The Earthrin Stones 2 of 3: Trials of Faith

by Douglas Van Dyke

  By this time, Revwar’s senses had recovered greatly. The wizard anticipated that the minstrel could not diverge from the trajectory of his jump. Out of the wizard’s hands came an old favorite. Three flaming swords took shape in a triangular formation, slicing down at the human.

  Lindon deflected two with quick swings, yet the other cut a line of fire down one leg. The minstrel winced in agony.

  The two opponents collided in midair. Revwar’s control over his flight, augmented by his arcane-induced physical strength, gave the wizard the edge. They grappled and traded blows before Revwar tossed Lindon away.

  Looking at the receding wizard from under his wide-brimmed hat, Lindon knew he was in danger. He had missed his chance, and now he was falling away from the spellcaster. He began to whistle the song of levitation, which would guide him safely to the ground.

  Revwar did not want to give him the chance to escape. The wizard used another reliable trick of his, with a new twist. An invisible chain of force whipped through the air. This one formed vertical, not horizontal, and it descended with unseen yet deadly intent. Lindon felt something invisible slam into him with jarring force, speeding him to the ground.

  The minstrel whistled his levitation song with more urgency. Revwar watched with interest as the human dropped down until the chain of force hammered him into green branches below. The elf lost sight of the minstrel’s bright red hat and beard. Cautiously, the flying wizard descended for a better view. He couldn’t see the minstrel…just broken branches and loosely falling leaves. Unwilling to take chances, he threw a fire spell into the gloom. It tossed about more debris as it exploded.

  Revwar searched from on high for a bit longer, debating whether to blow apart the trees, skim hazardously low to search, or simply abandon the chase. In the end, he decided to leave the human to his fate. Securing the relics was his priority. He went searching for Savannah in order to assist her in claiming the stones.

  * * * * *

  Cat moved through the debris field as fast as she dared without opening herself up to surprise attacks. Occasionally the sounds of fighting reached her ears. They never came from the same direction. It seemed that the combatants were all spread out in personal duels. The half-elf had an arrow fitted to the bow, ready for any threat.

  The first figure spotted was similarly moving silently through trees, tall grass, and wreckage. Once Cat got close enough, she recognized Foyren. He seemed to be stalking after someone else. There was fighting ahead as well as behind, but Cat could not see anyone except him. She tried to determine his intentions, but nothing about his back gave a hint to whether he was still charmed or not. Cat had to assume that he was a threat until he proved otherwise.

  The privateer from Kashmer closed the distance with remarkable stealth. When Foyren crouched to nock an arrow into his bow, Cat’s arrow aimed at Foyren’s heart. He had apparently sighted someone worth shooting, but Cat couldn’t see the target. It was hard to determine if he was friend or foe. Foyren had been a charmed victim; she couldn’t just shoot him in the back.

  With her bow aimed to kill, Cat spoke in Elvish, “Hold and do not fire if you be a friend.”

  The elf warrior spun to face her with his drawn bow. Whether charmed or not, the rage that came to his expression left little doubt of his feelings toward her. Cat released the tension on her bowstring even as he did the same.

  “Death to agoras!” He shouted, even as the arrows were in flight.

  His hasty arrow shot by her harmlessly. Cat’s aim was more accurate. The arrow thudded into the thick leather pauldron protecting his left shoulder. Cat bolted for a better spot. She drew and set another arrow on the run.

  Her shot soon proved to be superficial. The arrowhead merely lodged in the protective armor piece, having passed just wide of the skin. Foyren had to pause and snap the shaft in order to keep it from interfering in his next bowshot.

  He had just set another arrow against the string when Cat’s next arrow whistled towards him. The elf deftly dodged the missile and proceeded to close the distance with the half-elf. A few running steps and he fired off a second shot.

  Elves and half-elves could load and fire with amazing accuracy on the run. Cat rolled away from the path enough to feel the arrowhead scratch along the side of her leather breastplate.

  Each archer used the terrain as best they could, going behind trees and bushes as their opponent was ready to fire. Their right arms moved constantly from quiver to string to release and back. Ever closer they moved, making it harder for their agility to react in time to the barrage from their opponent. Both elves spun and somersaulted with grace rivaling an acrobatic troupe. A few small trees sprung arrow shafts that had failed to draw blood. What they couldn’t dodge barely deflected off their armor.

  Both combatants stepped into an uneven pile of ship debris as they loaded once more. They were close enough that a miss for either seemed impossible. Both strings did not even draw back to their full strength before snapping with the release. Cat initiated a flip even as she fired. Foyren’s arrow slashed through raven strands to scar her face. Foyren spun his bow immediately after firing. He was lucky that the wood partially deflected the arrow into a stinging hit to his side.

  Neither opponent gave time for the other to recover. Both bow staves rapped against each other as they closed into melee. Cat’s rapier flashed out, severing the string on the warrior’s bow. Foyren likewise drew his kittane and used it. His swing knocked the elegant elvish bow from Cat’s left hand.

  They passed each other on the run, trading follow-up blows as they did. The kittane missed as Cat rolled under the swing, though her rapier sliced a line of blood from a leg. As soon as she was upright again he was on her. The arrow and the rapier strike hadn’t slowed down his rage. Her own cheek trickled warmth from his last shot.

  Something shifted in her hair, reminding her of another danger. She still wore the Taef’ Adorina upon her brow, instead of her protective helmet. Those relatively flimsy and decorative strands of gold were precious little defense against any kind of blow to her head. To Foyren, it left a vulnerable opening.

  She tried to stab with the rapier as she was forced back. Foyren used the inside angle of his kittane to hook the tip and push it away. As he did so, his left hand repeatedly hammered towards her with the bow staff. Cat dodged and rolled, avoiding the worst of his attacks while trying to weave a deadly barrier with her rapier.

  Foyren made a desperate move. He threw the bow at her feet even as he changed the direction of his war club assault. Cat hopped back, aware only too late that he forced her into a corner. A thick tangle of trees loomed to one side, while a rotted section of decking leaned across the other. Foyren lifted his kittane with both hands for a powerful blow.

  He left himself rather open in his haste to finish the half-elf. Cat struck with lightning reflexes. Her magical, silver blade stabbed deep into his chest. Even as blood started to run down the blade, Cat knew she had struck a mortal blow.

  Foyren paused, only for a moment. Then, to Cat’s surprise, he pushed forward again. Pressing himself further onto her blade, he gave out a roar of hatred.

  Cat could not believe he was still coming at her. Some remnant of the charm pushed him beyond mortal limits, even making him reckless. She had no doubt that the wound to his heart would drop him within a step or two, but he was using the last of that strength to vent his rage. Her emerald eyes followed up from the point of blood…up past the necklace trophy that displayed all the tough monsters he had killed…up past the bulging muscles that framed his enraged glare…up to the sharpened war club as it descended.

  The decorative tiara would be no defense against a blow that could likely cave in her skull.

  “Oh, Trestan…” She whispered, before the sharpened edge clubbed all her feelings and regrets into empty darkness.

  CHAPTER 32 “Ganden’s Servant/The Chiaso’s Vendetta”

  Awareness lingered at the edge of her unconscious mind, yet every time h
er spirit rose towards it an onslaught of pain dragged her down. She could not remember why she wanted to ascend back into the waking world, nor why she wanted to face the hurt it inflicted on her spirit. She wanted to escape the torment forever. Something cold offered an escape from the pain. It felt like a hand extended to her, offering to take her into nothingness. She embraced it, hoping that she would find solace in the depths of the darkness.

  Her mother’s voice shouted from her memories, “You must let go, Sondra. Let go and live!”

  Her name was Sondra. She had to live. Living meant trying to rise up into the pain.

  She struggled to see, to hear, and to breathe. In doing so, she invited a torrent of pain that sought to drown her once again in darkness. Mentally, she reached out again, this time avoiding the cold hand and latching onto the pain. It was a difficult journey to make. Breathing brought more anguish, yet she struggled to breathe. Sondra forced her eyes open.

  The acolyte of Ganden woke under the sunlight, sounds of battle distantly ringing in her ears. Her lungs gurgled with her own blood, as cracked ribs fought every attempt at breath. One painful step at a time she sought the concentration needed for a healing miracle. Sondra had never felt so weak. She wasn’t even sure if she could lend strength to her prayers enough to mend the damage.

  Somehow, she brought forth the miracle of her god. Divine energy reshaped her ribs, dispelled the fluid in her lungs, and closed the tears in the tissue. The results left her weary and pale, but alive. She swooned but kept her eyes open. It took several minutes before she even attempted to rise from the ground. Sondra staggered to her feet, cautiously, wincing at the lingering pain. The blonde woman found her mace and her satchel.

  She looked around, unsure where to go. Her blue eyes caught sight of something familiar. A section of the deck, mostly a skeletal framework of boards, draped over the branches of some trees. In the light streaming through the wreckage, Sondra saw a familiar round shape on the ground. It was the cauldron that once held the holy relics of her church. The slightest whiff of incense reached her nose, almost overwhelmed by the stench of death. Sondra felt like her heart was in her throat. The woman conjured up the miracle which allowed her to see nearby holy relics of her faith. A moment later, she felt the confirmation of several religious artifacts of Ganden lying amidst the rubble.

  She felt something else. The radiance of several smaller symbols…necklaces, trinkets, pins…remainders of the personal holy items the Chosen carried on them when they died. Sondra slowly walked towards the emanations, aware this ground had been hallowed by the bodies of her mentors.

  Sondra explored the scene with solemn reverence. She saw bloodied cushions and rusty incense holders. She counted the bodies of the Chosen. It was difficult, due to the involvement of scavengers, but she found all of them present in one form or another. She did not find the body of Mother Evine, only the woman’s clothes. The energies called forth to keep the divine chariot in the air for so long had consumed Evine’s physical form. Sondra noted that even the cleric’s personal holy item was missing, yet a shadow of it had been burned into a piece of wood.

  The acolyte of Ganden sighed as she surveyed the loss. Even as she did, a sound reached her ears. Someone was behind her!

  “You should have died with them, as was the calling of the God of Duty.” Sondra heard the voice of Jentan Mollamos, carrying the power of a magical charm. “You should be on your knees, praying forgiveness that you abandoned your duty in their hour of need.”

  Acolyte Sondra wanted to refute the traitor, yet his suggestion tugged at the guilt in her heart. She found herself compelled to drop to her knees and shed tears for her teachers. She felt overwhelmed by the need to ask for forgiveness that she had not died with them.

  Behind her, the mentalist smiled.

  * * * * *

  The personal vendetta raged across grass and rock, between trees and broken ship planks. The rogue spun both sword and poisoned stiletto in distracting patterns. The vigilante chiaso flipped the elven staff from arm to arm as an extension of her body. Sweat soaked their loose clothes. The domid’s brown hair had tumbled free of its bun. The human’s braided red hair displayed similar disarray, yet a long tail of it was still tied at the end by a faded pink ribbon from a torn dress. Kemora Quickfeet and Montanya su Troyeal bara Westonhout went about their acrobatic exchange. Their feet and arms moved to no song except the exhaled grunts of exertion during attacks and dodges. Yet strong, primal urges lent rhythm to their dance. They clawed at each other to dominate; to become the top predator. The long legs and staff gave Montanya a good edge, allowing her to go on the offensive. Undaunted, Kemora’s stiletto weaved like a snake, looking for the right moment to strike with its poisonous fang.

  They carried the struggle over a rotted mast stretched across a runoff. The beam acted as a narrow bridge over a shallow ravine, one that carried water into a muddy morass. The wood shed splinters as their weight passed over it. Montanya’s whirling bludgeon came at the halfling from both sides. It spun wildly as the crazed fighter took advantage of the open space. Kemora, reluctant to surrender the ground, hoped she could use it to get Montanya into tighter confinement.

  Kemora took a chance, sacrificing a hit to put her plan into motion. The domid charged, raising one arm and accepting the blow to the side of her breast. Meanwhile, her stiletto darted forward, forcing Montanya to stop short of the full hit. Kemora dropped her raised arm over the staff, hugging it in tight as she threw her weight away from the mast. Montanya realized the halfling’s ploy as her small body dropped into the ravine, pulling the staff with her. The chiaso had to lose the weapon or fall into the ravine.

  Instinct took over.

  Montanya leaped from the log, attempting to soar out further than the halfling’s plunge. The rogue landed expecting the human to come down on top of her. Kemora even attempted another stab with the stiletto under poor balance. The thin blade missed as Montanya used the staff to vault further down the trench. The chiaso never released her grip on her weapon.

  The women continued their fight in the muddy confines of the ravine. Montanya flicked a glob of mud from the end of her staff at Kemora, though it distracted her little. Montanya quickly found herself backing away from the domid’s attack. She couldn’t use any swings in the tight space. Montanya could only jab repeatedly, but the smaller rogue parried that easily while trying to get within the distance needed for an effective strike.

  Kemora pushed Montanya back until the ravine widened. The softness of the mud nullified any relief Montanya may have felt with the increased space. The mud sucked at the human’s legs, yet Kemora was light enough to avoid getting mired. Amidst every squelch, Montanya’s feet slowed.

  The chiaso recalled another of her lessons; one she had not spent nearly enough time contemplating. The students had practiced Skimmer Step on rainy days in the Highwater district. Her mind went back to those days of stepping into the mudflows. As a young girl, she had looked upon the poor and homeless. They had stared back at the odd sight of children trying to walk on the muck oozing past their wet shelters. Young Montanya knew back then that she would grow to be their protector. She had to bring her will and body together, and it helped to recall Lindon's music. The minstrel had risen from those very same poor alleys in that flooded district to inspire her. To Kemora’s surprise, Montanya achieved an enlightened level of balance. The chiaso stepped atop the mud and stayed there. Montanya no longer sank into the ground despite all their fighting maneuvers.

  The staff attacked with renewed effectiveness. Montanya forced Kemora out of the mud and into a more wooded area.

  Kemora changed tactics so fast that it left Montanya hesitating. One moment the halfling was repelling the attack, the next she turned and darted into the brush. The chiaso continued to hold her ground and stand guard, believing the halfling was trying to draw her in. Kemora seemed to blend into the foliage. Montanya caught glimpses of color and sound as the small humanoid sought cover.

/>   Montanya cautiously stepped ahead. She expected Kemora to ambush her, and she was correct.

  What she did not expect, was a Kemora that was the size of a human! The sword came in high, forcing Montanya to raise her staff for the block. Too late, Montanya realized her mistake, trying to drop her staff low instead. The tall rogue seemed to pass through part of the staff.

  Montanya felt the strike of Kemora’s fang in her leg. Warrior instincts allowed Montanya to retaliate with a blow to Kemora’s head, though it seemed as if the staff passed through her abdomen.

  Both women fell back. The illusionary mask which allowed Kemora to appear human had been hit by the staff, and now dangled around her neck. She appeared as a normal halfling once again. The ruse had tricked Montanya into reacting to the illusionary size rather than the reality.

  Kemora shook her head as she regained her wits from the staff strike. She looked up to see Montanya stagger back several steps. The chiaso’s newly provided elven pantaloons had a hole in one leg. Montanya stared back, aghast, at the sight of her blood on Kemora’s poisoned stiletto.

  * * * * *

  Trestan could do little against Savannah while she held his magic sword, especially due to his devotion to the tenets of Abriana. As she prepared her deadly miracle, he began to pray for one of his own. He barely brought his shield into existence as a magical darkness raced towards him. The divine spells collided and nullified.

  Trestan immediately lunged to reclaim his sword. He believed Abriana wouldn’t punish him for reclaiming his property. Savannah stepped backwards while chanting another prayer. Abriana’s champion nearly grabbed the hilt before a blast of air sent him flying backwards. The force of the prayer nearly pushed him off the edge of the small cliff.