Pirate and King, chapter eighteen

18

One by one, the pieces were set up for another Crown Game. Across space and time, willing or not, they were placed on the board and set into motion, with magic and life for the stakes. As for the players, if not Order and Chaos, then who?

Escaping the Island was critical, for that sentient landform was deadly serious about being left alone. How deadly serious was proven by three separate airship wrecks spiked up on giant tanglewood trees. They’d been hidden at first, out near the valley’s west rim. Then screening saplings and brush bent away… wakened trees moved aside… to reveal those staked vessels and all of the neatly piled skulls underneath.

Alexion surveyed the boneyard on dragon-back, with a Quetzali princess, a griffin, and that persistent descendent along for added security. (Not that he needed it.) Others had snuck through, as well… but the party wasn’t aware of it, yet.

Vernax banked and glided, riding the updrafts and winds like a big, golden seabird. The young dragon kept its flame bottled up, for Island was very touchy about living trees, willing to slaughter invaders to keep its plants and animals safe.

All three airships had been impaled from below, their keels broken and their timbers wrenched apart by predator vines. Now, they bleached in the sun like a trio of scarecrows, with the bones of their crew piled up in crumbling pyramids at the base of each writhing tanglewood. The nymphs of those awful trees wore some of the bones in their flame-colored hair or piercing their bark-like hides. Warning enough.

The exiled prince made another low pass, then signaled: down. Had to. With magic draining away, Vernax tired more easily. Alexion guided the dragon to the rim nearest those murdered ships, waiting to speak his mind until brazen claws scraped stone, and the others arrived.

“Whatever happened must have been brutal and fast,” he said to Alfea and Valerian, once he’d dismounted and stretched. Vernax and Sawyer went off to fish in the nearest rim lake, catching wind for short hops, untroubled by ancient disaster. Said Val (his descendent),

“Perhaps they were warned, Sir.”

Valerian had met and spoken with Island, relating its terms to his wife. She’d told all the others. Landing lightly beside them, Alfea folded her colorful wings.

“If so, they failed to listen,” she said. “The two names I made out are ‘Dauntless’ and ‘Terror’, but the third plate is too splintered and faded to read.” Alfea kissed the top of her baby’s blonde head as she spoke, apparently taking some comfort from the little one’s scent and her babbling. Alexion shifted his gaze. He’d fathered two babies that lived. One was an empress, the other wanted to kill him.

“We won’t be making the same mistakes,” decided the exile, stuffing memory firmly away. “We’ll eat whatever we’ve got in our faerie pockets, along with the fish you caught, Northerner. We’ll burn only dead branches and keep our fire under control. We should have enough power to move again by morning, and I intend to be gone. The Snowmont gap won’t be that hard to reach.”

Seemed like a good plan to him, but then…

“If you don’t mind my saying so, Highness, there’s a better way,” came a persuasive new voice, as someone else stepped out of the shadows beside them. It was only the twisted shade of a wind-blasted pine, but that was portal enough for a couple of former assassins.

A smiling, auburn-haired elf seemed to flow sideways out of the pine tree’s rippling shadow. He was dressed in elegant, antique clothing, and he carried a small Tabaxi. She was only a kitten; a very young lynx with tufted ears and blue eyes, wearing a fortune in jewelry. The response was immediate.

Alexion’s sword and Alfea’s spear were out and swiftly aimed at the intruding pair. Vernax lifted its wedge-shaped head, jaws full of wriggling fish and cascades of water. Sawyer burst into the air, dropping his own catch to shriek a wild challenge. Valerian leapt between the newcomers and everyone else, preventing impulsive bloodshed.

“Wait!” he cried out, lifting both hands. “I can explain! These are… well, they were assassins, sent to kill me and Filimar…”

Alexion cocked an eyebrow.

“I can see why you’d speak up in their defense,” he said drily. “What are you planning to follow up with? They summoned a demon lord?”

The prince didn’t lower his blade, nor did Alfea’s shimmering spearpoint waver at all.

“Well, they changed their minds,” said the northerner, as his griffin thumped onto that windy stone ridge close beside him. Val stroked Sawyer’s head, murmuring. “Easy, Drumstick. All is well, I promise you.”

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Prince Alexion snorted.

“No one with good intentions slides out of the shadows, in my blighted experience,” he mocked. “But let’s say the northerner’s right. You’ve laundered your souls and have nothing but purest motives for showing up when we’re all alone and far from help. Why not? I like a wild gamble. Convince me.”

The slender elf set his Tabaxi companion down on the ground beside him. Quite gently, because she was barefoot, wearing more gems than clothing. Next, he pressed a hand to his velvet-and-lace covered chest and bowed.

“Your Highness, know that we…”

“Skip all that,” snapped the prince. “I’m Alexion. Spent long enough not able to say my own name that it’s a genuine pleasure to hear it, now. ‘Sir’, if you have to be formal. Talk fast. I’m impatient and prone to violence.” (And those were his good points.)

The former assassin straightened, still smiling. Placing one hand on the Tabaxi’s head, he began again.

“Sir, I am Merlo Sindarion, noble scion of a family long vanished from Karellon. I was beset and slain while coming home drunk from a feast. I rose up again as a vampyre, with a thirst for blood and a hangover that lasted for three-hundred years. This,” he tousled the kitten’s dark-spotted head. “...is Fallon of Roaring Falls, princess and heir.”

The Tabaxi lifted her clawed right hand.

“If there is still a Roaring Falls, they are ruled by somebody else now,” she said in a scratchy-yowl voice. “I am alive again, but the past still happened. Who would welcome Fallon’s return?”

“Go on,” prodded Alexion, sheathing his sword. “You were undead professional killers… most likely employed by the crown. What happened?”

Merlo’s smile turned philosophical, and he shrugged.

“We were employed by Lord Arvendahl originally, to finish off two inconvenient young lords,” corrected the hazel-eyed elf. “Then your brother…”

“Korvin,” muttered Alexion, looking briefly away. “Little guy. What about him?”

“Yes. Prince Korvin shifted our target to Arvendahl himself, bidding us kill his lordship, and then apprehend Valerian and Filimar for the justiciars. As you say, though, we had a change of heart. Great things were taking place, and there seemed at least an outside chance that by switching sides, we might earn our lives back. Even a vampiric curse can be lifted. As for this little one…”

The Tabaxi rubbed her head and the side of her face against Merlo’s slim hand, saying,

“I was a tortured and murdered banshee, Alexion. I killed and killed and killed. I have shed more blood in undeath than I can ever make up for in life… but I am willing to try. I did not truly believe that Mandor’s… that Merlo’s plan would work, but I hoped for it. Now, we live again, and we followed along when you left the city, for we are surely a target.”

Merlo winced, scratching his partner’s tufted ears.

“The Red Hand does not forgive or forget a traitor, Sir Alexion,” he explained. “Had we stayed in Karellon, Losirr the Feral himself would have come after us, backed by all the forces of darkness.”

Alexion grunted.

“So, you switched horses in midstream, saving Valerian and… Filimund, was it?”

“Filimar, Sir,” broke in Val, looking bleak. “He was my best friend besides Cinda Whitlock, and my heart-brother. He was born to the Arvendahls, but became a Tarandahl through adoption, and… and he was killed by the monster we battled at Five Points. I seek a way to restore him (and Cinda) to life, Sir. Merlo was given his body…”

The former vampyre bowed acknowledgement, taking up the narrative.

“Indeed. I hold both of their remains… theoretically, for I no longer have access to the shadow realms I could reach while undead.” Glancing aside at Valerian, he said, “That’s where they are, friend Tarandahl. Warded securely and kept from decay, hosting whatever bit of their spirits might linger from love and concern for you.”

Val’s jaw muscles stood out. Overcome, he turned away from Merlo and the others. Alfea lifted a colorful wing to shield his sudden emotion. Sawyer rattled morosely, nudging Val with his great, hooked beak. As though nothing had happened, Fallon said,

“It would take great magic to undo the harm wreaked by Chaos on those two lost ones. They have been slashed to the root of their souls.”

Alexion rubbed the back of his own neck with one hand, working out tension, pain and regret. There wasn’t a thing he could do.

“You said you had a better plan than Snowmont Crossroads, Merlo,” he said, changing the subject. “Let’s hear it.”

“Indeed, I do, Sir Alexion. I propose that you make your way to the Needle’s Eye pass and the Constellate, instead of Snowmont. The paladins will surely know of some way to bring even a pile of ash back to life, and they may have a thought on restoring magic.”

The elegant former assassin glanced in Valerian’s direction. Perhaps Merlo and Fallon had been there in hiding, when the northerner spoke to Island? Alexion considered a moment. Then he nodded.

“The Needle’s Eye pass is broader and smoother than Snowmont gap,” he admitted. “And the Constellate’s advice might be helpful… or not. I mean to leave Karandun entirely. There is nothing left here for me. Everyone who matters came along when I ported the frel out of Karellon. Including you lot, I suppose.”

By this time, Val had gotten himself back together. He stood with one arm around Alfea, their baby held close in the other. Alexion pivoted, turning to face him.

“You vouch for these two?” probed the skeptical prince. “You trust them?”

Val nodded.

“It was a long game of griffin and stag between us, Sir. Neither Filno nor I nor Cinda gave up, and after a while, they just stopped hunting us. Then, at Arvendahl’s lodge and inside the machine, Merlo and Fallon switched to our side. Yes. I trust them.”

“Umf,” grunted Alexion. “I guess that’s as much assurance as I’m likely to get.”

His hard green eyes shifted from Val to Merlo and Fallon.

“Right, then. You can stay, and we’ll head for the Needle’s Eye. I can’t guarantee that you’ll survive, but nobody’s wearing a collar or dragging chains, either.” A thing he had to get used to, himself.

It was there, within sight of three grisly wrecked ships, that Alexion took the oath of his newest followers. No kneeling, no sword hilt, no fuss. Just a handclasp and blood-sealed vow of shelter, protection and service. And as it turned out, that was a very good thing.