25

  In Longshore, at just the critical point:

  With Lord Oberyn’s aid (His bare-faced collusion, actually) they opened a gateway through space and time. Their portal began just before dawn in that windy, roofless throne room, then fetched up a week later on the mainland, close to midnight. They’d followed the track of Panya’s magical glitter, and of a slightly pudgy, person-shaped hole recalled by a deep mountain lake.

  Seen from Fate’s perspective, their doorway was more of a winding and slanting tunnel, instantaneous only as far as they were concerned. No so to Fate, who kept right on with Her weaving.

  Alexion burst through, first. He was no longer completely himself, having agreed to serve as the sword-arm of Oberyn… and housing a god wasn’t an easy or comfortable matter. With the emperor came his brother, Prince Korvin, Autumn Princess Marika-Li, sly Genevera, Panya and Galadin (who was almost all Firelord now). Zesha, Freys and Alain brought up the rear of their party with Mikale, who was too badly injured to fight. A cadre of palace guards defended them all, having been torn from the vicious grip of a skin-changer.

  Right. There was an old elvish saying: ‘Sliding off of the spearpoint and into the stewpot’, which pretty well nailed their situation. Stepping out through a circle of light, they found themselves between a hard-frozen lake and a burning village. Very much not alone, or even much noticed. Walking dead, tides of ravenous vermin, starveling wolves and a tornado of screeching bats stalked the mortal inhabitants, who’d been struck low by a terrible plague. Also, there was a vampyre. Partly crippled, seeming no more than a one-armed boy, the monster radiated bitter cold and that hideous, filthy blight. The situation was bad and about to get worse, for all at once the vampyre laughed and then turned itself into a dragon.

  Sure. Why not?

  At this point, Fate’s jabs were coming so fast and so hard, Alexion hardly bothered to duck them. As that pallid wyrm twisted and grew, smashing a wooden pier into kindling, the emperor took a deep breath and took charge. Somebody had to, and Galadin had slammed that drekking crown on his head, back in Karellon’s throne room.

  Here and now, Alexion snapped,

  “Dino, take the guards and go save those villagers. Base camp’s the town square. Panya, Zesh, Fry, Alain, clear the place out and defend Mikale. Kori and Mari, you’re with me. Genna…”

  ‘Stay out of trouble,’ he’d been about to say, only the girl was already gone, and he could no longer hold back Lord Oberyn’s will. Ceased to exist as himself for a time, in order to become a weapon in Oberyn’s powerful clutch.

  Another gate opened up moments later, so close that the folk it disgorged tumbled into the first group at a dead run, Skipper foremost. The big dog was in warg-shape, and he came barreling out to meet Galadin. The blazing sword-arm of Firelord doused himself and then knelt to embrace his old friend, who whimpered and quivered with pleasure.

  Honey was there… and Alyanara… his children and grandsons (two of them)… and Lana. Safe. Alive, with her mother and baby son.

  People were screaming and dying all over that frozen village. Galadin had time for no more than a general blessing, and to take half his gear back from Honey. Then he kissed Ally, opened himself to his god once again and got back to work. (Firelord cared little for romance or tender reunions, preferring the song of blade upon shield over tears of joy. Dino was used to that, by now. His family, less so.)

  There were suddenly spiders everywhere, blocking up streets and alleys with their webs, catching thousands of rats and fencing away the town square. While Firelord got down to the serious business of destroying animate corpses and bone-skinny wolves, the paladins set up a new healing circle.

  Honey was lighter now and better able to move, having shifted half of His Lordship’s swag to its rightful owner. That felt like getting a boulder rolled off her back, and no lie. She drew her glass dagger. Would have run off, but then Brother Humble caught her, plunking the girl firmly back in Longshore’s muddy town square, right by a burnt-up lamppost.

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  “Stay here, Little Sister,” commanded the orc, as Arnulf and Constant dashed off with Keldaran, Alyanara and Lerendar to save lives.

  “But I can help, too!” objected the half-elven girl, jumping impatiently up and down. “Plus, Genna’s out there somewhere, she’s gotta be!”

  Brother Humble… whose true name was Vorbol… placed a big hand on her head, mussing Honey’s pale, straggly hair.

  “The first lesson a paladin learns is obedience, Little Sister,” he rumbled. “The next is, others before self, and the Lord of the Dawn before all. You shall serve as the anchor point of our healing circle,” explained the massive orc, drawing a bright, shifting triangle in the air with one hand. “This way, the people brought here shall stay protected, no matter where or how far the rest of us rove. That is what Vikran would have done for us. Understand?”

  Honey nodded, accepting ‘obedience’ like an ugly, ill-fitting name-day sweater.

  “I guess so, but Genna…”

  “Is in Lord Oberyn’s hand, as are the rest of us. I must go. Heal and defend your charges, keeping the circle anchored, small warrior.”

  With that, he pivoted, moving with unbelievable grace and speed for so hulking a fighter. Two heartbeats later, Vorbol the orc was gone, leaving Honey to tend to a dismembered elf, Lady Meliara, Katina, Lana n’ them, and a growing heap of bleeding, plague-riddled villagers. She didn’t know many prayers or any real healing spells. Just wiped away blood, soothed fear and poured water, humming the Song that Takes Away Pain. But just maybe, that was enough.

  Overhead, another battle unfolded, as a cursed, transformed prince tried to master that vampiric dragon. Such bitter cold radiated from the roaring monster that nothing mortal would have survived, but for the paladins, Honey and She-of-the-Flowers.

  It was a very near thing, for Fate would not allow direct divine intervention. A deity had to be quick and clever rather than simply fierce. Even so, their sword-arms took many wounds, bleeding fire and light, not godly ichor or plain, spurting blood. Those possessed elves could not be driven too hard, at risk of the final death.

  Meanwhile, the transformed boy had some kind of plan, and his sister would not be swatted away. Firelord soared nearby, ready to catch the young morons, if necessary. Better, He increased His own searing brightness, disguising the rosy glow of approaching dawn. Had to dart aside when the dragon rolled violently over, its sinuous body making a noise like wind-shredded cloth and clattering hail.

  The boy screamed aloud, but he didn't fall, having been warned of his mount’s attempted evasion. Nalderick's elven teammates zipped in to harry the beast in flight, using magic and crossbow fire, distracting Jonex nearly to madness. At the creature’s left, Oberyn increased His own shining aura, tormenting the vampyre dragon with mock daylight. It bellowed and raged at them, unable to shake off its half-frozen rider, bound by Oberyn’s second great gift to the Valinor clan: dragon-mastery.

  The boy’s tactic came as a bit of a shock, but what does a god know of mortal scheming? Humans had very flat minds, in which their thoughts folded and tangled like twine. Nalderick was no longer an elf, cursed by the godly tribunal for handing the realm to a voracious invader. But rather than praying for help or forgiveness, he flew that drekt beast straight into the side of a mountain, just as the sun’s shining arc topped its peak.

  Avalanche, landslide, thunderous noise and a violent, hissing explosion rocked Longshore’s narrow valley and lake, flattening everything that fire, wolves, animate corpses and blight hadn’t gotten to, first.

  …and there was never going to be a better time. Fate was most likely preoccupied with weaving and tending the great Machine. Oberyn was locked up trying to save that idiot boy and Alexion. She-of-the-Flowers, Loeth and Chezzik were there to provide some cover. He had to act now, or never at all.

  So, the Shining One interceded (and straight to the deepest pit with godly tribunals and laws). He meant to repay honor, courage and love with both hands, here and now. Work of an instant to bend time, collecting and healing two mortal women, a loyal dog and a tiny child. Less effort than that to open a portal to Builder of Cities’ lonely paradise realm. He and Lord Someday were friends. The mech-god wouldn’t object to visitors, he was sure.

  Inside of that sunny, warm pocket universe, by the shore of a vast, rolling sea, Firelord set the mortals and warg-dog carefully down. Next, He stepped kata-ward out of His weary sword-arm.

  Galadin staggered and nearly collapsed. He would have fallen, had Lana and Jillian not rushed to catch that tall, battered elf. As usual, Galadin was disoriented, recalling just bits and shreds of what he’d done in Firelord’s grasp.

  Now, the god gestured around at a lovely and unpeopled world, indicating its deep, quiet forest, tall mountains, ocean and blue, peaceful sky.

  “Time flows as I and Lord Someday will it to, here. You have a lifetime with those whom you longed for, Galadin. Make the most of it.”

  And with that, Firelord vanished away, leaving a shy, confused elf to embrace his human loved ones and struggle for words.