Sword and Sorcery, a Novel

29

The day was chilly and grey, with brief, knifing gusts of sharp wind. Galadin met the wood-elf contingent in full, resplendent battle array; a high elven lord in all of his glory and power. Mounted on bright bay Traveler, with Reston, Val and Filimar also a-horse and slightly behind him, Galadin watched the first assembly's approach. Most were on foot, though the woodling's high druid stalked ahead of the rest as a wolf. Beneath Lord Tarandahl's horse, Skipper growled softly, but stayed in place.

A murder of ravens cawed and wheeled overhead, ready for battle themselves. Would doubtless have scouted the camp from above, only Alyanara's ward sphere prevented it; knocking them out of the air every time they attempted skullduggery. Her silvery runes formed a dome overhead, knife-sharp and beautiful.

The wood-elf main party came to a rattling halt about a furlong away from the high-elf encampment. Fairly disciplined, weapons to hand but not drawn.

The wolf was a warg-sized silvery brute crackling with magical energy, looking every bit as much like a normal beast as Galadin looked like a shop-clerk. It padded into the truce zone between the two armies, head lowered, eyes glowing. Galadin clucked to Traveler, riding forward, himself.

Valerian started to do the same, but two things… a gesture and head-shake from Reston, and the jarring, bouncing sense of himself somehow hurrying up through the ranks… kept Val from moving. Then he was very much in two places at once, seeing himself tall in the saddle, mounted on Dusty… and down on the hoof-churned ground, reaching up for the reins.

He thought… was fairly certain… he got off the horse. At any rate, found himself standing with most of his conscious mind as Val-who-was-late-for-the-confrontation. His other self cut a rather splendid figure, thought Valerian, as he backed away through massed horses, archers and spearmen, trying not to disrupt their formation.

So, he wasn't wanted up front. Not really. Lerendar would have scoffed that a mage belonged at the rear, where his tender hide would less likely be trampled or pierced. Where he could mumble and gesture in relative safety, letting warriors handle the actual fight.

And he was no longer dressed in fine armor. Just average elven stuff. What his other self or… he? What one of them had struggled into while rushing to reach the front ranks.

Well, there were the pickets and families in possible need of defense, Valerian reasoned. Perhaps he'd be of some use, over there. Could anyhow still sense what was happening up front, thanks to those nauseating shifts in perspective.

Moving at a lope, he inscribed and loaded a shield spell, then sent it to other-Val in case someone was unwise… suicidal… enough to loose an arrow at Granddad. Overhead, the Tarandahl griffin banner circled and fluttered, along with a few screeching hawks. Down below, the central green teemed with servants, camp-followers and the warriors' families. Anxious wives and young husbands shouted at children who ran about as though freed from the classroom. The youngest of fighters were here; pages and wards lugging swords and bows almost taller than they were.

Spying Valerian, their skinny, red-haired young officer rushed over, looking deeply relieved.

"My Lord," exclaimed the group leader, "All is in order, here, except for the children. They want to go forward to see what is happening, but it just isn't safe!"

A simple enough matter. With a quickly-tailored spell, Val seized the hot little mind of a circling hawk, then projected its view onto the green's young inhabitants. The children were still for a moment. Then they began racing around in circles, arms spread out as though flying; whooping and shrieking with laughter. A quarter candle mark would keep them entertained, Valerian figured.

He had other concerns, looking around through the crowd for Salem, Hilt and Mirielle.

"The Snowmont folk," he asked. "Where are they quartered?"

The young officer nudged a free-wheeling lass onto a safer flight path, then said,

"The common refugees are out back with the pickets and cook tents, Milord, in temporary confinement. Shall I assign an escort?"

Val shook his head, no.

"I thank you, but it is better to keep your war-band here and together, Group Leader. I can find my own way."

She bowed low, hand at her heart.

"Safe path and good hunting, Milord."

"If it comes to that… but I think that they are here to treat, not give battle." Or maybe to answer the war bells. At any rate, saying,

"Good hunting, Group Leader," Valerian left the packed, noisy green.

Other-Val's knowledge led him through many rows of pavilions and tents, until he came to the service encampment and horse pickets. There, he found the Snowmont folk, together with Salem and Mirielle. No Gildyr, though, and no sneaking, treacherous wood-elf paladin.

The Tabaxi was restless, her velvet fur standing on end, her tail a lashing dark, gold-banded whip. She was unarmed and rumbling with tension, Val noticed. Near her stood Mirielle, while Hilt came stomping over a few moments later.

Salem sprang forward and bumped her head against Valerian's shoulder, rubbing herself along the elf's right side.

"You have recovered," she observed, smelling medicinal. "There was some doubt." Then, "We should leave this place of arrogant bare-hides, Mrowr. They reek, and they do your species no credit."

Cap'n popped out of tattoo form to land on Val's shoulder, screeching and capering, taking hold of his hair as though it were horse-reins. Gently freeing himself, the high-elf said,

"We depart shortly, and our hosts do not reek. Some of them are family." Well, in a manner of extra-plane speaking.

He next turned to Hilt, greeting the dwarf with a handclasp.

"Well, yer no worse," she observed morosely, looking the elf up and down.

"And you are no taller, but here we are," replied Val, adding, "I thank you both, for lending your aid. And for yours," he added, turning to Mirielle. But the half-drow girl wouldn't look at him.

"You lied," she whispered. "You said 'together'."

Valerian hesitated a moment, sorting through likely excuses. Then,

"I lied," he admitted, touching a hand to the girl's lowered head. "And I arranged that trick with the bracelet fully intending to deceive, meaning to spare you and save… save…"

Who?

For just a heartbeat or so, Val had trouble remembering just who he'd placed the other joke bracelet on. Mirielle, he noticed, wore both of them.

But… there had been another young girl, her nose broken where Mirielle's merely seemed swollen. Her arm badly wrenched, where this girl's only hung limp.

She'd saved his life with an extra ladle of water, though. She'd been with the Snowmont captives… hadn't she? Val struggled to make two sets of conflicting memories fit in his head, when one of the people he thought he remembered was gone.

"I thought… what I did made sense at the time, but I was wrong, Mirielle, and I am sorry. I submit myself to your judgment." No light matter, and witnessed by all those who stood near. The other child, if she had ever existed at all, did not seem to be missed by anyone else, including Hilt, her former mistress.

Mirielle finally looked up at him, crying without any sound. Apparently feeling betrayed.

"Don't lie to me, please, Milord. And don't keep me from danger, when I could help you."

Taking off one of the trick bracelets, she offered it back to Valerian, who accepted and donned it.

"Your conditions are just. Never again shall I attempt to deceive you, Mirielle."

She threw herself at him, wrapping a skinny arm tight about Val's armored form. The other arm would only rise halfway, but a touch and a spell soon set her shoulder aright.

Somehow, that made his disorientation worse. As though taking away the differences between the two girls had made them more firmly one person. There were two Vals here, as well. Two increasingly similar minds and fast-blending memories. He could feel himself in both places at once, beginning to not be two people.

"We must depart," said both of him at the same time. "Good dwarf, they are close to an agreement, out front. The wood-elves will march to the relief of Snowmont. They shall provide you an escort of safety. I must go north."

Now. At once.

While he still could, and remembered the reason.

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Gildyr with Karus, Arondyr with Astrea, were nearly oblivious to anything else but the joy of their bonded heart-friends. Yes, the druid had plans that needed attention, but not in this place, where goblin and high-elf were never at war.

Absolutely, Arondyr was forsworn and no longer a paladin, with no great quest or main weapon, at all.

…but these facts did not register, weighed against the recovery of love so deep and so lasting that nothing else could hope to compete. Nightmare and sorrow were shoved away to the furthest corner of both elves' minds. The future was unexamined in the midst of a childlike, wondering now, spent with a lordly white elk and great wolf.

They were happy. They healed. What more needs to be said? Allow them their heaven, just a bit longer.

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Only, some things could not be hurried along. The former captives came up to thank and greet Val. Most notably Hilt's mother, Tang, who offered him a stick. Scrub pine, he thought, sharpened at one end through patient rubbing on stone.

"Take it," she grunted, causing the rings in her grey-streaked beard to rattle and chime. Some were missing, torn out by the slavers, but enough remained to make music whenever she spoke.

"Might not look like much, but she were meant ter stab the very next guard as came within reach (or yer lordship, when we thought you was drow). Wood-fang, I calls 'er; blooded and forged by a Black Anvil dwarf. No matter the substance we work with, what we make 'll strike true. She'll not fail ye, Milord."

Indeed, had already come between him and the wood-elf paladin.

Valerian received the stick gravely, standing with helmet tucked in the crook of one arm.

"My thanks, good smith. I shall keep her to hand. Dwarven-forged arms have been known to turn the course of battles, when all other hope seemed lost."

Hilt's mum surprised him by smiling.

"Y've done us a good turn, Milord, and we never ferget a friend. Strike 'er point down in the ground, at need. We'll 'ear, and we'll come. A Black Anvil swears it, and so it shall be."

A ripple of truth spread out and away from the older dwarf-woman, encompassing all who stood by; Snowmonters, high-elves and woodlings, out to the gods, themselves.

Into a belt loop went Wood-fang, after which Valerian met Hilt's younger brother. Dirk, he was named, beardless and shy, still dressed in the scraps of his school clothes over donated breeches and shirt. Nearly as broad as he was tall, Dirk was still shaken by raid and captivity.

"We're goin' 'ome?" he pled, gazing up at the high-elf.

"That you are, with an entire company of wood-elf archers and spearmen for escort. They will keep any footpads you meet quite respectful," said Val.

The boy sniffled, but managed the ghost of a smile.

"We'll be safe all the way 'ome," murmured Dirk, hugging himself tightly. "No one 'll try nuthin'. Not with an escort along."

Val considered a moment, then said,

"A Tarandahl is never afraid… and it helps to remind myself of that fact, periodically. I am certain that a Black Anvil dwarf, likewise, never knows fear."

Or, at least, like Valerian, did his level best not to show it. Not where others looked to find strength and resolve.

There were more rescued captives, and the high-elf met all of them. Though torn with impatience (as well as his other self's distaste for commoners) he spoke politely to all who would greet him, accepting their offers and thanks.

Then the staccato call of a gyrfalcon stitched at the air, quite distinct from the hawks of the high-elves. Val looked up to see a large white raptor wheeling across the cloudy afternoon sky.

"Snowbird?!" he blurted, both of him.

Other-Val was still busy with formal diplomacy, alongside Granddad, Reston and Filimar. Not so, what Valerian still mostly thought of as himself.

With a hurried word of excuse, the elf stepped away from the crowd and looked upward. This place was well north of a snowy gyrfalcon's normal range, he thought. So… possibly?

Anyhow, the white bird appeared to be looking for someone. Somehow spotted and recognized Val. Shrieking her stuttering call, Snowbird rode the winds and the thermals like a dragon. Circled once more, then folded her wings and dove down to land on his upraised forearm. She was a large, heavy bird and struck like a feathery thunderbolt, but Val was ready and braced.

Her talons sank deep in his leather gauntlet as her back-beating wings kept the gyrfalcon from pitching head-forward over his arm.

"Hello, Drumstick," he greeted her, complexly glad, apprehensive and shy. "Where's your mum, then?"

Brought his arm down so that he might look the great bird in her fierce golden eyes.

'Kree-kree-kree', she screeched again, all of her hot mind focused on meat, torn fresh from the bone.

"No rabbit," he apologized. "But I've some emergency brook-trout preserved in a faerie pocket, if you'd like."

She did, indeed, like. Was tearing with beak and talon at fish, when her mistress rode up with a party of rangers. Kalisandra Geldaherys, his long-time betrothed. Or, she of this place. Kalisandra pulled her steed to a prancing halt, then slid from the saddle, calling out insults (which he fully expected) and love words (which he absolutely did not).

Snowbird took to the air once more as her mistress rushed over to Val. Her helmet off, dark hair braided in one fuzzy plait, expression intense and serious, Sandy first reached up to seize his shoulders, then drew Val toward her, causing their armor to clash.

"Fisher," she said, huskily. "We heard the war bells, but could not leave Lindyn entirely undefended. I came with what Counselor Garrod would spare. Are you well, Stupid Northerner? Have we come in time, Love?"

She studied his face, started to lean further in, as if for a kiss, then drew back, frowning slightly. Sensing something wrong, something different, Kalisandra demanded,

"What is it? What has happened, Fisher?"

She had one blue eye and one brown one, both now narrowed in bleak suspicion. Valerian cleared his throat, stepping away just a bit. Possibly the hardest thing he'd ever done, to that point.

"I am not the one you believe me to be, Milady," said Val. "I am from a plane very similar to this one, sent here to…" (to not make himself look bad, either of him. No one had needed help, or been knocked unconscious by a miserable wood-elf.) "...to bypass enemy-held territory in my own realm."

Not entirely untrue, just incomplete. Kalisandra looked suddenly very interested. Problem solved, but…

He was suddenly back at the front lines, seated a-horse and once more in what might have been his own body. Could feel his other self embracing the woman he seemed to have fallen in love with, somewhere over those long hundred years.

Disoriented by the sudden change, Valerian tensed, pulling in on the reins and causing Dusty to back a few paces, snorting.

"My Lord?" ventured Reston, turning a bit in the saddle. Filimar put forth a hand as if to seize Dusty's bridle.

Val shook his head, too sick at heart, too confused to know what was real, any longer. Still in the truce zone, Galadin lifted a hand, palm outward, signaling the conclusion of dealings.

The high druid was now back in elf form. A tall fellow, as dark-haired and green-eyed as most of his people. He bowed before Galadin, then swung around and returned to his massed, waiting folk. Still keeping place below Granddad's horse, Skipper barked an 'and stay out!' dismissal.

Lord Tarandahl paused a moment longer, then turned his horse. Rejoined the high-elf contingent moments later, without so much as a backward glance.

Once comfortably surrounded by his own people, the elf-lord said,

"Kitten play. They have agreed to escort the refugees to Snowmont, remaining in place until the town is rebuilt. Young Filimar…"

"My Lord?" replied the Arvendahl seedling, electric with sudden interest and hope.

"I am quite certain that the high lord, your uncle Falcoridan, will have wishes of his own in this matter. Nevertheless, we are the ones who heard and responded, and so it falls to us to make necessary arrangements. It seems to me that Snowmont will require a capable interim ruler. Perhaps you would accompany the woodlings and captives back to town, and therein take charge of rebuilding."

"Yes, My Lord," said Filimar, sitting tall and erect in the saddle, a green ribbon fluttering from his borrowed armor. "You do me great honor, and I shall not fail in my task."

With Galadin's leave, the young Arvendahl set off to collect his healed friends and make preparations; shining with plans and excitement. Here was an opportunity to prove himself as warlord and civic leader, a gift from the gods and High Lord Tarandahl. Val rode along for a bit to make his farewells and promises, offering a handclasp before rejoining Reston at Galadin's side.

"That worked out rather well," remarked his grandfather, a tough smugly. "Not only are the tree-lovers kept busy… with young Filimar along to prevent them turning Snowmont back into wilderness… but I've managed to dodge the wife's formal banquet." Then, "Reston, take charge of defenses. I shall be in the central pavilion, contacting Falco and planning strategy. Busy for the foreseeable future. Disturb me for naught but direst need."

"Yes, My Lord," Reston said to his father, who was already riding away, Skipper trotting alongside like a furry, black-and-white shadow.

Valerian watched them go, then turned to look at his half-elven uncle, whose unshaven face was an iron-hard mask.

…and elsewhere, his other self had been drawn aside by Kalisandra, her fingers entwined with his and pressing a rhythmic pattern, the one they'd used when required to hold hands at state functions. 'I will never, EVER, (extra hard squeeze) marry you!' Which here had come to mean something quite other.

Needing escape from somebody else's flooding emotions, Val said,

"If you've no special need of me, Uncle, I would take up my bow and go fishing, a while."

Reston Feen Tarandahl inclined his head.

"As you will, Lord Valerian. Perhaps later, you will stop by my fire and sit for a time. We can drink and speak of what drove you here."

For there were now two youngest Tarandahl lords, and they were not much alike, beyond their appearance. Val nodded in reply. Even managed a smile, saying,

"I should like that. I shall bring you whatever I catch, and we can roast it over the embers."

Just like they'd done in times past and planes other. The two elves struck palms in agreement, then Val rode away, heading for a line of low trees near a dragon-backed ridge that hinted at fast, flowing water.

By hand-measure, there were yet several candle marks left before sunset. Plenty of time to get lost and to not think, at all.