Dream III: Wind of Souls (Dream Trilogy Book 3)

by RW Krpoun

  “Could be,” Fred nodded judiciously. “I’m surprised we haven’t run into Egyptians on one of our outings.”

  “We heard about Carthage in the Prison,” Derek reminded them. “Not many were left of them. Too ambitious.”

  “Focus,” Shad snapped.

  “Yeah, Derek,” Jeff grinned.

  The roots were stiff and solid; as the Black Talons approached them Jeff took an experimental chop at a wrist-thick secondary branch. “Harder than pine,” he observed, examining the notch that exposed gray inner material.

  “Basically they’re tree trunks,” Derek rubbed the surface of a waist-thick example. “The surface feels like bark.”

  “This isn’t a nature walk,” Shad observed, resting the blunt back of his sword blade against his shoulder. “Derek, lead us in that direction.”

  They discovered that the loosely-woven mass of roots was a cross between dense jungle and a maze; but for the Fang providing them with a constant reference point they would have been hopelessly lost within minutes. Derek starting leaving blazes cut into the roots to mark their trail for the return trip, but quickly abandoned the effort as the press of roots was too thick and twisting for the marks to do them any good.

  The temperature and humidity rose swiftly within the tangled roots, and soon clouds of flies were harassing them until Fred activated charms that kept the insects at bay. Shad replaced the light orb with night vision spells, which slightly reduced the number of flies orbiting hopefully two feet from their flesh.

  “What I wouldn’t give for a tanker of Agent Orange right now,” Shad muttered, climbing over a foot-thick root whose horizontal twist was blocking their path.

  “I second the motion,” Fred grunted, checking their back trail.

  It was hard work moving through the roots, twisting, ducking and climbing as need be; finger-width off-shoots layered the floor so that seldom did boot leather meet stone as the four struggled onward. Advances were measured in feet, and frequently the Talons had to double back to find a path through the tangle that enveloped them on all sides and loomed to the extent of their vision overhead. It was claustrophobic work that would have been demanding even if the roots were the only barrier to their passage.

  Squeezing between two near-vertical roots, the Ronin cursed the heat, the humidity, and the roots as he slogged forward; Derek was carrying his wakizashi instead of Nightwing, given the close quarters, and even as a half-seen figure moved to his left and Jeff gasped behind him the Ronin was moving, putting all the frustration and tension of the last few hours into a thrust that caught his foe unprepared.

  The two ended up face-to-face; Derek stared into the inhuman visage of a creature known only as legend on Earth: a naga. The creature had a very flexible, if stout, snake body about five feet long, topped by a semi-Human-looking ribcage and shoulders. It was the same dun brown as the roots, and fully scaled, with taloned hands at the end of arms that were a bit longer and thinner than a Human’s.

  The face that stared at him rode on a neck that was like two feet of boa constrictor body that flared into a cobra’s head. The fanged mouth was open wide as if in a silent scream, and the too-intelligent eyes stared into his with a palpable hatred.

  For a moment the two stood frozen in a tableau of man versus man-snake, and then the curved scimitar fell from the naga’s grip and the gleam of intelligence and life faded swiftly from its eyes. Derek jerked on the hilt of his wakizashi, but the short sword was wedged to the guard in the serpent’s chest, so he let it fall with the corpse and drew Nightwing.

  Jeff was throwing a leg over a curve of foot-thick root preparatory to levering himself over the obstruction when movement flanking from his right; his instinctive parry with his right sword was a fraction too slow, and a wickedly-barbed spear slammed into his chest with enough force to snap the point and two inches of blade off on the impermeable turtle shell.

  His overhand thrust with his left blade carved a scaly arm to the bone before the spear could withdraw, and the weapon clattered to the roots as a figure darted back deeper into the root-warrens, hissing angrily. “Turtle shell, bitches!” the Shop teacher bellowed in defiance.

  His claustrophobia was sparking a bit in the root-warrens, the dread having been too close to the surface after the long, agonizing crawl through the tunnel to get here, putting Shad in a truly foul mood. The climbing and scrambling through the roots had forced him to sheath his sword, which did absolutely nothing for his attitude.

  Angry and hypertensive from his secret phobia the warder reacted instantly when Jeff (whom he resented for being able to traverse the roots with two swords drawn) was attacked. Seeing the spear aimed at Jeff coming from the right Shad leapt to his left, cursing as a jagged spear blade raked across his side, his blood mixing with the sweat that rolled freely across his ribs. He crashed into a long flexible body and caught ahold of a harness with his left hand as he punched with everything in his body had, the back-shock of each blow flowing up his shoulder and jolting the length of his spine. The fear and anxiety of his phobia-haunted crawl and the nagging anxiety of the root-warrens was expressed in a flurry of brutal blows.

  Fangs ripped across his wrist as he did his best to crush the thing’s skull and he felt venom hit his system, but he ignored it and continued to pound the inhuman face until his rage subsided and the naga was limp beneath him. Flexing his half numb hand, thankful for his tactical gloves, he drew his cane knife and opened the naga’s throat before standing shakily. Fumbling out a potion tube he pulled the cork with his teeth and tossed off the contents, which tasted vaguely like Greek ouzo.

  Fred had purchased a short ironbound truncheon for close-quarter work, but it was of no use when a tail suddenly dropped around his neck and began to squeeze. He rammed the end of the club into the tail twice, but it failed to dislodge the naga’s grip. Letting the truncheon hang on its wrist-strap the big Texan wedged his fingers between his throat and the snake-like tail, coming in from above and below at the same time. His armor charms were reacting to the attack and he was still getting a little air, but they would not hold for long.

  As spots began to dance in from of his eyes he stepped up onto a handy knot of roots that lifted him about a foot off the foot, and then kicked off, falling as dead weight. The naga was braced for a dying man’s struggles but not to suddenly support a quarter-ton’s free-fall. It was ripped from its perch and dragged to the floor, the surprise relaxing its grip just long enough for Fred to get a good grip on the tail and laboriously pry it off. The naga was strong, but not strong enough to win a contest of tail versus two large hands.

  Free and gasping, Fred jerked his arm to shoulder height, swinging the truncheon into his grip, and scrambled onto the naga as it attempted to slither away, beating the snake-head until the skull collapsed into bone fragments.

  Dragging himself to his feet, still gasping for air, the big healer heaved himself over the roots to where Shad was holding a bandage against his side. “You OK?”

  “My side mostly, but I got bit on the arm. I already took a potion.”

  “OK, hold on.”

  Jeff wiped off his sword on a handy root and moved back to Fred and Shad. “So that’s what they look like,” he observed, nudging Shad’s limp opponent with the toe of his boot. “Ugly bastards.”

  “You get any?” Shad asked as Fred Healed his wounds.

  “No, but I cut one pretty good. It used my turtle shell as an aiming point, which didn’t work out for it.” He rapped his knuckles against the shell. “That’s twice it has saved me; I’m thinking it’s the best thing ever.”

  “Where is Derek?” Fred drew forth more charms.

  “Working his sword out of a naga. He killed one and cut another.”

  “Who?” Derek asked from behind Jeff, clambering over roots to join them.

  “Fred was asking about you,” Shad massaged his hand. “OK, they know where we are, and the roots are on their side, so we need to change things up. We move in pairs, on
e pair moving at a time. Derek, you’re with me. We keep the pace slow so we are fit to fight when they jump us.”

  “Watch the weapons,” Jeff warned. “Mine left its spear behind, and there’s venom on it. I bet they fang their weapons before attacking. Poison fresh off the gland.”

  “This place sucks.”

  “Everyplace in this sphere sucks,” Fred agreed. “And the last one wasn’t any prize pig, either.”

  “Prize pig?” Derek scratched his cheek.

  “It’s a saying.”

  “I never heard anyone use it before.”

  “It’s not my fault you’re stupid.”

  “Bite me.”

  The slower tactical movement redressed the odds somewhat, but the Black Talons hadn’t moved fifty years before a trio of naga tried for Jeff and Fred, only to lose one of their number killed and at least one more wounded.

  Thereafter the snake-men hit and slithered, striking out of ambush and retreating without being fully engaged. In the face of these attacks the Black Talons’ advance slowed even more, as their supply of armor charms were finite and they had no physical armor for protection. In the weird half-light of their night vision spells the roots and naga were indistinguishable until the latter moved.

  Sweating in the hot wet heat, struggling through the root warrens and awaiting the next thrusting spear or curved sword blade wore heavily on the four Texans as they made their slow passage forward, cursing the Isle and everything on it as they moved.

  Derek twisted as a spear-thrust lashed out at his chest, managing to evade the weapon at the expense of going off-balance, which stripped his riposte of real strength. By the time he got his feet set beneath him the attacking naga was gone.

  “Any luck?” Shad asked as he joined the Ronin.

  “Scratched him. At least I got out of the way.”

  The two caught their breath and then watched as Jeff and Fred worked their way forward. Shad blasted a suspicious shadow with a volley of arcane bolts as the pair moved up, and was rewarded with a shrill shriek of pain.

  “Take five,” Shad advised the newcomers. “This heat is a butt-kicker.”

  “Hey, check this out!” Derek exclaimed as the four assembled. He knelt on the root-torn stone. “A Samurai fell here.”

  Shad eyed the collection of bones and moldering accouterments. “Looks like his skull is pulling post duty up above.”

  “They either broke his katana, or it happened in the fight.” Derek uprooted a naga skull, the dried fangs standing out sharply. “He didn’t go quietly.”

  “Good for him,” Shad nodded as the Ronin unearthed a second snake-man skull. “He must have been a real tough hombre to have made it this far without the Fang or anti-venom potions.”

  “I wonder what he was looking for,” Fred hefted his canteen, licked his lips thoughtfully, and then sadly returned the canteen to his pack.

  “More to the point, where is what we’re looking for?” Jeff asked wearily.

  Shad hefted the Fang. “Not all that far. A couple hundred yards, is my guess.”

  “Well, that’s closer than it was,” the Shop teacher observed.

  “I expect he was just looking to restore his On, his honor,” Derek stayed on track. “Which dying this way should have accomplished.”

  “Just changing his address should have sufficed,” Shad noted disinterestedly. “Still, he made it further than most.”

  “I’m going to take his wakizashi,” Derek tucked the scabbard under the back of his belt. “Maybe get another naga for him.”

  “That’s a nice gesture. OK, we move in that direction.”

  “You know, we could just be moving in circles,” Fred muttered sourly. “The roots all look the same.”

  “We might,” Shad nodded. “But if we are there isn’t a thing we can do about it.”

  “I’m really re-thinking our hard line with Midori,” Jeff sighed.

  “You and me both, but we’re past the point of no return. We either trust in the core group’s planning, or we pick a spot and see how many naga we can kill before we die of thirst.”

  “Frodo had it easy,” Derek observed. “Just point A to point B.”

  “And the little bastard complained the entire way,” Fred growled. “He should have to try dealing with this BS we’re stuck with.”

  “And we’re moving,” Shad started forward before the discussion got out of hand.

  An eternal hour, several minor and two moderate wounds, six confirmed naga deaths, and too much of their supply of water and anti-venom potions later Derek squeezed between a pair of roots and froze.

  “What?” Shad snapped, impatient.

  “You are not going to believe this,” The Ronin pointed. “There is a clearing up ahead.”

  “It is about time,” Shad peered past the Radio Shack manager. “Finally.”

  “Finally what?” Jeff asked as he and Fred caught up.

  “There’s a clearing up ahead. We’ll move up together as a group.” Shad celebrated the event with a mouthful of blood-warm water.

  “Man, it’s party time,” Derek sighed, leaning back against a vertical root.

  “Don’t break out your butt-less chaps just yet,” Fred muttered. “The locals will know there is a clearing, too.”

  “Technically all chaps are butt-less,” Jeff mused as he mopped away sweat. “They’re meant to protect your legs when you ride through brush.”

  “I’m fine with a stand-up fight,” Derek shrugged. “Anything is better than getting nickel-and-dimed to death in these roots.”

  Fred weighed his canteen in his hand. “Unless the place we’re going has a back door, getting back out is going to be tough.”

  “I’m pretty sure it does,” Shad rubbed his unshaven jaw. “This is just the hiding place; so far the planners of this business have not left anything to chance.” He glanced around. “I suppose we better move up.”

  The cleared area was large; how large they couldn’t say, but at its center was a wedge of stone that slashed down from the unseen roof, tapering like a rough-hewn sword blade to impale the floor. At what was ground level to the Talons the granite shaft was easily thirty feet wide and a dozen thick, separated from the roots by sixty feet of cleared space.

  “I think that is a socket in the side, there,” Derek pointed. “What do you want to bet that it is shaped to accept the Fang?”

  “OK, so where are the naga?” Shad peered around. “They won’t let us go without saying goodbye.”

  “How many of those smoke and light spells do you have?” Fred asked.

  “Enough to lay a double line to the spike,” Shad grinned. “With a few fireballs into the upper reaches of the roots for good measure. Good thinking.”

  “It still leaves us facing melee,” Jeff pointed out.

  “Good. I’m ready for a stand-up fight,” the warder rubbed his hands together. “Let’s see how the snake-boys like it in the open.” He drew the Fang from its case and pondered it thoughtfully. “OK, the Fang is, well, reacting to something. I’m thinking it is to that shaft of stone. Each of you need to hold it for a second.” He passed the Fang to Fred.

  “Why do we have to hold it?” Jeff reluctantly accepted the Fang.

  “Who knows? I’m a stranger here.”

  “This is pretty cool,” Derek grinned, passing the Fang back to the warder.

  “After thrashing our way through this armpit it doesn’t take much to rate being cooler,” Jeff nodded. “I had a root canal I enjoyed more.”

  Shad threw four of his smoke-and-lights into the clearing in a staggered line covering the Talons’ path, and then hurled fireballs into the upper reaches of the roots as the smoke billowed upward. Arrows flashed down towards the warder’s position, but he ducked back into the shelter of the roots between spells.

  “No secondary fires,” Derek reported. “Smoke’s tall enough.”

  “Let’s roll,” Jeff led the way out of the roots.

  Shad threw a fireball to the left
and right on spec, set to detonate past the smoke, and expended a half-dozen arcane bolts into the roots as suppressive fire. He had tried to space his smoke spells so there would be a clear lane between them, but the effort was only partially successful. He expended another smoke coin to cover a gap as arrows started raining into the smoke as the naga began suppressing fire of their own.

  Derek swore as an arrow blew through several of his armor charms and sank its head into his left thigh. Hopping on one leg, he yanked it free and then tossed down his last anti-venom potion.

  Then there were shapes coming through the smoke to either side: naga footmen, braving their own archers’ blind fire to come to grips with the intruders. Derek dropped the empty potion bottle and flowed into a graceful nuki, spinning out of the way of a spearhead and then severing the wielder’s arm at mid-bicep. Stepping into a shomen he sent a snake-head tumbling across the floor and gained another two steps towards their goal. They were about a third of the way to the pillar by his reckoning, but this had been the easy portion of the trip.

  Jeff parried a spear with his left sword, hacked off the spearhead with his right blade, ducked a wild slash, and opened a serpentine trunk as he sidestepped onward. The arrow fire was helping as there were more naga than Talons, and the Talons knew where they were going while the snake-men were just feeling their way into the cloud. The Shop teacher did not use Derek’s flowing footwork, but instead plied his swords to block and attack in various combinations that kept the naga at a disadvantage. He was bleeding from several small wounds but doing all right; if his estimate was accurate they were halfway to their goal.

  Tossing out his last smoke coins to keep the barriers up Shad tossed off his second-to-last anti-venom potion and blasted two volleys of arcane bolts into a naga trying to flank Jeff. His supply of coins that dealt out ordinary magical effects were dwindling fast, but there was a trail of dead and maimed snake-men behind them and the pillar was drawing closer with each step. The Fang kept the warder oriented despite the smoke, and he kept the others on track. Blasting another snake, he drew his sword and jitte, cursing the snake-men, this cavern, and the Isle as a whole.