“Whew,” Garrison whistled under his breath. Erg’Ran’s speech struck him as awfully long to send as a semaphore style message, but Garrison kept that opinion to himself.
He turned his attention, instead, toward Swan, her hands and the weather that she undeniably, masterfully commanded.
The dark cloud totally obscured the horizon and seemed to cover half of the ocean itself. Inexorably, it devoured the distance still dividing it from the armada, rolling across the sky and sea, engulfing all before it.
Lightning. Thunderclaps. And the fair wind which had propelled them so faithfully over Woroc’Il’Lod was risen into a howling gale. The very air surrounding their vessels turned to luminescent green, electrical energy flickering everywhere around their ship and the other ships of the armada. The suddenness of the storm’s grip closing on them nearly robbed Garrison’s breath, sending a shiver along the full length of his spine.
Rain fell, at first a mist, an instant later a downpour, and an instant after that wind-lashed torrents, each enormous frigid drop stinging the skin like a needle prick.
The ice dragons, all nine of them, chose this very moment to strike, vectoring their attack against the flagship. Garrison had no idea of the ice dragons’ level of intelligence, but they clearly realized in some element of their consciousness that the female standing in the prow of the flagship had something to do with the storm. That was obvious as the ice dragons started their dive. Erg’Ran cried out over the keening of the wind. “Concentrate your arrows and bolts on the leader! Fire, lads! Fire now!”
Garrison’s pistols were still empty and there was no time to reload. The .32 in his pocket would be useless for such work. Summoning all of his strength to ascend the steps to the bow pulpit and stand beside Swan, Garrison unsheathed his sword and raised the Golden Shield of IBF.
“Can you still command the storm if I shield you, Swan?”
“Yes, Al’An.”
“Then be ready!” The exertion required to ascend the steps and bring sword and shield to bear had, rather than exhausting Garrison, somehow reinvigorated him. And he had confidence that the shield would protect them from dragon fire.
Strange words—the Old Tongue, Garrison assumed—issued from Swan’s lips like a cry, yet unmistakably a command. A bolt of lightning, brilliant yellow-white, streaked from the nearly black clouds. One of the nine ice dragons diving toward the flagship was struck. The rumble of thunder was deafening. Garrison’s ears pulsed with it. The colossal winged beast’s vile grey body exploded into flame, a rain of blood and tissue and fire cascading from within the explosive cloud, and an eyeblink later the fireball itself totally dissipated on the driving wind.
Cheers rose from the flagship, hurrahs echoing across the water from the other ships as well. But any human sound was barely discernible as little over a whisper. The relentless shrieks of the ice dragons, the nerve-shattering rhythmic thrum of their mighty wings and the howl of wind and roar of waves vanquished all other sound, penetrated the human soul to its innermost redoubt.
Soaked, freezing, the enormous breakers which crashed over the prow of the flagship pummeling him, Garrison braced himself and stood, offering what protection he could to the Virgin Enchantress whom he loved and served. The nearest ice dragon made what Garrison mentally classified as a strafing run, soaring over the flagship’s deck, fire rolling from its wicked mouth. Garrison wheeled, lifting his shield higher, drawing Swan close against him. The flame washed over them, stealing their breath for a microsecond, the beast’s left wing grazing Garrison’s left cheek, ear and shoulder.
Garrison felt the slick hotness of blood. Shoving Swan aside, but still shielding her, Garrison stabbed upward with his sword. His blade skated over the creature’s scales, its tip finding a spot of flesh. As the great monster passed, a spray of gore spewed from beneath its wing.
Garrison staggered, his sword hand shaking, his blade dripping a greenish yellow puss-like liquid onto the deck. The next wave to crash over the ship’s bow washed the ichor away. The whole left side of Garrison s face and upper body ached beyond any pain he’d ever known.
The ice dragon had gained altitude, was cutting a tight arc, its wings flapping incredibly rapidly. In an eyeblink, it dove toward them, slavering spike-toothed jaws open wide.
Fire.
Garrison raised the Golden Shield, drawing Swan into his sword arm.
The decking around their feet was aflame. Swan didn’t scream, but shouted, “Al’An!” Her skirts had caught fire. Garrison cast his shield against the bow rail, threw himself to his knees and smothered the flames with his body.
“I am all right, Al’An!”
Garrison looked up from his knees, saw her hands moving again. His eyes were blinded by the flash as lightning forked from the black cloud across the green air. There was a dragon sound louder than any Garrison had yet heard, and as his eyes recovered from the flash, he saw the creature spiraling down in flames just off the port bow. His ears rang from the thunderclap.
Seven ice dragons remained.
Bleeding heavily, Garrison staggered to his feet. Magic might not help these wounds, if Swan had any magic left after this, if they survived at all.
Garrison’s left arm was numb, and he refused to look at it. He thrust his sword deep into the decking, keeping it to hand while he once more raised the shield.
Hails of arrows and crossbow bolts filled the air overhead, ice dragons circling there. If the creatures were hit, Garrison couldn’t tell.
Swan had inched forward to the very prow once again, her body wedged into the apex of the port and starboard rails. Her cape was gone. Her auburn hair wildly tossed in the wind and spray, her arms at maximum extension, Swan’s splayed finger tips drew electricity from the air, A halo of light and energy surrounded her, glowing all about her.
“Swan! No!” Garrison shouted, starting to reach for her.
Swan’s arms moved, describing ever enlarging concentric circles. Her left hand flung suddenly upward, outward, palm upraised, a ball of electricity firing from her fingertips, striking the nearest of the remaining dragons.
Thunder reverberated around the ship, shields ringing like bells, swords like tuning forks.
Her right hand. Light and energy. A ball of lightning streaked from her fingers to its mark. Again and again the energy soared from her fingertips and again and again the ice dragons were struck and incinerated.
The last ice dragon, the great horned male, quit the attack.
If it got away, Garrison told himself, it would find other Creathans to feed on.
Swan clapped both hands together, then flung her palms open, the halo of energy surrounding her pouring into her, through her, spewing from her fingertips in a streak of blinding light and an explosion of sound.
Garrison shielded his face, but risked his eyes to look.
Somehow, the great male ice dragon must have sensed that the frail girl on the pitiful ship was not through with him.
The ice dragon looked back.
The energy summoned through the body of the Virgin Enchantress flashed round the beast and devoured it.
They were through now, the final ice dragon accounted for and dead. Alan Garrison turned his eyes to his left shoulder and arm.
The sleeve of his jacket was gone. A dragon scale had completely pierced his upper arm. He could see bone when a wave crashed over the bow and washed the blood away. He didn’t want to feel the left side of his head, because he was certain that his ear had been torn away.
Swan turned away from the prow. Even if his left ear was still where it belonged, Alan Garrison couldn’t hear her because of the thunder which still rang within him. But her lips formed a word he was certain he recognized, “Al’An?”
“I love you.” Garrison didn’t know if Swan could hear him, either. A wave crashed over the bow and brought blackness with it which engulfed him. There was nothing left to worry about.
Chapter Thirteen
When he folded back the blank
et covering him and looked at his left shoulder and upper arm, he asked Erg’Ran, “Did she do as good a job on my jacket as she did on me?”
“Oh, yes, Champion. When you have the chance, you won’t see a thing wrong with your left ear, either. It was partially torn away.”
Garrison raised his left arm. It was a little stiff, but worked. He held his Rolex next to his left ear. He could hear it ticking.
“We are where?”
“Edge Land. Just off shore. It will soon be dawn.”
“Swan, I take it, is—?”
“The Enchantress’s magical energy is very much depleted, and she’s a very physically exhausted girl. There were more than fifteen seriously wounded to whom it was necessary to attend.”
“How many dead?”
“Just the one of whom you know, Champion—Lii’Ku.”
“Any sign of a reception committee?”
Erg’Ran puzzled over the phrase for an eyeblink or so, then answered, “So far, we are unmolested. Either the magical energy of my sister is still very much depleted, or she has lain a trap for us.”
“Could be both,” Garrison noted. “You’re good with this sort of stuff, I imagine. Am I okay to get up and around?”
“You may feel a tad debilitated, lacking in strength for a short time, but you will soon feel your normal self.”
“Nothing has been normal at all since I came to Creath, Erg’Ran.”
The older man’s face seamed with laughter. “True enough, I suppose, Champion. True enough. It hasn’t really been a happy time for any of us.”
“I disagree. I’ve been happier here than I’ve ever been where I come from. I know; I’m strange.”
“You love the Enchantress a great deal, Champion.”
“You’re supposed to be the resident smart person, Erg’Ran. Doesn’t take a genius to figure out that I’m nuts about your niece. By the way?”
“Yes, Champion?”
“When I get around to asking Swan to marry me, you being her uncle and all, do I need to ask your permission?”
“Swan is the only one who can give the permission you will seek. But, for what it is worth, you already have my blessing, Champion.”
“Jeepers! Can I call you Uncle Ergy? Huh?!”
Erg’Ran’s hearty laughter filled the room. Garrison suddenly thought to ask, “Where the heck are we, anyway?”
“The Enchantress felt that you would rest more soundly aboard the Storm Balder. And, your Gle’Ur’Gya host provided you with his personal quarters, Champion.”
Garrison looked about the room, correcting himself to think of it as “the captain’s cabin.” As one would have supposed, an enclosure which would comfortably house a Gle’Ur’Gya was proportioned about ten or fifteen percent larger than ordinary human scale. A backless chair by a chart desk at the center of the cabin seemed halfway between the height of a normal chair and a high chair, and the desk itself was closer in height to a kitchen counter than a table.
There was no knock, but the oversized door opened and Bre’Gaa entered, ducking his head to avoid the top of the doorframe. “Al’An! You have returned to the living!”
“Apparently so.”
“Excellent. I am personally glad that your Enchantress is so skilled in her healing. I would have missed having you as someone with whom I might confer.”
“I’m flattered, Bre’Gaa, but I don’t follow you.”
Erg’Ran smiled. “What the good Captain Commander Bre’Gaa means, Champion, is that as someone from the other realm, he considers your opinions a little more evenhandedly arrived at.” And, Erg’Ran stood and faced Bre’Gaa. “Is that not true, Captain Bre’Gaa?”
“Quite true, brave and learned ally. Quite true, indeed.”
“Thank you for the loan of the cabin, Bre’Gaa.”
Bre’Gaa bowed slightly and flung back the hood made from the upper portion of his great kilt. “The weather is cold, even for a Gle’Ur’Gya. I came for my cloak. You are both welcome to my cabin as long as you wish, or to join me on deck.”
“I think I’d like that,” Garrison told him honestly. Enclosed as they were, Garrison felt the motion of the sea more pronouncedly. And, still feeling a little weak, he had no desire to experience nausea.
“Excellent,” Bre’Gaa declared. He ducked his head again, this time to avoid an overhead mounted oil lamp, as he crossed the cabin floor to an armoire. He opened one of the doors and pulled out a hooded cloak. “Your swordsman friend and his lovely lady are on deck and I am certain that you’d be interested to know that the Enchantress is supposed to arrive shortly. At least as far as I am able to ascertain from her flagships signals. By the way, I was very impressed watching your firespitters against the ice dragons. You must let me try them at our first opportunity.”
Garrison sat up too fast, his head reminding him of that fact. “Yes, I will—both join you on deck and let you try my firespitters. Thank you for your hospitality.”
“Anon, then.” Swirling his cloak about his shoulders, Bre’Gaa was at the cabin door in two strides, ducking through the doorway and gone in another.
Garrison swung his legs over the side of the berth. His feet didn’t touch the cabin floor. “These guys are tall,” Garrison observed to Erg’Ran.
“Let me help you, Champion.”
Garrison let him help. He clambered down from the bed to his feet, unsteady the moment they touched the cabin floor. “This is getting to be a habit with us, Erg’Ran, you helping me to keep from falling down.”
The older man merely smiled, then, after a moment, suggested, “I think that you ought to lean against the bed here for an eyeblink or two whilst I get your things. Save your strength until you have a good feel for your legs under you, Champion.”
“Good advice,” Garrison agreed.
Erg’Ran went to a second, matching armoire on the opposite side of the cabin, opened its double doors and began rummaging about inside. “The Enchantress has restored your weapons as they should be. Your bombing jacket—”
“Bomber jacket, Erg’Ran. Not bombing.”
“Ahh! Bomber jacket. Yes. It has been seen to as well, Champion. But, I fear you’ll need a cloak, considering the cold weather. The Enchantress anticipated your requirements and has provided one for you.”
“Question?”
“Yes, Champion?” And Erg’Ran turned away from the armoire and looked Garrison in the eye.
“Are you really as afraid as it seems that Swan could turn evil, like her mom did?”
“Just a casual question, I see. One of little import. Yes, well... You see, Champion, my niece is as fine as fine could ever be. Yet, you saw yourself how she resolved the issue of the ice dragons. Indeed, I encouraged her to bring on the tempest, to use the lightning. Lightning was all that either of us could think of as a weapon which would destroy the ice dragons. But my niece surpassed anything I had imagined as possible. You heard the Old Tongue words come from her lips? You saw the energy form around her, flash through her? I would doubt that my sister could do that in quite that way, with so much power.
“In short,” Erg’Ran concluded, “if the Enchantress should succumb to the enormity of the power which she can already wield and were to become obsessed with possessing still more—and she will have that opportunity—she would have greater magic ability than anyone Creath has ever known or had, more magic than all of the K’Ur’Mir who have ever lived combined. Such power cannot help but seduce even the Enchantress, make even the best of us teeter on the brink of falling victim to temptation. Should the Enchantress succumb, she would lust for more and more power until becoming so lost within her personal desires that she would have become oblivious to her own evil. I fear for her because I love her. And, because you love her, Champion, do not forget what I have told you.”
“You never give simple answers.”
Erg’Ran returned to getting things from the cabinet, but said over his shoulder, “Where you come from, are there simple answers to complex quest
ions, Champion?”
“I suppose not.”
“Then, I shouldn’t expect that you would hope to find simple answers here, either.”
“Can’t blame a guy for trying, Erg’Ran.”
The older man was through with his search. His arms weren’t laden with its results—Garrisons pistols, his sword and the golden Shield of IBF, the bomber jacket, a cloak. They floated in the air beside him.
“Magic? You?”
“You’ll note that it serves you, not me.”
“But, your magic, although it levitates my belongings serves your ends, means that you don’t have to carry my stuff.”
“That is a good point.” Erg’Ran let the items slowly sink to the cabin floor. “When you’re ready, then. I’ll see you on deck, Champion. No rush.”
Erg’Ran walked to the doorway and left.
Alan Garrison lit a cigarette the old-fashioned way, albeit with considerable difficulty. Because of the strength of the wind which whipped over the Storm Raider’s deck, he was forced to shield his windlighter in his cupped hands and still screen it within the cowl of his hood. After all of that, it took three tries.
The temperature felt bitingly cold, despite the heavy outer shell and lining of the cloak he wore and the bomber jacket underneath.
To what Garrison mentally labeled the east, he saw the faintest hairline of sunrise on the horizon.
He was rested enough, he supposed. He was hungry, but there’d probably be food forthcoming. He had looked at himself reflected in a sheet of brightly burnished copper which was hung like a mirror over a wash basin in Bre’Gaa’s cabin. He was clean shaven—Swan had seen to that—and there was no trace of a mark or scar where his ear had been partially ripped away by the dragon scale.
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