BECMI Chapter 88 – A Walk in the Moonlight
“Still cuttingly direct, Lady Edge,” Lord Equavus half-smiled, knowing it would slide right off me. There was no denying I was the equal aloof moon to Belle’s gentle sun as far as beauty went, confusing the elves with my nonesuch appearance and how forbiddingly attractive I was. The macabre nature of my magic didn’t much help matters.
The Luswyr simply wouldn’t countenance any disparaging words about me, and had already fought three duels over the matter, which I was totally aware of and had not interfered with. Nor would Belle tolerate any cutting remarks directed at me, which admittedly was even more effective.
I rode a giant black bat with crimson and white markings like it was wearing a suit ready for slaughter, instead of something majestic, like a pegasus or hippogriff or something. And who had heard of an elf fighting with a staff?
At least until those I sparred with couldn’t lay steel on me, and I cracked them upside the heads and wrists and knees in warning.
“An occupational hazard.” Unlike the more intimate nature of his walks with Belle, anyone could see that ours were extremely business-like by our body language, especially as aloof as I was. “What was it you wished to speak to me about?”
“A matter of curiosity, first and foremost.” His amethyst eyes sparkled mischievously. “The human known as Skarvald.”
“The barbarian? What of him?” I asked, knowing where this was going.
“The human is known to be… difficult at the best of times. One of the reasons for this is an Amulet that he wears, a powerful device that neutralizes all magic sent at him. Yet you have been seen thrice to use magic directly upon him!” His expression was just the faintest bit gleeful at the idea. “How did you manage to do it?”
“Ah, that thing.” I waved my head dismissively. “There are several ways to get around such things. Spell Shears, Pierce Any Defense, and Invoking Magic are the normal means to do so. However, his defense is not a true Greysphere, but a Permanent variant centered on his Amulet, and with exactly the vulnerability of a Permanent spell centered on it. Dispel the Permanency, and his defenses collapse for at least a minute or two, and you can affect him with magic.” I sniffed in disdain. “He does not have the will or fortitude to deal with magic without his petty Amulet.”
“But… you were never observed to Cast a Dispel at him,” the elven lord protested politely.
There was a flicker of silver, and an audible tinkling as six different protective spells and magic items on the elven lord dissipated into sparkles of spent magic or dimmed into inertness. He twitched in shock, staring at me in alarm.
“If you are absolutely certain that is true, then I must indeed be doing something right,” I said dryly, walking on. “You are also aware of his magical Ring, are you not?”
“The one that Teleports him away to safety if he is direly injured, and his Amulet does not hinder it? His ability to fight and run away while enduring all magic thrown his way is the basis of his legend, and why so few care to mess with him. He will soon enough be back with revenge on his mind, and his ability to slay a foe is matched by few,” Lord Equavus answered hastily as he scrambled to keep up with me.
“That Ring does not work in areas with Interdiction Fields. Merely open a fight with him by Dispelling his Amulet, and say, ‘Ribbit?’ to him. He will likely opt out of a direct fight, although it doesn’t preclude him trying to ambush you later.”
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Some time prior…
Skarvald was in a foul mood as he stumbled out through the hole in the wall he’d made using a couple of the locals who’d decided that ganging up on the giant Northman was acceptable given the disinterest the invaders were showing in helping them.
They were fools who hadn’t paid attention to his legends, for which he had been happy to throw them through windows, doors, tables, and then a particularly weak wall. The mercenaries just picked up their drinks and ignored his antics, refusing to be drawn into his tirade and so be blamed for escalating his light exercise into a full-out brawl with Darkmoor troops.
All in good fun or no, and he needed to vent on something.
He chugged down a bottle of the rotgut rum they brewed here, not impressed, but it had a kick to it that he appreciated.
Fools thinking that they could take him on just because a slip of an elfin could-!
His temper grew fouler as he rolled along, not exactly steady on his feet, but tough enough that he didn’t care. Nobody here in this backwater swamp town was dangerous to him in the slightest.
How had she done it? He slapped at the Amulet under his leathers, assuring himself that it was still there.
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It had gone inert and useless the instant she had turned her attention on him, all three times! He hadn’t seen any spellcasting of the kind that should neutralize it, yet her follow-up spells had struck him directly! And he had been humiliated each and every time…
Was the ground moving?
Skarvald blinked several times, trying to focus on the ground, which seemed to be trembling in front of him, but he couldn’t feel any quaking or the earth moving. Despite that, the soil was writhing and churning in front of him, and something was coming up from below.
Skarvald swore and snatched up the Battle-axe hanging faithfully at his side, this one actually having managed to stay with him for longer than a month or two. He was expecting some mutant horror to come exploding up out of the ground, doubtless hearing the weight of his steps and thinking it had a found a sizable meal…
He didn’t let go of the bottle, however.
Nothing erupted out of the stinking soil here. Instead there was a wave of motion along the ground, pushing the soil out of the way, covering it in solidity, form, structure, like a scuttling horde of insects advancing and covering everything…
In tiles?
The drunken barbarian blinked at the cobblestones thrusting themselves up out of the ground and covering the packed dirt with perfectly-placed and tightly fit stonework, level and straight as the floor of a castle. There was even a gentle slope to them, away from the center of the path, and smooth gutters with gratings spaced in them every so often.
They were flipping and forming up and advancing right up to him… and then they stopped a few feet away from him in an arc.
He smiled savagely, knowing that his Amulet was working, and this foul magic wasn’t able to approach him-
There was a crackle on his chest, and the stones swept forward, rising up underneath his heels and past him as if he wasn’t really there.
He spun around, watching them appear behind him, rolling on and building a solid road the equal of any royal courtyard with speed and ease.
The hackles on his neck arose as he felt a cold and familiar presence behind him. He turned slowly back around, and looked down into the black and liquid ruby eyes of the white-skinned witch of an elf who called herself Lady Edge.
Her cold, supernatural beauty made his blood churn with both repulsion and desire. Her gaze held an absolute lack of fear of him, and her black and crimson leathers and lace seemed to ruffle and stretch along a figure that was trying to ignite a fire in his loins even as his skin went cold under her gaze.
The human skull on the top of her Stave, its eyes burning with witchfires the exact hue of human blood, leered at him as if still alive… and he could not tell if it was not, and would not be surprised if it was.
“Ribbit?” she asked in cold inquiry.
He paled. That night as a frog had been excessively humiliating. He had even eaten a dozen flies, unable to stop himself from snapping them out of the air! As promised, the magic had faded at the dawn and he had returned to himself, but he had been unable to do anything but sit there in place outside the Thisbean Inn and… catch flies all night.
He slowly raised his hands, full of Axe and rum as they might be. He did not want to end up a frog again…
Eyes like bloody fires glanced at the Axe and his rum, and her staff flicked out.
It was only a gentle tap to his wrist, numbing, but his fingers opened, and the bottle flipped up, out, over to her other hand, and was snatched deftly out of the air.
She extended it out to her left, horizontally. He was about to protest about the waste of good rum when it roared, driving him back a step in reflex.
Incandescent blue flames of blazing alcohol blew out of the mouth of his bottle of booze, and swallowed the ramshackle hut standing there in annihilation.
When the flames faded away, there was no hut of damp swamp wood standing there any more, only burning embers eating away at the posts that had anchored the building… posts slowly forced up above the ground as he watched, leaving a smooth expanse of blackened, glassy soil behind.
Hissing glass melted away from her fingers, falling to the ground, solidifying before they hit the new stones there with tinkles and shattering into sparkling dust there.
“Good, you’ve already got an axe. Sergeant Johann!”
Skarvald watched as a stout Darkmoor trooper, also carrying an axe and leading a troop of platoon of soldiers armed with more axes and hammers, came tramping gingerly up behind the elfin on the new stone, all of them looking at the vanished remains of the hut with expressions that probably weren’t too much different than his own.
“Yes, Lady Edge?” the soldier asked, VERY respectfully.
“Show Master Skarvald the buildings that have been condemned. You should be able to watch a true master of destruction at work taking them down. His reputation suggests he is exceptionally good at the task, and he has some drink to work off while he is on the king’s payroll.”
The barbarian bridled at her presumption. “I am not under your command, woman!” he growled angrily.
“His tenth building will be the tavern he just walked out of. Any alcohol they’ve not managed to move out of it is his to indulge and share out to his work crew,” she continued with her head turned and too-perfect profile all too daunting. “If he doesn’t want to work, come find me, and I will Ribbit him and toss him into the middle of the river. If he can avoid the giant bass and make it back to shore by morning, I expect he will get at least much exercise and drink as doing honest labor.”
Skarvald went beet red, but fought down his rage as those liquid ruby eyes turned back to meet his sky-blue orbs.
“All the booze they can’t get out of there?” he repeated slowly. She said nothing, her eyes sliding past him, and she walked right on by him, the street coming alive in front of her and replacing dirt with stone, channel, and gratings.
“Get moving, Sergeant Johann!” he growled, both hands on his Axe, blood vessels starting to appear on his bare arms.
“At once, Master Skarvald! Follow me!” His platoon didn’t dare get in front of the barbarian, but the sergeant took his orders extremely seriously, breaking right into a run and heading back up the road.
Skarvald followed with long, loping strides, easily keeping pace. He had targets to vent his ire on, and if he was quick enough, possibly enough booze to really enjoy himself.
Behind him, the tavernkeeper was urgently shouting for help in getting his barrels out of the place, while a couple words whispered in his ear told him to make sure to leave a couple kegs behind…