather than being ported directly to the cliff, where Marget was facing a murderous witch, Miche found himself in a strange, misty half-plane. No armor, no sword. Not alone, either. Another elf came into focus, along with a very young goblin.
Miche reeled backward a moment and stared. His heart reasoned out what his mind had forgotten: that here was his brother, standing with one who’d become the best of allies and friends.
The other elf was clearly a lord of some distant land; tall and strong, dressed in casual finery, with long golden-blond hair and blue eyes. He reached out for Miche, speaking as if from a very deep well.
“Shorty, it’s me. I’m going to…”
Then he vanished, only to flicker right back again. Miche’s heart jumped, but… ashamed of the burdens and evil he’d carried… the younger elf couldn’t quite look at this newly found brother. Felt his magical pockets get raided and altered, as the phantom said,
“Look, I don’t know what’s happened, Miche, but we’re going to fix this. We’re bringing you home.”
Home… Had he dared to look up or to speak, Miche might have asked: What happened? Who am I, really? What did I do? But that chilly mist cleared before he could make himself speak, and then he was out through the portal.
Landed light as a cat on coarse brush and loose rock, at the top of a wind-scoured cliff. There, his sword and new armor appeared once again, fitting like they’d been his all along. Except… His sword had no blade. Just a very strange hilt with three glowing buttons. Some trick of the portal or maybe his ‘brother’, but there was no time to figure out which.
Looking swiftly around, he saw that Firelord had shriveled nearly away, was no more than a wisp of pale flame in the air by the cliff’s edge. That the witch had lost her spell-casting hand to a sweep of the axe; had her spurting stump clamped in the pit of her opposite arm as she spat out hexes and blood.
Some five yards away, Marget’s arms had been turned into serpents. Still attached at the shoulder, those sharp-scaled snakes were attacking Meg. She had one of the writhing beasts pinned to the ground with a booted foot. The other serpent was wrapped tightly around her, its fangs buried deep in the orc’s upper thigh. Already, its venom was working. She looked across at him, asking silently… not for rescue… just not to die here, alone.
Miche lunged forward. Opened his mind and heart to the almost-dead godling as he raced over to Marget. Then the witch hobbled into his path. Commanded,
“Gstrat!” which was something like “Stop!”
She’d taken his blood, forced his obedience back in her dark little hut. Tried to command him again, using the bond that she’d forged between them, howling,
“Voreket! Ailiedan yrc! Ailidan yrc, grachli!” (“Slave! Kill the orc! Kill the orc, quickly!”)
Might have worked like a charm on just Miche. But not on an elf-lord of two-thousand years. Not on Miche, with Erron. He shook his head, clearing it. Muttered the ‘Lord of Battles’ prayer to strengthen that half-dead small god, and then he ignited the energy blade.
Three feet of crackling amber light shot out of its hilt at a touch to the uppermost pommel stud.
“No,” he snarled at that furious hag. “I will not.”
She raged at him, battering her former captive with horrid illusion and torment. Hurled the sensations of drowning, skinning, burning and worse, but still he stalked forward.
“Your echoes of pain cannot frighten one who’s lost everything, Servant of Darkness,” growled Erron, through Miche. “Whatever your worst, hag, it isn’t enough!”
The witch yanked that truncated wrist out of her armpit, inscribing a sigil in midair with glowing green fire and arcing blood. Arett, it was: Final Banishment. A cold and howling dark vortex opened up in the night behind Miche, hauling at Erron, dragging the elf-lord’s thoughts and memories halfway out of him.
Then Meg ripped the left snake from her arm-socket and kicked it at Ulnag. Firelord acted as well, binding his own fading strength to their tattered and slipping “guest”. Nameless leapt from Miche’s hood to Ulnag’s face, screeching and barking aloud. Hit the ground and then darted off, but distracted her, giving his friend time to act.
The young elf swung that blade of light in a sizzling arc, disrupting Ulnag’s sigil and vortex. Spun around and slashed downward, next, cleaving the witch from her scalp to her waist. She fell in two halves, and he should have paused to make sure of her death, but Meg was terribly wounded. The orc had crashed to her knees on that gore-soaked cliff, stunned and bleeding. Looked at him, whispering,
“A good death, wasn’t it…”