Sword and Sorcery, a Novel

38

Many cycles earlier, in lower Karellon, a lost and out-of-place magician tended his shop. Small and oddly-angled, having been built into the space between an aerial bridge pylon and the Ministry of Mortal Affairs, the shop received little natural light. Quite a bit of harvestable traffic vibration and scores of ringing speeches, though, along with copious manna.

It was reached by traversing a series of air-mounted flagstones; down, up or sideways, depending on how the bridge drifted. This part of Karellon rarely settled, and its inhabitants liked it that way. Maps were pretty much useless, but nobody minded. Most of the streets were not even named; the buildings, including this shop, unnumbered. One got there by need and by knowing.

There was a sales floor and counter up front, a small stockroom beneath, accessed by trapdoor and magical lift. In back lay the workroom, where the magician hammered out spells and taught a few students. Half-orcs, mostly, with varying ranges of talent.

Upstairs to the spiraling right, an elvish oracle did her level best to dodge custom. Meliara Tarandahl ad Galadin was a self-exiled northerner. A reclusive noblewoman whose terrible visions only came true if spoken aloud to the one they concerned. She received very few callers, and kept very much to herself.

As for Murchison, he was trapped in this plane, which was so far from his own as to defy description through sigil or formula… and therein lay much of his problem. It seemed that the algorithm which had brought him here would not operate in reverse. Not in a plane of high magic, just as sigils and spells fell flat, back home.

The distance was mind-bending, the incompatibility factor staggering… and Achilles Murchison was stuck. Worse than stuck; in constant physical danger from a place that rejected his very particles, constantly fighting to kill and replace him. All of the food was poisonous, till spelled. All of the water, like venomous mud.

He maintained a warded safe space within his shop (rechristened "Murchison's Backwater Research"). Stayed there, building up custom through word of mouth. Found his niche performing needed small miracles for those too humble or poor to trouble an elven mage-lord.

Love spells, find object, good fortune and healing; these were Murchison's butter and honey. Kept the lights on and the register chiming, so to speak.

Yes, he missed home right down to his cells (which were suffering literal ionizing high-energy manna decay). Of course, he tried all that he knew to return to his own plane. Didn't matter. Nothing worked. It was as if some powerful force, having spotted his backdoor arrival, had nailed the way shut with Murchison still trapped inside.

He'd killed a man coming here, and had to live with that fact, every day. Some twisted version of himself, Murchison figured; one possibility out of literally infinite gradations of him. Had somehow… burnt up and absorbed the poor guy, whose weird memories and life history were a constant plague to the real, foreign thing.

Maybe they missed him back home. Maybe they just shrugged and got on with their lives, as one did. Certainly, no one came after him, and after a while, he stopped looking for rescue. Stopped searching faces for someone he knew.

But, a guy had to eat, red-handed or not, so Murchison turned his other-self's dim, cluttered shop into a modest success. Sold spells, charms and potions; took in a few students. Got by.

Until, one day, the Visitor… a hooded and cloaked young shadow who stopped by once a week to see the oracle… came into his shop, instead. A tone chimed alertly as this unexpected customer crossed the door's warded threshold, its melody ending with the sweet little trill that meant: serious money.

Murchison bustled out of the back, where he'd been preparing a tincture of nausea for a school-ducking potion (very popular with the local kids, at two coppers a sip).

"Welcome, valued patr…" he began, and then trailed off blinking, not certain what to do next. Bow? Touch hand to forehead in reverence, as the locals did when faced with a slumming high-elf? Because this was no regular, off-the-street shopper. This was an aristocrat, absolutely secure in the knowledge that no one would question his cobweb-thin 'regular-person' disguise.

"Um… how can I help you, My Lord?" prodded the wizard, wiping his hands on a clean bit of blue apron.

The elf had wandered over to the joke counter, regarding transformative and excrescence potions with mild interest, booted feet not quite touching the floor. Definitely male, and quite young. A he, by height and breadth of shoulder (elves showing much greater sexual dimorphism than humans did). Plus the fact that you could look at the kid without going mad. Ash blond hair framed a face of cold, incredible beauty, shadowing silver-grey eyes. His expression… and he had an expression, surprisingly… was somewhere between embarrassed and defiant.

Murchison could have gotten himself fried where he stood for not pretending to not see his visitor. For daring to address him unbidden, and for hinting that the elf might need help from a human. Only, the kid didn't blast him. (Kid. Funny. Probably over a hundred years old to Murchison's twenty-seven, but still young for his species. Thirteen or fourteen, in human years)

"Did you… come here looking for something in particular, My Lord?" asked the wizard; radiating gentle helpfulness, just as hard as he could

But High-elves never just said anything. This one's response was a river of mellifluous, nearly sung court speech spiked with flickers of moving imagery, but the gist was:

"I have been told that you instruct students in the craft, Wizard."

Alarmed, Murchison clarified hurriedly,

"I teach a few local wild-talents, My Lord. Wouldn't dream of taking students away from their proper instructor, though. There are no elves, or half elves among them."

Because, angelic good looks or not, high-elves could be right illegitimate terrors. Especially the younger ones, whom even their parents preferred not to raise. But,

"I had in mind something more in the way of… supplementation. I am apprenticed to His Imperial Highness, Sherazedan the Subtle and… so forth, through sixty-one tedious stanzas."

Murchison felt his eyebrows climb into his shaggy brown hairline. He gave a sudden sharp whistle. Forgot himself momentarily, blurting,

"Whoa. Sherazedan? That's big ju-ju. That's some heavy hoodoo, right there. What in the world does a student of Big-staff the Mighty want with a piker like me?"

The elf's face twitched. Something that might have grown up to become a smile lit his pale eyes, briefly.

"I seek to augment my skills, such that I may pass my senior apprenticeship trials… which are being held at the end of summer. I find myself underprepared, owing to more activity on the playing field than the classroom. Hence, my presence in this establishment, Wizard."

A picture was starting to emerge and sharpen in Murchison's mind, of a talented kid who'd rather do anything else than apply himself. Delicate situation.

"And, uh… if I may ask, My Lord…?"

The elf nodded once, signing 'go on' or 'do so'.

"...what form will this trial take?"

And, eyerolls were apparently universal. Radiating petulance and manna, the kid grumped,

"It is to be a series of formal combat encounters with an advanced journeyman. They get to choose, and Lady Solara has already indicated that she will select me as her opponent. She boasts of her intent to humiliate me in the trials, and have me recycled or sent back home in disgrace."

Bad enough, and Murchison started to respond, but the elf-lord burst out with more.

"I am no wizard!" he raged. "I am a fighter, like my father and brother! I but perform these ridiculous tricks at their behest, until I am summoned home once again!"

He was literally leaking fire, now; causing a storm of sparks and bright zephyrs to swirl in the air all around him. Small objects levitated and hummed in sympathy with the kid's raw emotion.

"Naw… you're not magical, at all," said Murchison drily. "Mind toning it down, My Lord, before you burn the place to the ground? It isn't much, but I like it."

The elf nodded, jamming himself back under control. Left a scorched handprint on the joke counter… but hey, that gave the shop some character.

"Okay… a couple of observations, My Lord. First, I need permission to speak freely; to call things as I see them, or no dice. I need you to not get offended whenever I tell you the truth. Deal?"

Again, he could have been blasted for that, or for nothing at all. No one in Karellon was likely to prosecute a noble high-elf, student of Big-Whiz, himself, over the roasting death of one extra human. Dime a dozen in low-town… but something told Murchison that the kid needed help, and that he was was willing to listen.

"Speak your mind, Wizard. I shall not take offense. My oath on it," said the young elf, sketching the sigil for 'promise' and leaving a glittering trail in the air.

"Right… Thank you, My Lord. With that established, getting angry about the situation only helps them, not you, because it's hard to think straight with hormones and rage in the driver's seat."

The elf blinked.

"I… my apologies, Wizard, but I did not understand the last half of your discourse. I know not this 'hormone', nor am I driven. I misty-step or I ride my own steed, Dustroc. But the first bit, about controlling emotion, is well said. That, I can strive to correct. Your customary fee for instruction will be met, of course."

The closest he seemed able to come to just asking for tuition rates, Murchison observed. Not just noble, but wealthy. Steeped in the privilege of race, class, ancestry and power.

"Um, of course. End of the month, once you're satisfied with the course and quality of your lessons, My Lord."

"Val," said the kid, this time actually smiling a little. "I am Valerian Tarandahl ad Keldaran, of Ilirian, second heir. Of Karellon, a mere apprentice… and not the most capable. I am not a wizard, nor do I seek to become one. I simply wish to survive my trials with honor intact, and not to bring shame to my family."

…Who'd invested a lot in this chance for their younger son, Murchison guessed. Never before had he learned a high-elf's full name, much less been invited to use it, but Murchison was good at adapting on the fly. He said,

"Well, we've got some work to do, but the raw power is absolutely there. You may not want to be a wizard, My Lord Valerian, but the mage life seems to have chosen you."

"If by that you mean Firelord, possibly," allowed the elf. "He runs in our family. Ancestral, actually."

Murchison heaved a deep, gusty sigh.

"Great. There's a god involved, too? Cool. Cool, cool, cool. Don't suppose he's an even-tempered lover of justice and mercy, by any chance?"

Valerian stifled a laugh.

"The Lord of Battles? The Shining One? He who never retreats or relents? Not especially, no… although he has been known to show mercy to a worthy opponent. Once, but that was in providing clean flame to the corpse, and comfort to widow and orphans. He allowed them to flee, with all they could physically carry."

"Uh-huh. I'll do my best to stay on his good side. Not a fan of deep, fatal tanning. Moving right along, when do you want to start, and what shape will these combat trials take? Good preparation is half the battle, My Lord."

"I have time before ball practice, now," said the elf. "Aunt Meliara is having a bad spell, and wishes not to see me, or anyone else. As to the combat forms, there are typically three encounters. One a direct battle with enchanted weapons, the second a mage war of sigil and word, and then, lastly, a treasure hunt, in which both sides cache and bespell their most cherished possession, while the other side strives to locate and capture it. Clever traps are encouraged. (Solara's most cherished possession is no doubt the shriveled head of some previous, unfortunate apprentice, spelled to sing the hag's praises, day and night.)"

Murchison stroked his short beard (which had begun to show some grey at the corners, but was still mostly brown).

"That emotion thing, Lord Valerian…? Yeah. Keep it under control, buddy, or she's got you by the… the, um… heart-root."

The elf-lord's aura and face ripped through a series of rapid, barely detectable changes, but (to his credit) the kid got himself back in check pretty quickly. There was a good heart under all that hauteur, Murchison figured, seeing past Val to much long, loving contact with low-ranking others. Half-elves and even some humans, their influence huge on Valerian.

"What is 'buddy'?" asked the young elf-lord, suspiciously. "I know not this term."

"It is me being an idiot, and presumptuous," admitted Murchison, choosing the truth, but carefully. "It is a term of friendship, among my people."

Valerian drew himself to full height for a second or two, then relaxed once again, as the promise-sigil flared back to life in the air between them.

"You must tell me the meaning of any term that I do not recognize," he ordered, adding, "And I will endeavor to control my reactions and to make proper use of this… unwanted gift… which may be Firelord's doing, come to think on it."

So the lessons commenced, with Valerian being a much better student than Murchison had dared hope. He even got on well with Frixil, Larissa, Jazore and Drenn, the half-orc twins, kobold and human changeling; Murchison's other tough cases.

His weapon, Nightshade, was already enchanted, but the wizard added spells of true-seek and death-block, making it just about fight on its own. Not animate or intelligent. Not truly a blade of power, but still trouble for anyone else but a hard-core, committed warrior.

Also taught Valerian the first of a series of sneaky, end-run battle ploys, helping the elf to change 'sword in the stone' (great for establishing mortal kingdoms) to 'sword in the sheath' (awesome for not even letting your unworthy foe draw her blade).

For the spell throw-down, Murchison came up with 'Babble' which would choke off spoken magic at the root by randomly scrambling syntax and stress. Just like computers, a good spell required correct, precise phrasing. Garbage in, garbage out. Sometimes disastrously so.

Added to those, in later lessons, came 'Angular Momentum Transfer', which was just plain fun, if a little bit mean.

"You can spin things, Lord Valerian? On your finger, I mean, like a plate or a ball?" the wizard inquired, one afternoon in the workroom.

"Lunch break. Back in two candle-marks!" already glowed in front of the shop door, along with a cartoon image of Murchison, downing a sandwich and patting his belly.

"I am no mountebank," snapped the high-elf, dispelling the fiery lights he'd been idly juggling.

"No… but you are pretty gifted, athletically. Now, spill (which means tell the truth)… can you spin something on your finger?"

Looking surly, embarrassed, Valerian conjured a bright yellow courtball, tossed and then span it at the end of one finger. Not just upright, either. In whatever dang orientation the elf cared to point.

"Cool, cool, cool," said Murchison, briskly rubbing his hands together. "Awesome. Now, take that motion… that spin-momentum… and transfer it to… let's say, the time-out chair, over yonder. Just be…"

The wooden chair rose in the air with jerky suddenness. Then, as the ball on his fingertip stilled and glowed white, the time-out chair began to spin like a wild and wobbling ceiling fan, crashing and splintering against the wall, sending dagger-like shards in every direction. Those long, hissing splinters burnt up against Murchison's warding spell like a hail of arrows, setting the workroom aglow. The 'class rules' poster curled at the edges and began turning brown.

"Okay… sure… needs some work, especially if you plan to use it on a living opponent… but it's got definite potential," the wizard enthused.

All of the lessons did, for Val was a quick and highly motivated learner, far outshining his awed fellow students.

One day, he showed up unexpectedly early, while the other kids were still practicing 'levitate object'. Didn't bother to knock or announce himself. Just appeared, haloed in fire, his preset escape spell having chosen Murchison's shop as a landing site.

"OUT!" raged Valerian, shoving the other students at the suddenly crashed-open door with a rough gesture. "Leave us!"

Frixil began to cry, but his sister (whose tusks and muscles were bigger) gathered him up in her arms. Jazore the kobold dove under a table, leaving young Drenn all alone by the threshold, uncertain what to do next. Having been raised in the Fey-wilds, Drenn found Valerian's temper and antics familiar, but hadn't the power to match or defend.

"Early release," snapped Murchison, jerking a thumb at the broken and swinging door. "Practice object levitation on non-living subjects. Same time, tomorrow. Now, scoot!"

They scooted, the kobold leaving a sizzling pee-trail. Murchison yanked at the collar and sleeves of his hoodie-robe before rounding on Val, who…

…was huddled in midair, knees drawn up to his chest, pulling in manna like an emergency fan vacuuming fumes in a chem lab. No longer angry, just miserable.

Right. Sure thing. He was welcome to the magical power, which all but gushed from that floating bridge-pylon rear wall. His behavior, on the other hand, was completely unacceptable. Tough situation.

Murchison considered and rejected three different responses before saying,

"Let's pretend that those blundering scamps are your classmates, My Lord. That maybe their combined, full tuition doesn't match your lunch money… but that it hurts their folks to scrape up, just the same… and that maybe they deserve a whole lesson."

Valerian muttered something unintelligible, not lifting his head. A small shower of silver pieces rained out of the air to land on the stone floor with bright, ringing chimes.

Murchison sighed, summoning magical cleaners.

"Keep your money, My Lord. I'll just give them an extra, free session."

It had been an escape spell, and it had dumped the kid here… meaning that here was where Val felt secure. Sort of a compliment, that.

"What happened?" asked the wizard, adding, "and please come down. I have a hard time talking to boots and a butt."

That must have stung, because the elf uncurled and then settled to the ground with the airy grace of a dancer or comic book hero.

"I apologize for the unseemly display, Wizard," he said in a flat, quiet voice. "It shall not happen again."

Progress!

"Good to know. Are you… all right? What can I do to help?"

It was very rare that Valerian made direct, sustained eye-contact, and the effect was powerful. For a long, heart-clutching moment, Murchison was drawn into a wild and disordered jumble of memories. Saw the proud Prince Attendant, Nalderick, confronting Sherazedan over being ordered to serve at table, again. Saw Valerian… who could be truly, Homerically foolish… back his friend instead of their master, getting recycled for his trouble.

"Back to the womb," snarled the elf, breaking their contact. "In full consciousness, to relive all of my life choices. After thirty years, I worked out how to entrance myself to near coma, but it was humiliating. A nightmare! Naldo swears that once he ascends to the throne…"

Valerian stopped talking, shook his head violently.

"Nothing. Never mind. I am out of sorts and disordered."

"Yet a steadfast and loyal friend," remarked Murchison, conjuring cider, bread, fruit and cheese; the usual classroom snacks. "Eat something, My Lord. You'll feel better. Question is, have you learnt enough not to let something like this happen again?"

Reaching for food with a summoning gesture, Valerian uttered a low, savage laugh.

"I trust that you have had adequate opportunity to reconsider your actions, boy," he mocked, sounding (the wizard suspected) exactly like Sherazedan. "Only, Naldo is right," the kid exploded. "As Prince Attendant, he ranks nearly with the Old Lich and deserves respect, not common drudgery. He is my friend and my brother-in-heart, and one day he will be emperor. He was in the right, and I am not sorry!"

Murchison conjured more cider.

"Until then, you have to survive, both of you," the wizard observed. "And that means making smart, safe decisions." There had been an eldest prince, first born of His Imperial Majesty, long since exiled for treason. No one was safe from imperial wrath, no matter how closely related or loved.

"A pox on safety," Val grumbled, finishing off a snow peach in two magically dripless bites. "Firelord laughs at safety."

"Firelord is a god. He can afford to chuckle and leave off his seatbelt. You, My Lord, are mortal. Insanely long-lived, but not immune to death." said Murchison, firmly. "I have a vested interest in keeping my students alive. It's good for business."

Val snorted rudely.

"For the sake of your line-bottom, Wizard, I shall work at maintaining a heartbeat… but Naldo was right."

"Whoof… okay. Defensive magics it is, then, starting with 'Life-bond'. I'll teach you how to forge a vital link between yourself and someone or something inaccessible or really tough to kill. Works both ways. So long as either of you is still alive, the other can't fully die. Gotta be smart about who or what you pick, though. Oak trees and giant clams aren't the slam-dunk most people think they are."

Useful, if a touch necromantic. Val learned the spell, along with one that combined 'Meld with Stone' and 'Stone Golem', which Murchison dubbed 'Stone Waldos'. With it, a mage could open a locked room from the inside, or seize and manipulate its contents. Even look around, after a hazy, density-gradient fashion.

Val learned everything the wizard could throw at him, becoming better and better at thinking things up on his own, from first principles.

On the eve of the trials, final lesson, Murchison shook his head, saying,

"What a loss to science. Shame you weren't drawn to my world, instead, Lord Valerian. You'd have made one steely-eyed beast of a physicist." Added, "Good luck, buddy. Everything else is on you."

And then came the day of the trials.

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