Ivy League Illusion, Part 12
Rescue Arrives--with Mixed Results
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I knew I could beat a dark elf with sunlight, but before I could trace Sowilo in the air, the stranger had already invoked Sowilo merkstave, plunging me into shadow and preventing me from completing my own casting.
“Surrender now, and I will be gentle with you,” said the alfar. His voice was so hostile and cold that it didn’t suggest he was capable of gentleness. Worse, other elves, armed with bows, appeared in the shadows behind him. Fjalar also appeared, gripping a staff of his own and looking ready to use it if need be.
“Alfarinn, why speak of gentleness?” Fjalar asked the dark alfar. The duergar’s tone was sharp as a dragon’s teeth.
“You are outnumbered,” Alfarinn said to me, ignoring Fjalar.
“But now I have my staff,” I said, holding it higher. The leader might have winced slightly. If only I knew how to use the thing, I might have a fighting chance.
“You will surrender it to us immediately,” said Fjalar, stepping forward. Alfarinn frowned at him. If they had an agreement about who was in charge, it had evidently begun to come apart, perhaps as a result of the stress caused by my earlier escape.
“Help!” I knew Nidhoggson wasn’t in a helping mood, but perhaps the staff itself would drop another hint. It felt warm in my hand, and once again, it gave the vague impression of sentience.
But that was all I got. Either it had no additional insight, or it had no way of communicating it to me in my damaged condition.
The problem was the overwhelming strength of Alfarinn’s Sowilo merkstave. On impulse, I swung the staff through it. The rune split apart like mist in a high wind, but before I could draw Sowilo, Alfarinn had pulled his rune back together. To make doubly sure that I couldn’t invoke such runic assistance, the dark alfar leader dropped Ansuz merkstave and focused all his power on Sowilo merkstave.
“I promised my vampire colleagues that I would try to avoid spilling any of your blood, but I will if I must,” said Alfarinn, looking first at me and then at Fjalar. As if on cue, the alfar archers nocked arrows in preparation to shoot me.
“You need me alive,” I said with as much confidence as I could manage.
“My archers have been instructed to wound, not kill,” replied Alfarinn. He reached out with his right hand. “That staff! I will not ask for it again.”
I knew that if I gave up the staff, I was probably doomed—but it looked as if I might be doomed either way. Slowly, I extended the staff to him.
“Max!” This voice was barely a whisper, but it was female and much warmer than Nidhoggson’s. Someone had heard my cry for help.
“I’ve lost my memory, and I’m being held prisoner by alfar, duergar, and vampires.” I presumed that anyone able to communicate mentally with me would know what I was talking about.
“I’m going to have to link with you in order to be able to open a portal to your location. Don’t resist the connection.”
The conversation felt familiar, but I still couldn’t remember any similar ones, nor who the person communicating with me was. But at least someone was working on a rescue.
I pulled back the staff slightly, earning a scowl from Alfarinn. “Playing games is not a wise move now,” he said. He hit me with Thurisaz merkstave, which immediately started draining my strength. In less than a minute, I would collapse, and they could pry the staff out of my limp fingers. But I couldn’t think of anything I could do to save myself.
Despite the chilling circumstances, I suddenly felt warm inside. My would-be rescuer had linked with me—whatever that meant. I thought Alfarinn would notice such a change, but because I wasn’t the one initiating the connection, apparently, he missed it.
“Hurry! I’m about to become unconscious!”
“I can feel that,” she replied. “But I need more time to open a portal between planes. I’ll help you stall.”
A gentle amber glow surrounded me. Sadly, it wasn’t sunlight, but it did cause the dark alfar and some of his men to blink and look surprised. I also felt a little stronger, despite the continued drain imposed by Thurisaz merkstave.
“What is happening?” asked one of the archers, looking ready to shoot now and ask questions later.
Alfarinn’s eyes widened. “It feels like the power of Freya. Yet she could not possibly project her power onto our plane in this way. She would have to be here—which is impossible.
Freya. Nidhoggson had told me the runes on my staff were painted in Freya’s blood. Could she be my rescuer?
A brown aura surrounded the staff and flowed into me, giving me more strength as it had once before.
“Still no portal,” said my rescuer. “I’ll give them a little more to worry about.”
The amber glow around me brightened, and my captors pulled back a couple of steps. Whatever it was made them uncomfortable.
“What is that magic?” I asked.
At first, I felt confusion from my rescuer. I should have known what it was.
“I really did lose my memory.”
“It’s the power of love,” she replied. “It won’t influence the minds of such evil creatures, but they fear it, and it offers some protection against hostile magic.”
She was right. Though I couldn’t see much in their eyes except a reflected amber glow, they looked worried despite having me outnumbered, outgunned, and out-magicked. I thrust the staff into Thurisaz merkstave. This time, it disappeared completely. Alfarinn immediately invoked another one, but I wiped it out the moment that it appeared.
“Shoot him!” Fjalar commanded the archers.
“I give the orders here, not you!” said Alfarinn in a chilling tone.
“Then do something!” replied Fjalar. “He has surprised us more than once. We have no idea of what additional trickery he may be capable.”
Nor did I, but I kept my face carefully expressionless.
Fjalar raised his staff, but Alfarinn slapped it down. “I will handle this!”
“I’m going to open a portal now,” said my rescuer. “Normally, I’d tell you to run through it, but those archers look too eager to open fire. We’ll come through instead.”
“Isn’t that dang—” I began, but more amber light blazed up from behind me, I felt a warm wind on my back, and I sensed people behind me.
Alfarinn must have sensed them, too, because his gaze shifted from me to some point behind me. I sensed magic surging there and risked a backward glance.
A fiery rune blazed behind me. From a central line, two bent lines projected out, one from the bottom left with the center point facing up, and one from the top right with the center point facing down. Behind, I could see what I thought were four people, but the light was too bright for me to be sure.
I had no idea what the rune was, but Nidhoggson, no doubt prodded by his survival instinct, blurted out, “That’s Cweorth, rune of the funeral pyre. Get away from it!”
“Max!” yelled the same female voice I’d heard in my head, but this time it was filled with fear—fear for me.
For her husband.
Breaking free from whatever magic kept me from my memories, My recollection of that voice stabbed me like a shard of glass plunging into my brain.
I froze, unable to follow Modhoggson’s frantic desire or my wife’s equally impassioned cry. Cweorth exploded—but not toward me. Instead, it launched an inferno at the people who’d come to rescue me.
At my wife.
Ivy League Illusion is related to the Different Dragons series. (The action falls after the end of the third book.)
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Great pacing, and I love the magic you've built into the world. Thanks for sharing!