Rating PG---One of those damn transitional chapters that get us from point A to point B. A re-read of "Intercepted Letter" in my "Tales of Khesh" on the webpage might be in order if you've forgotten who Marcellus Wind is. 8) This is finally posted, with the excellent, promised art and a number of revisions. So if you think you've already seen it---you really haven't. East of the Sun, West of the Wizard When me and Carson decided to head to Smitty's tent, I was chewing on what Kef had said, and heartily agreeing with it. That is, show them the cuffs and get the hell out. More than that just isn't your job, dude. Problem being, I wasn't sure just what my job *was* now---or if I wanted one, in terms of what Kef seemed to be implying. War was coming; I should be training my motocross riders, I could dig that; yeh, I finally realized what Kef had meant. And beyond any help a troop of half-trained dirt bikers might be in the coming war, I had *promised*. Also, seemed I should be scratching up a bit more practical knowledge of magic via our library, and training with Do'nar to improve my physical fighting skills. In fact, there were so many things I should be getting done and wasn't, I almost regretted defeating the Darkangel. At least when a demon knocks you out and steals your soul, you got no further responsibilities! Anyway. Usually when new people come into the Tribe I get stared at and then flirted with. It's an elf's job, I reckon, and believe it or not it isn't all gravy, not if you're Bonded to someone like Carson it's not! But now, though they certainly stared no one was daring to flirt with me, ears or no ears. These Easterners looked at me and smiled longingly as usual, natch. But then they saw what bound me and their melty expressions changed to looks of awe, fear---and strangely, a lot of envy and respect. "They have taken the Second Bonding!" one bald, important-looking coot pronounced in tones of awe and doom---and, I was interested to note, in perfect Tribal. So much for my skills as interpreter being needed! "You don't need to say it like we just had a big-ass earthquake!" I snapped. Then I blushed, remembering that we *had* experienced another trembler at that. The bald dude studied me with grave courtesy. Well, his pate was hairless, but he sported two honking long grey braids on either side of his head just behind his ears. They were tied off with cute little parrot jewelry and flowed nearly to his feet. Also, his skull was a riot of color so I guess calling him "bald" was simple meanness on my part. His bean bore enough tattoo artwork to make mere hair seem kinda low-rent. I resisted self-consciously patting my own mane with an effort, scowling at Carson for looking amused. "Land Lord Gwai'vharn, we meet at last. I am yclept Marcellus Wind, of the Guild of Spellswords. O Guardian of the North which crowns the world and gives it vigor, I meant no disrespect. But such a Bonding has not been seen since the elves departed; it moves me to be witness to such history." He bowed at me about sixteen times, while I processed the unique experience of being called a "landlord" and even letting this bird get away with it. Yeh, that's what struck me most, in all his mess of polite yak. I'm a frivolous guy and I don't mind admitting to same. But I resisted the urge to tell him to call me Firehawk. This wasn't Escape from New York here. There was a big ceremony involved in letting outsiders use your casual name rather than the more formal version. Though the Tribal words were the same for both, the inflection and hand gestures changed it completely. And seeing how wordy this coot was already, I felt no desire to give him any more options for chundering on. "Marcellus *Wind*, huh? Do tell," I observed instead. Carson squeezed my hand so hard it hurt, and my giggle squeaked into what sounded like a surprised cough. "I'm h-honored to meet a guy who's so well named; must help you in drawing breath between---ow! Carson! Shit! Pleasedtameetcha!" The bobbing, dusky skinned airbag beamed at me like a yaoi fangirl. He bowed sixteen more times. I could feel Smitty just aching to kick him straight up the ass. Or maybe it was *my* butt she had designs on. I painted a bland expression on instantly, and tried to think like a guy with zero sense of humor. It was hard, I tell ya. Even Carson was trembling with the need to laugh at this garrulous poop, though on his part it might have been stress relief or simple amusement at *my* problems. The magical chains had faded and turned almost transparent by now, but they were still obvious if you looked hard enough. They weren't really solid anymore; they didn't need to be. Stretchy as a bungee cord, they would connect us forever, no matter how far away we were from each other. And if we needed to call those bonds to attention, we could do that too, like whipping out your Platinum Creditcard. Not that I'd ever had that experience; I always just got cash from Carse when I needed it. And since when I asked for a ten he'd give me ten hundred, he was better than any damn American Express. But I digress as usual. Ha ha, my story---so sue me. I can afford it now! Anyway. Such was the nature of an elven bonding, that we could call up the proof at will. The credit card analogy still holds---it was a way of verifying our worth. And although such a Bonding hadn't been done in its pure form for hundreds of years, I could tell from their faces that these Eastern birds knew exactly what had happened, even without their leader's semi-speech about it. Smitty's expression, well, that was a puzzler. I'd expected her to be furious at our defiance of all the godly stuff; came in with an attitude on just in case, matter of fact. Not that I need a special occasion to have a 'tude! And she *was* looking more than annoyed just from the influx of yammering people, but when she spotted us and her gaze dropped to our hands--- Smitty, you should know, often freaks me out. When she's cussing at me for beating her at poker, or when we're dropping movie references just to play at who's the biggest Earth geek--well, at those times I get comfortable enough to think I understand her and I forget. I forget that for whatever reason, she's invited the gods of Khesh into that place in her heart where a Higher Power sneaks in if you're not very careful and don't know enough about vampires. And she takes all their clatter *so* seriously. If you knock the gods in her presence, you risk a tongue-lashing and if you're not lucky, a mini-exorcism. Not being stupid, I did realize there were actual, interfering-in-mortal-life gods here but I didn't "worship" them (or let them rule my doings) though I did pay them much more attention than I did the ones at home. For me, the gods here packed a hella more punch than Christ did on his best day. Except maybe for that South Park episode where he was taking enemies down with an Uzi. So when Smitty's expression changed as she looked at us, I took uneasy note of it. What the fuck? I'd never seen a mean-faced woman look so near to bawling, before she caught herself and masked the emotion of awful grief under an even more unpleasant scowl. I tell ya honestly, I had no wish to deal with whatever was going on with her Direct Line to Godcentral. Time to grab Carson's hand and leave as I'd been instructed by Bigshot Elfboy. And then, all filled with the happy notion of bailing as soon as possible and according to instructions no less, of course I observed some more stuff and slowed down. First, Smitty's tent seemed much bigger on the inside than usual. I'd previously noticed the witchwoman's digs---small and comfortable for one person on the norm---would expand or contract as the need arose. So now with a dozen half-nude, chattering Eastern magpies inside, the small white tent was almost as large as my Warchief's abode. Cool! Some weird shaman form of magic, I reckoned, and I was already industriously figuring it out for my own use. I do things like that when I'm not torching enemies, screwing Carson, or fighting monsters. Always busy, that's me! I began tossing a bit of interrogative over the sides of the tent, looking for the proper runes or mental cantrips to download into my magical brain. Then, goddammit, Carson booted me lightly and I lost the thread. "Listen!" he hissed, to my great disgust. So to please him I focused on the half-bald chatterbox, who'd turned back to Smitty and was talking at a tremendous speed. She was giving him her undivided, with a cool and composed dignity I had to kind of cheer her for. The Smitty I knew should have been ready to smash him with a frozen halibut. Would have already done so, if it was *me* doing all this yakking! "My lady, you must know that our politics are not as yours. My city---Jevahn, the name is---is ruled by 13 dukes, who manage variously the lawmaking, the commerce and upkeep of said city, and diverse military matters. Also within cities are the Guilds that govern all employments and trades. Each City has its own separate government and politics, is my meaning, rather than paying heed to one mighty liege such as thou, Dread Lord Skal'naja!" He bowed theatrically to the "Dread Lord" who looked more embarrassed than dire at the sudden attention. It pained me to notice that Mr. Wind's bony rear end was wearing nothing under the black and gold silk kilt. Could have gone all day without seeing that! Between the view and Carson's blush, I was biting my lips trying not to lose it. Politics could sometimes be better than Comedy Central! *Hey, Carse* I thought at him experimentally. *He bounced at me more times, but he nearly stood on his head for that one curtsy to you, so you win! All hail, Lord Vader!* My boy's face turned stony, as it always did when he was struggling not to crack up. But the slight flush deepened significantly---someone who didn't know him mighta assumed he was furious. Yay, our mind-meld thing was coming back now! "And your politics affect us how?" Smitty said, breaking into my irreverent thoughts with deadly coolness. In heavy embroidered shaman robes, white on cream on silver, with her pale hair roped into braids and wrapped around her head in a formal 'do rather than dangling in a sloppy ponytail, she looked every inch an ambassador of the North and definitely someone you did not want to fuck with. She'd removed all her piercings except for a small topaz-flecked nose ring, probably to prevent herself from looking more like the metal-hung Easterlings than a Shaman of the Riders. What she looked like was an ice queen, and even I was mildly impressed. Marcellus Wind's expression morphed into a crockpot casserole of astonishment, regret and innocence that made me at least instantly suspicious. "How does it affect you, lady?" he oozed; he didn't dare bob at her, but his entire expressive body seemed to acknowledge her superiority. "Because my city and many others pay no homage to this so-called voice of the Eastern Lands who declares us allied with the Southerners---as if such a travesty could exist! In fact, we come to offer you support against these mockers of---" "Save it," Smitty said bluntly. "We intercepted your letter to your friend; that's the only reason you're still standing upright and talking. Because that letter contained something that interested me." Ever see a guy who's obviously been intending to gas on for some 45 minutes, brought to a dead, screeching halt with his mouth flapping silently? Pretty funny, I gotta say. I felt damn proud of Smitty at that instant. Then, I processed what she'd said and barked indignantly, "Letter? What letter? No one tells me anything around here!" Of course if it's about politics I do my best to avoid it, but that was beside the point! "The letter reached its destination; I received a reply!" Marcellus barked, sounding much less oily and more honest somehow. Then, his eyes narrowed, and he studied Smitty with grudging respect rather than false worship. "I see. You made sure of its delivery after checking that its contents were not hurtful to your people. May I ask what in the letter was of such interest to you, Lady of Knowledge?" Smitty's hazel eyes bored into him. Me, she ignored completely, of course. "The fact," she said quietly, "that you wrote of things that have not happened yet. Gwai'vharn and Skal'naja have not gone to war together against the Southerners. The wizard is yet unblooded." Well---that sounded vaguely insulting! Marcellus's bushy eyebrows chased each other up his colorful brow. "Indeed. But I saw it clearly!" A tiny, grim smile touched Smitty's mouth. "Which gives me hope---something I haven't felt for a long time. Therefore---be welcome. And you come at a good time. We will celebrate our Lords' Bonding in the elven manner with a great feast day." I tell ya, I damn near passed out. "We will?" I squeaked. I'd been expecting Smitty to have both our hides for this, and she was making it the excuse for the party? She finally looked straight at me, and damn if she didn't grin, fancy do and elegant demeanor shot to hell. "We will, you arrogant little twerp! And I for one plan to get gutter-laying drunk. Now, we'll listen to this fellow's story---" her expression told me that she knew she couldn't shut him up if she tried. "But I know parts of it already, and it's best if it's not---aired in this part of the world. You're always bragging about your skill with portals---" "Bragging? Who, me? Surely you jest, woman!" "Can you make a small pocket portal, just for privacy?" she inquired patiently. I huffed, indignant at such a modest request. "Piece of cake. But why should I, dammit? What the hell's up with this letter thing?" I eyed Carson to see if he'd heard about it; Old Stone Face gave away nothing as usual, but the slight, annoyed twitch of eyebrow spoke to me in big, fat Stephen King novels. My boy hadn't been consulted either. And someone would rue the day. Smitty looked uncomfortable. And to my astonishment, she pulled a sheet of folded parchment from some pocket within her fancy dress. "I'm sorry, Keith. Carson. I've tried to catch your attention on several occasions---I probably should have tried harder. But once again---could you make the portal, before reading?" She took a deep breath, opened her eyes wide, and spoke straight into the growing storm of Carson's deep disapproval. "I did as the gods asked of me. If you are angered, so be it." "Blah blah blah----godz!" I muttered, grabbing the paper and preparing to buff myself up for attempted magic. "Always a convenient excuse. No, don't ask me a third time, I said it was easy!" I hoped I was right. True, I'd done something similar to insure me and Carson a secure retreat during our "honeymoon". Still, this involved a bunch more people and not just shielding them from interruptions, but taking them out of the current world entirely. And yet, when Smitty made the request, something in my brain clicked automatically, and on that instant I knew exactly how to do what she wanted. Scary, in a way. I wasn't sure why she needed this done, but asking why seemed pretty much unwise at this point, in front of a gaggle of interested foreigners. Uneasily, I thought of the gods listening to all our business. That sucked. Good enough reason for wanting some isolation! And then there was the letter. I was eager to read it---not the least, because Mr. Wind was blushing mightily now and bowing like a demented yo-yo again. "Jalin," Smitty observed to the boy, as I began my spellworking. He'd been standing quietly amongst the horde of strangers. He'd smiled at me once, but rather sadly, like a girl when you don't notice she's changed her hairdo or something and she's planning to cry about it later. "The Captain should be here shortly; please direct him to our location. You know enough of what follows, I think, to not mind missing it?" "Indeed," he said, in a dry little voice. "What the fuck!" I said, annoyed at them talking over my head and planning to get to the bottom of it somehow. But then the magic bloomed through me and I forgot about everything in the sheer sensual rush of it. Since I had no clue how other wizards crafted a magical pocket in the universe, I used what I knew. I'd played that computer game the Sims before I got bored with it; aside from making the daft little peckers perform as I willed them, I'd kind of enjoyed the house-building part. So I visualized this task the same way, and it worked like a charm. Laid out a floor plan, walls, windows---and most importantly, a door---with a big honking lock and a burglar alarm to keep out unwanted guests. I needed only to move it from my imagination to reality---which took so little effort it was kinda frightening. Like I've said, I was good with portals. I studied Jalin before diving in. He looked---I dunno. I shot a questioning look at him; he responded with a fake smile, and an "I'm fine" shrug. I didn't believe a bit of it, but as usual I had no time to dig deeper. And so we all sallied in to the minor mansion I'd crafted, to talk more about the Southern fools and how they'd come to Marcellus Wind and demanded food and supplies as was their right, being allies with the East and all. Since this was the first he'd heard of it, he politely served them as they expected, got every morsel of info out of them he could once they were stuffed, relaxed and drunk off their stupid asses. Then, he instructed his household of assorted spies, assassins and ninja-types to murder the jerks however they pleased. I accessed his explanation of all this with some appreciation while scanning the battered, obviously well-read letter Smitty had handed me. Wind had balls, I'd give him that. Whoda thunk, just looking at him? As for the letter, it was obviously his work, chundering on in such elegant language it made my eyes cross. But I struggled though due to the content. Carson, in his first battle. Scything through an army like a juggernaught. Dousing his flaming hair in someone else's blood! I grinned, figuring that move had scared the crapola outta those boys. Then I hit the part about me and Carse sharing a battle and read with my mouth hanging open. It was like picking up a rather dull-looking tome and discovering a few pages in that it's all about you and your day-to-day, only you've been re-written as a super-hero or something. I'd assumed, despite my noise to the contrary, that I'd be hanging on Carson in battle, not exactly like a nervous bimbo but at least to get my bearings. And this tale had me striding around blowing shit up and bitching about the guy daring to cover my six. What struck me most, though, was that we sounded married as hell. "I have the Gift of True Seeing," Mr. Wind said firmly; no doubt my expression had turned mighty skeptical as I read and he'd caught it. "This is not fiction, oh Exalted Wielder of Mana. It simply has not happened yet." Smitty looked hard as Carson then, as if silently instructing him to remember this. I guess it was her job to see portents in everything, but I found it mildly creepy myself. Maybe there's why she didn't want the normal, tribal joe listening in on this bird. There's nothing as superstitious as a Northman once he gets the bit in his teeth. I found out Smitty's other reason for wanting privacy when the black-kilted soldier off to the side grinned at me and started singing in a low, breathy voice. Her name was Amber Lacewing. Old Big Mouth had by then introduced the lot of them to us; unlike Tribal people, Easterners seemed to go in for first and last names, and it was expected that you call them by both. No wonder these people spent so much time talking! It reminded me of something, but true to form I couldn't remember what. Amber was a handsome girl, with vast amounts of cinnamon hair all braided up and tied off with copper dragonfly pins. Her kilt was stitched with silver, and the halter that corralled those cantaloupes she called breasts was decorated in a star and moon motif. Moons---huh, huh, huh as Beavis would say. I knew she was a warrior mainly because she carried a big honking spear and looked as if she knew how to use it. But that wasn't a surprise; unlike our rough and tumble Northern leather freaks, the Easterners were style-conscious and fussed about looking their best even up to their armpits in blood and battle. Though most of them were skinny from what I'd seen, not built like Playboy bunny wannabes. Amber's soft crimson lips and skin like old ivory were noted in the back of my head. So was her short, curvy body---I may be in love with Carson but I'm still a guy and I make a mental note of a fox regardless, male or female. Mental, hell; might as well be honest and call it hormonal. But he was right there giving me the hairy eyeball and for once he didn't need to. Because before I could even think of checking her out, her impromptu songfest was scaring me shitless. Ya'see, I shouldn't have been able to understand her at all if she was singing in one of the Eastern tongues. My talkstone works great, but if I haven't heard the spoken language before it takes a while to kick in. Like it needs to hear a whole lot of yak first so as to analyze the various sounds before translating back and forth. But I not only understood this song---I'd even played it, once upon a time. She sang in English. Maybe because some of the concepts were foreign to this world and the gods needed me to freak? Her inflections and the tune she gave it were very different from Jagger's rendition, but I've always been a lyrics boy and I recognized the song almost instantly. Sun turnin' 'round with graceful motion We're setting off with soft explosion Bound for a star with fiery oceans It's so very lonely, you're a hundred light years from home I jumped, and stared. A memory crashed into me, of a car ride home, the first time I'd given Carson head. Christmas, or thereabouts. From his sudden, intense stillness at my side I knew he was thinking of the same thing. This song had played. This very song, and things had melted for an instant, felt portentous. I stared at her. She stared back, gravely, and smiled. "Lord of land," she said quietly. Again, in English. With an accent I almost recognized. "We have waited for you, my father and I." She laughed at my dumbfounded expression. "Did you really think you were one of merely a few, Spellslinger? My father is from---" She frowned slightly, wanting to say it right. "Austin, Texas!" She announced it proudly, a girl getting her lesson correctly. "He had other duties and could not be here today---but he told me how to greet you." By scaring the socks off me with a tune I'd half forgotten? Oooookay. Thanks a bunch, Dad! I barely had time to gape at her before a crimson kilted fellow with skin like polished ebony observed calmly, "And I'm from Australia. Just came here a month ago, mate. It's a rush, ain't it?" "Well, it---fucking is THAT!" I managed to peep. "How the hell many guys are you, anyway? I mean---you know what I mean!" Marcellus Wind took charge, fortunately without bowing any more. "Those from your home world, great lord, seem to have increased our ranks in recent years. Like you, they are here for a purpose. And the purpose has been revealed to us through the Dead Witch's own lackey." His black eyes were as hard and brittle as obsidian, totally devoid of the oil I'd assumed was part of them. "There is a monster on the loose," he announced in tones of doom. "It's got our heads into a noose," I muttered automatically. I didn't need Carse to boot me this time; I almost did it myself. My boy, though, managed to ignore the frivolity of a committed song-quote geek. His eyes were blazing; he had drawn himself up to his full awesome height, and despite his state of near undress and the paint splashing his chest, he was suddenly every inch a king. "Tell me what I already know, Easterner," he said in a voice of satin steel. Mr. Wind looked up at the King of the Twelve Tribes, and wisely decided to cut to the chase without any extra blabbering. "The one who claims to speak for the Eastern Lands, Dread Lord, is a Soulreaver. We have suspected this for many years, but resistance seemed---futile. Until you and your Beloved came to the Land, as was foretold. And we ask only your pardon, now, and to help you to slay this thing that overwhelms us." He dropped to his knees, then. Everyone did---even the kid whose Dad was a Texan. Me, Carson, and Smitty were left standing, and I for one was willing to let someone else start the conversational ball rolling again. What the hell? Hadn't me and Carse just defeated this thing? And in the middle of all this angst and drama, here came Do'nar, blundering through the door of the portal as if he'd been propelled by a good boot in the ass. I opened my mouth to yell a cheerful howdy, but my remarks died stillborn at his expression. Do'nar, usually as amiable as a family dog for all his hollering and direful curses, now glared around with a white face and the cold yellow eye of a bird of prey. He was not in the best of moods, I could tell. When Mr. Wind yodeled "Captain Do'nar! 'Tis a privilege to see your face again!" I was only relieved that someone else had chosen the suicidal tack of greeting this mean-looking Viking. Sure enough, Do'nar zeroed in on the bouncing Eastern idiot, strode forward, and grabbed him by the shirtfront to lift him, squawking and insulted, to eye level. This meant that Marcellus' toes cleared the ground by a good six inches. One of his ornate cloth shoes parted company with his waving feet to land on the tent floor with a sad little plop. "I'm having a bad day," Do'nar growled unnecessarily. "And if I can't find Sun Wolf, I may just take my feelings out on the nearest warm body. Where is that bastard? His neck and my axe have a long overdue appointment, by Odin's balls!" |
Rating PG---One of those damn transitional chapters that get us from point A to point B. A re-read of "Intercepted Letter" in my "Tales of Khesh" on the webpage might be in order if you've forgotten who Marcellus Wind is. 8) This is finally posted, with the excellent, promised art and a number of revisions. So if you think you've already seen it---you really haven't. East of the Sun, West of the Wizard When me and Carson decided to head to Smitty's tent, I was chewing on what Kef had said, and heartily agreeing with it. That is, show them the cuffs and get the hell out. More than that just isn't your job, dude. Problem being, I wasn't sure just what my job *was* now---or if I wanted one, in terms of what Kef seemed to be implying. War was coming; I should be training my motocross riders, I could dig that; yeh, I finally realized what Kef had meant. And beyond any help a troop of half-trained dirt bikers might be in the coming war, I had *promised*. Also, seemed I should be scratching up a bit more practical knowledge of magic via our library, and training with Do'nar to improve my physical fighting skills. In fact, there were so many things I should be getting done and wasn't, I almost regretted defeating the Darkangel. At least when a demon knocks you out and steals your soul, you got no further responsibilities! Anyway. Usually when new people come into the Tribe I get stared at and then flirted with. It's an elf's job, I reckon, and believe it or not it isn't all gravy, not if you're Bonded to someone like Carson it's not! But now, though they certainly stared no one was daring to flirt with me, ears or no ears. These Easterners looked at me and smiled longingly as usual, natch. But then they saw what bound me and their melty expressions changed to looks of awe, fear---and strangely, a lot of envy and respect. "They have taken the Second Bonding!" one bald, important-looking coot pronounced in tones of awe and doom---and, I was interested to note, in perfect Tribal. So much for my skills as interpreter being needed! "You don't need to say it like we just had a big-ass earthquake!" I snapped. Then I blushed, remembering that we *had* experienced another trembler at that. The bald dude studied me with grave courtesy. Well, his pate was hairless, but he sported two honking long grey braids on either side of his head just behind his ears. They were tied off with cute little parrot jewelry and flowed nearly to his feet. Also, his skull was a riot of color so I guess calling him "bald" was simple meanness on my part. His bean bore enough tattoo artwork to make mere hair seem kinda low-rent. I resisted self-consciously patting my own mane with an effort, scowling at Carson for looking amused. "Land Lord Gwai'vharn, we meet at last. I am yclept Marcellus Wind, of the Guild of Spellswords. O Guardian of the North which crowns the world and gives it vigor, I meant no disrespect. But such a Bonding has not been seen since the elves departed; it moves me to be witness to such history." He bowed at me about sixteen times, while I processed the unique experience of being called a "landlord" and even letting this bird get away with it. Yeh, that's what struck me most, in all his mess of polite yak. I'm a frivolous guy and I don't mind admitting to same. But I resisted the urge to tell him to call me Firehawk. This wasn't Escape from New York here. There was a big ceremony involved in letting outsiders use your casual name rather than the more formal version. Though the Tribal words were the same for both, the inflection and hand gestures changed it completely. And seeing how wordy this coot was already, I felt no desire to give him any more options for chundering on. "Marcellus *Wind*, huh? Do tell," I observed instead. Carson squeezed my hand so hard it hurt, and my giggle squeaked into what sounded like a surprised cough. "I'm h-honored to meet a guy who's so well named; must help you in drawing breath between---ow! Carson! Shit! Pleasedtameetcha!" The bobbing, dusky skinned airbag beamed at me like a yaoi fangirl. He bowed sixteen more times. I could feel Smitty just aching to kick him straight up the ass. Or maybe it was *my* butt she had designs on. I painted a bland expression on instantly, and tried to think like a guy with zero sense of humor. It was hard, I tell ya. Even Carson was trembling with the need to laugh at this garrulous poop, though on his part it might have been stress relief or simple amusement at *my* problems. The magical chains had faded and turned almost transparent by now, but they were still obvious if you looked hard enough. They weren't really solid anymore; they didn't need to be. Stretchy as a bungee cord, they would connect us forever, no matter how far away we were from each other. And if we needed to call those bonds to attention, we could do that too, like whipping out your Platinum Creditcard. Not that I'd ever had that experience; I always just got cash from Carse when I needed it. And since when I asked for a ten he'd give me ten hundred, he was better than any damn American Express. But I digress as usual. Ha ha, my story---so sue me. I can afford it now! Anyway. Such was the nature of an elven bonding, that we could call up the proof at will. The credit card analogy still holds---it was a way of verifying our worth. And although such a Bonding hadn't been done in its pure form for hundreds of years, I could tell from their faces that these Eastern birds knew exactly what had happened, even without their leader's semi-speech about it. Smitty's expression, well, that was a puzzler. I'd expected her to be furious at our defiance of all the godly stuff; came in with an attitude on just in case, matter of fact. Not that I need a special occasion to have a 'tude! And she *was* looking more than annoyed just from the influx of yammering people, but when she spotted us and her gaze dropped to our hands--- Smitty, you should know, often freaks me out. When she's cussing at me for beating her at poker, or when we're dropping movie references just to play at who's the biggest Earth geek--well, at those times I get comfortable enough to think I understand her and I forget. I forget that for whatever reason, she's invited the gods of Khesh into that place in her heart where a Higher Power sneaks in if you're not very careful and don't know enough about vampires. And she takes all their clatter *so* seriously. If you knock the gods in her presence, you risk a tongue-lashing and if you're not lucky, a mini-exorcism. Not being stupid, I did realize there were actual, interfering-in-mortal-life gods here but I didn't "worship" them (or let them rule my doings) though I did pay them much more attention than I did the ones at home. For me, the gods here packed a hella more punch than Christ did on his best day. Except maybe for that South Park episode where he was taking enemies down with an Uzi. So when Smitty's expression changed as she looked at us, I took uneasy note of it. What the fuck? I'd never seen a mean-faced woman look so near to bawling, before she caught herself and masked the emotion of awful grief under an even more unpleasant scowl. I tell ya honestly, I had no wish to deal with whatever was going on with her Direct Line to Godcentral. Time to grab Carson's hand and leave as I'd been instructed by Bigshot Elfboy. And then, all filled with the happy notion of bailing as soon as possible and according to instructions no less, of course I observed some more stuff and slowed down. First, Smitty's tent seemed much bigger on the inside than usual. I'd previously noticed the witchwoman's digs---small and comfortable for one person on the norm---would expand or contract as the need arose. So now with a dozen half-nude, chattering Eastern magpies inside, the small white tent was almost as large as my Warchief's abode. Cool! Some weird shaman form of magic, I reckoned, and I was already industriously figuring it out for my own use. I do things like that when I'm not torching enemies, screwing Carson, or fighting monsters. Always busy, that's me! I began tossing a bit of interrogative over the sides of the tent, looking for the proper runes or mental cantrips to download into my magical brain. Then, goddammit, Carson booted me lightly and I lost the thread. "Listen!" he hissed, to my great disgust. So to please him I focused on the half-bald chatterbox, who'd turned back to Smitty and was talking at a tremendous speed. She was giving him her undivided, with a cool and composed dignity I had to kind of cheer her for. The Smitty I knew should have been ready to smash him with a frozen halibut. Would have already done so, if it was *me* doing all this yakking! "My lady, you must know that our politics are not as yours. My city---Jevahn, the name is---is ruled by 13 dukes, who manage variously the lawmaking, the commerce and upkeep of said city, and diverse military matters. Also within cities are the Guilds that govern all employments and trades. Each City has its own separate government and politics, is my meaning, rather than paying heed to one mighty liege such as thou, Dread Lord Skal'naja!" He bowed theatrically to the "Dread Lord" who looked more embarrassed than dire at the sudden attention. It pained me to notice that Mr. Wind's bony rear end was wearing nothing under the black and gold silk kilt. Could have gone all day without seeing that! Between the view and Carson's blush, I was biting my lips trying not to lose it. Politics could sometimes be better than Comedy Central! *Hey, Carse* I thought at him experimentally. *He bounced at me more times, but he nearly stood on his head for that one curtsy to you, so you win! All hail, Lord Vader!* My boy's face turned stony, as it always did when he was struggling not to crack up. But the slight flush deepened significantly---someone who didn't know him mighta assumed he was furious. Yay, our mind-meld thing was coming back now! "And your politics affect us how?" Smitty said, breaking into my irreverent thoughts with deadly coolness. In heavy embroidered shaman robes, white on cream on silver, with her pale hair roped into braids and wrapped around her head in a formal 'do rather than dangling in a sloppy ponytail, she looked every inch an ambassador of the North and definitely someone you did not want to fuck with. She'd removed all her piercings except for a small topaz-flecked nose ring, probably to prevent herself from looking more like the metal-hung Easterlings than a Shaman of the Riders. What she looked like was an ice queen, and even I was mildly impressed. Marcellus Wind's expression morphed into a crockpot casserole of astonishment, regret and innocence that made me at least instantly suspicious. "How does it affect you, lady?" he oozed; he didn't dare bob at her, but his entire expressive body seemed to acknowledge her superiority. "Because my city and many others pay no homage to this so-called voice of the Eastern Lands who declares us allied with the Southerners---as if such a travesty could exist! In fact, we come to offer you support against these mockers of---" "Save it," Smitty said bluntly. "We intercepted your letter to your friend; that's the only reason you're still standing upright and talking. Because that letter contained something that interested me." Ever see a guy who's obviously been intending to gas on for some 45 minutes, brought to a dead, screeching halt with his mouth flapping silently? Pretty funny, I gotta say. I felt damn proud of Smitty at that instant. Then, I processed what she'd said and barked indignantly, "Letter? What letter? No one tells me anything around here!" Of course if it's about politics I do my best to avoid it, but that was beside the point! "The letter reached its destination; I received a reply!" Marcellus barked, sounding much less oily and more honest somehow. Then, his eyes narrowed, and he studied Smitty with grudging respect rather than false worship. "I see. You made sure of its delivery after checking that its contents were not hurtful to your people. May I ask what in the letter was of such interest to you, Lady of Knowledge?" Smitty's hazel eyes bored into him. Me, she ignored completely, of course. "The fact," she said quietly, "that you wrote of things that have not happened yet. Gwai'vharn and Skal'naja have not gone to war together against the Southerners. The wizard is yet unblooded." Well---that sounded vaguely insulting! Marcellus's bushy eyebrows chased each other up his colorful brow. "Indeed. But I saw it clearly!" A tiny, grim smile touched Smitty's mouth. "Which gives me hope---something I haven't felt for a long time. Therefore---be welcome. And you come at a good time. We will celebrate our Lords' Bonding in the elven manner with a great feast day." I tell ya, I damn near passed out. "We will?" I squeaked. I'd been expecting Smitty to have both our hides for this, and she was making it the excuse for the party? She finally looked straight at me, and damn if she didn't grin, fancy do and elegant demeanor shot to hell. "We will, you arrogant little twerp! And I for one plan to get gutter-laying drunk. Now, we'll listen to this fellow's story---" her expression told me that she knew she couldn't shut him up if she tried. "But I know parts of it already, and it's best if it's not---aired in this part of the world. You're always bragging about your skill with portals---" "Bragging? Who, me? Surely you jest, woman!" "Can you make a small pocket portal, just for privacy?" she inquired patiently. I huffed, indignant at such a modest request. "Piece of cake. But why should I, dammit? What the hell's up with this letter thing?" I eyed Carson to see if he'd heard about it; Old Stone Face gave away nothing as usual, but the slight, annoyed twitch of eyebrow spoke to me in big, fat Stephen King novels. My boy hadn't been consulted either. And someone would rue the day. Smitty looked uncomfortable. And to my astonishment, she pulled a sheet of folded parchment from some pocket within her fancy dress. "I'm sorry, Keith. Carson. I've tried to catch your attention on several occasions---I probably should have tried harder. But once again---could you make the portal, before reading?" She took a deep breath, opened her eyes wide, and spoke straight into the growing storm of Carson's deep disapproval. "I did as the gods asked of me. If you are angered, so be it." "Blah blah blah----godz!" I muttered, grabbing the paper and preparing to buff myself up for attempted magic. "Always a convenient excuse. No, don't ask me a third time, I said it was easy!" I hoped I was right. True, I'd done something similar to insure me and Carson a secure retreat during our "honeymoon". Still, this involved a bunch more people and not just shielding them from interruptions, but taking them out of the current world entirely. And yet, when Smitty made the request, something in my brain clicked automatically, and on that instant I knew exactly how to do what she wanted. Scary, in a way. I wasn't sure why she needed this done, but asking why seemed pretty much unwise at this point, in front of a gaggle of interested foreigners. Uneasily, I thought of the gods listening to all our business. That sucked. Good enough reason for wanting some isolation! And then there was the letter. I was eager to read it---not the least, because Mr. Wind was blushing mightily now and bowing like a demented yo-yo again. "Jalin," Smitty observed to the boy, as I began my spellworking. He'd been standing quietly amongst the horde of strangers. He'd smiled at me once, but rather sadly, like a girl when you don't notice she's changed her hairdo or something and she's planning to cry about it later. "The Captain should be here shortly; please direct him to our location. You know enough of what follows, I think, to not mind missing it?" "Indeed," he said, in a dry little voice. "What the fuck!" I said, annoyed at them talking over my head and planning to get to the bottom of it somehow. But then the magic bloomed through me and I forgot about everything in the sheer sensual rush of it. Since I had no clue how other wizards crafted a magical pocket in the universe, I used what I knew. I'd played that computer game the Sims before I got bored with it; aside from making the daft little peckers perform as I willed them, I'd kind of enjoyed the house-building part. So I visualized this task the same way, and it worked like a charm. Laid out a floor plan, walls, windows---and most importantly, a door---with a big honking lock and a burglar alarm to keep out unwanted guests. I needed only to move it from my imagination to reality---which took so little effort it was kinda frightening. Like I've said, I was good with portals. I studied Jalin before diving in. He looked---I dunno. I shot a questioning look at him; he responded with a fake smile, and an "I'm fine" shrug. I didn't believe a bit of it, but as usual I had no time to dig deeper. And so we all sallied in to the minor mansion I'd crafted, to talk more about the Southern fools and how they'd come to Marcellus Wind and demanded food and supplies as was their right, being allies with the East and all. Since this was the first he'd heard of it, he politely served them as they expected, got every morsel of info out of them he could once they were stuffed, relaxed and drunk off their stupid asses. Then, he instructed his household of assorted spies, assassins and ninja-types to murder the jerks however they pleased. I accessed his explanation of all this with some appreciation while scanning the battered, obviously well-read letter Smitty had handed me. Wind had balls, I'd give him that. Whoda thunk, just looking at him? As for the letter, it was obviously his work, chundering on in such elegant language it made my eyes cross. But I struggled though due to the content. Carson, in his first battle. Scything through an army like a juggernaught. Dousing his flaming hair in someone else's blood! I grinned, figuring that move had scared the crapola outta those boys. Then I hit the part about me and Carse sharing a battle and read with my mouth hanging open. It was like picking up a rather dull-looking tome and discovering a few pages in that it's all about you and your day-to-day, only you've been re-written as a super-hero or something. I'd assumed, despite my noise to the contrary, that I'd be hanging on Carson in battle, not exactly like a nervous bimbo but at least to get my bearings. And this tale had me striding around blowing shit up and bitching about the guy daring to cover my six. What struck me most, though, was that we sounded married as hell. "I have the Gift of True Seeing," Mr. Wind said firmly; no doubt my expression had turned mighty skeptical as I read and he'd caught it. "This is not fiction, oh Exalted Wielder of Mana. It simply has not happened yet." Smitty looked hard as Carson then, as if silently instructing him to remember this. I guess it was her job to see portents in everything, but I found it mildly creepy myself. Maybe there's why she didn't want the normal, tribal joe listening in on this bird. There's nothing as superstitious as a Northman once he gets the bit in his teeth. I found out Smitty's other reason for wanting privacy when the black-kilted soldier off to the side grinned at me and started singing in a low, breathy voice. Her name was Amber Lacewing. Old Big Mouth had by then introduced the lot of them to us; unlike Tribal people, Easterners seemed to go in for first and last names, and it was expected that you call them by both. No wonder these people spent so much time talking! It reminded me of something, but true to form I couldn't remember what. Amber was a handsome girl, with vast amounts of cinnamon hair all braided up and tied off with copper dragonfly pins. Her kilt was stitched with silver, and the halter that corralled those cantaloupes she called breasts was decorated in a star and moon motif. Moons---huh, huh, huh as Beavis would say. I knew she was a warrior mainly because she carried a big honking spear and looked as if she knew how to use it. But that wasn't a surprise; unlike our rough and tumble Northern leather freaks, the Easterners were style-conscious and fussed about looking their best even up to their armpits in blood and battle. Though most of them were skinny from what I'd seen, not built like Playboy bunny wannabes. Amber's soft crimson lips and skin like old ivory were noted in the back of my head. So was her short, curvy body---I may be in love with Carson but I'm still a guy and I make a mental note of a fox regardless, male or female. Mental, hell; might as well be honest and call it hormonal. But he was right there giving me the hairy eyeball and for once he didn't need to. Because before I could even think of checking her out, her impromptu songfest was scaring me shitless. Ya'see, I shouldn't have been able to understand her at all if she was singing in one of the Eastern tongues. My talkstone works great, but if I haven't heard the spoken language before it takes a while to kick in. Like it needs to hear a whole lot of yak first so as to analyze the various sounds before translating back and forth. But I not only understood this song---I'd even played it, once upon a time. She sang in English. Maybe because some of the concepts were foreign to this world and the gods needed me to freak? Her inflections and the tune she gave it were very different from Jagger's rendition, but I've always been a lyrics boy and I recognized the song almost instantly. Sun turnin' 'round with graceful motion We're setting off with soft explosion Bound for a star with fiery oceans It's so very lonely, you're a hundred light years from home I jumped, and stared. A memory crashed into me, of a car ride home, the first time I'd given Carson head. Christmas, or thereabouts. From his sudden, intense stillness at my side I knew he was thinking of the same thing. This song had played. This very song, and things had melted for an instant, felt portentous. I stared at her. She stared back, gravely, and smiled. "Lord of land," she said quietly. Again, in English. With an accent I almost recognized. "We have waited for you, my father and I." She laughed at my dumbfounded expression. "Did you really think you were one of merely a few, Spellslinger? My father is from---" She frowned slightly, wanting to say it right. "Austin, Texas!" She announced it proudly, a girl getting her lesson correctly. "He had other duties and could not be here today---but he told me how to greet you." By scaring the socks off me with a tune I'd half forgotten? Oooookay. Thanks a bunch, Dad! I barely had time to gape at her before a crimson kilted fellow with skin like polished ebony observed calmly, "And I'm from Australia. Just came here a month ago, mate. It's a rush, ain't it?" "Well, it---fucking is THAT!" I managed to peep. "How the hell many guys are you, anyway? I mean---you know what I mean!" Marcellus Wind took charge, fortunately without bowing any more. "Those from your home world, great lord, seem to have increased our ranks in recent years. Like you, they are here for a purpose. And the purpose has been revealed to us through the Dead Witch's own lackey." His black eyes were as hard and brittle as obsidian, totally devoid of the oil I'd assumed was part of them. "There is a monster on the loose," he announced in tones of doom. "It's got our heads into a noose," I muttered automatically. I didn't need Carse to boot me this time; I almost did it myself. My boy, though, managed to ignore the frivolity of a committed song-quote geek. His eyes were blazing; he had drawn himself up to his full awesome height, and despite his state of near undress and the paint splashing his chest, he was suddenly every inch a king. "Tell me what I already know, Easterner," he said in a voice of satin steel. Mr. Wind looked up at the King of the Twelve Tribes, and wisely decided to cut to the chase without any extra blabbering. "The one who claims to speak for the Eastern Lands, Dread Lord, is a Soulreaver. We have suspected this for many years, but resistance seemed---futile. Until you and your Beloved came to the Land, as was foretold. And we ask only your pardon, now, and to help you to slay this thing that overwhelms us." He dropped to his knees, then. Everyone did---even the kid whose Dad was a Texan. Me, Carson, and Smitty were left standing, and I for one was willing to let someone else start the conversational ball rolling again. What the hell? Hadn't me and Carse just defeated this thing? And in the middle of all this angst and drama, here came Do'nar, blundering through the door of the portal as if he'd been propelled by a good boot in the ass. I opened my mouth to yell a cheerful howdy, but my remarks died stillborn at his expression. Do'nar, usually as amiable as a family dog for all his hollering and direful curses, now glared around with a white face and the cold yellow eye of a bird of prey. He was not in the best of moods, I could tell. When Mr. Wind yodeled "Captain Do'nar! 'Tis a privilege to see your face again!" I was only relieved that someone else had chosen the suicidal tack of greeting this mean-looking Viking. Sure enough, Do'nar zeroed in on the bouncing Eastern idiot, strode forward, and grabbed him by the shirtfront to lift him, squawking and insulted, to eye level. This meant that Marcellus' toes cleared the ground by a good six inches. One of his ornate cloth shoes parted company with his waving feet to land on the tent floor with a sad little plop. "I'm having a bad day," Do'nar growled unnecessarily. "And if I can't find Sun Wolf, I may just take my feelings out on the nearest warm body. Where is that bastard? His neck and my axe have a long overdue appointment, by Odin's balls!" |
