The Restless Shore: The Wilds

by James P. Davis

  The struggle to tread quietly was forgotten as Ghaelya sprinted wide-eyed behind Uthalion. After several long strides, the massive breathing from the stream became a deafening growl, the sound of it raising gooseflesh on her neck and arms. Her reflexes heightened by fear, she had no trouble keeping up with Vaasurri and the pale light of his lantern. Brindani kept close behind her, and behind him came the snapping of trees and the dry scraping of rough skin over leaves and dirt. Ahead of it all came a labored breathing, filled with a whining wheeze that threatened to drive her mad. Unseen claws pulled at the earth, ripping trees from their roots as some massive bulk lurched through the forest.

  She didn’t dare turn to look, imagining its hot breath washing over her, her thrashing legs caught in an unbreakable grip as the thing keened in victory. Childhood stories flashed through her mind, and she cursed at the memory, knowing the Mother of Nightmares had found her and knew her name. The pale serpent of her old fears, with its long fangs and madly rolling eyes, would devour her and forget the taste in an instant as it clacked its teeth and whined for more.

  Upturned dirt, thrown high by the kaia’s thrashing, rained down on her from behind, and she tried to grasp at the pouch on her belt, at the flint and steel she’d carried to light the torch. Her toe caught on a root, and she fell forward, jarring her knee against the ground and rolling onto her back. The end of an exhale shuddered above her, a sickening sound of relief making her want to draw her sword, but her shaking arms froze above her.

  Giant jaws creaked as they opened in the dark, blotting out the winking stars as though the gaping maw of night itself would devour her.

  Little nightmare let me be, leave my name from off your tree. Tell your mother I am brave, with many years before my grave.

  As flint and iron clicked, she flinched and a new star birthed before her eyes. More trees cracked and snapped in the distance as the thing thrashed and pulled away from the brilliance. Strong arms pulled her to her feet and drew her away from the retreating beast.

  Squinting, she caught sight of pale flesh and clusters of shining eyes pulling back into the shadows. She shuddered as she turned and ran, plunging into the woods alongside Brindani. Uthalion remained in the rear, brandishing the brilliant torch. The circle of light he carried kept the monster at its barest edge, whining and wheezing to be let back in, begging wordlessly to be fed.

  At each brief clearing, Ghaelya convinced herself they had cleared the Spur. Yet more trees pressed in upon them from all sides, killing hope at every turn. Uthalion’s torchlight glimmered in the leaves, and Ghaelya would glance at the light, begging that glow to be sunrise. But dawn did not come. The ground still shook, and the beast lumbered in the dark, crawling along and waiting for the light to falter.

  In one clear stretch of ground, she managed to grasp the pouch at her belt, found the flint and steel wrapped in cloth within, and gripped it hard enough to hurt. She welcomed the brief pain, and was comforted by its presence. The press of trees broke again, and she skipped down a sudden drop into a wide stream. Slipping into the water, she felt its speed fill her with strength, and she chanced a look over her shoulder, just in time to see Uthalion stumble down the bank.

  The torch fell from his hand, spinning lazily through the air. She held her breath and stopped. Water rushed around her ankles, and a knot of cold filled her throat, spreading into her chest. Uthalion rolled cursing to the water’s edge as the torch hissed in the stream. It’s loss plunged the forest into a growling darkness. A huffing breath and a single clack of teeth preceded the pounding crawl of the beast as it descended on Uthalion.

  7 Mirtul, the Year of the Ageless One

  (1479 DR)

  The Spur Forest,

  South of Airspur, Akanûl

  Pain arced through Uthalion’s wrist as it twisted beneath the water of the stream. Rolling his weight to the right, he splashed onto his back, already mourning the last of the guttering light behind him. It flashed once on the mass of the kaia, glittering in dozens of eyes, shining on countless teeth, before leaving him to the long horrible moments before death.

  He cursed the moment he had left the grove, the impulse that had carried him away and the ghostly song that had inspired his decision. Though the kaia loomed over him, his mind still picked at the half-heard tune, unable to let it go even in the face of the beast that would devour him. It thrummed softly, a piecemeal melody that ran from him like a well-kept secret, teasing him with unspoken promises.

  Dirt rolled against his boots, pushed forward by the kaia’s bulk, burying his lower legs. A low gurgling growl washed warmly across his face, bringing the coppery scent of old blood and the unmistakable decay of flesh. Uthalion smelled wet fur, too, like the pelts his grandfather would lay out after a hunt. Bits and glimpses of his life came and went, as if the contents of his soul were being displaced by the descending beast.

  Maryna’s face—in the better times before he’d left with the Keepers for Tohrepur—came to him smiling in the long dreamlike spaces between one pounding heartbeat and the next. He cursed the man that had left her, the man he’d not seen in a mirror in many long years, the husband and father he might have been.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, willing the words to reach his wife and daughter somehow.

  Quiet waves rippled against his back, lapping at his right arm as something moved with terrible swiftness to his side. Trailing a faint glimmer of water, an arm shot forward, producing an audible click and a minute spark that birthed a brilliance of light. He squinted as the scent of burning reached him, and he stared into the face of the thing Ghaelya had called the Mother of Nightmares.

  A storm of roaring rage thundered from the kaia’s gaping jaws, leaving his ears ringing. The stream’s bank exploded into clods of mud and dirt. He felt the size of the beast more than he saw it. A humanlike arm, gangly and pale, shielded a lipless, tooth-filled snout. Long tentacles writhed and whipped as the kaia threw itself back from the hated light. Clear yellow eyes swirling in loose, fleshy sockets ringed the vague shape of its skull. It crashed back into the safety of the forest, away from the blazing torch in Ghaelya’s hand until the forked end of its lashing wormlike body disappeared from the edge of the torch’s burning glow.

  Uthalion exhaled slowly, rising carefully to his feet with Ghaelya’s assistance. Her eyes never left the gap in the trees where the kaia had fled, her face a mask of defiance though her hands shook with an unstoppable tremor.

  “It’s gone,” he said. She blinked, her jaw unclenching for a moment as she turned, a fluid quality in the movement that slowly faded as she focused on him.

  “It’ll be back,” she said shortly.

  “No,” he replied, gesturing to the eastern end of the stream where the dim glow of dawn graced the sky. “It won’t.”

  Hesitantly, she nodded as her breathing slowed, and they turned toward Brindani and Vaasurri on the opposite bank. Before the sun even crested the horizon, they had cleared the edge of the Spur and found a suitable place to rest. Uthalion sat listening to the forest for a long time as the others fell into slumber. The howls of the dreamers left them in peace, the haunting voices of their masters never sought him out. But, like an unreachable itch, he came back to the unknown song in the cave again and again, turning his attention to the south as though he might catch it across the wide expanse of the Mere-That-Was.

  Gray fog surrounded Brindani as the slow process of waking up brought him to the forefront of a half-remembered dream. He could feel the cool grass of the Akana on his cheek, but could not open his eyes, still trying to grasp the edges of consciousness that would release him from the border between dreams and reality. The familiar, quiet fog was a comfort, though it had grown thinner, billowing slightly to reveal the silhouetted images of the dream beyond. He recoiled from the figures that shambled through the mist, tried to shut out the barking orders that echoed from the ghostly little town that was usually hidden in the dream.

  He found a sword in his hand, an
d blood covered his dusty armor.

  A deep breath filled his lungs as he awoke with a start and cracked his tired eyes open in the bright light of the noonday sun.

  He pressed his hands against the grass of the Akana, inhaling its refreshing earthy scent, and sat up to survey the land of the Mere-That-Was. Wide fields stretched as far as he could see, rising and falling in a tide of deep green. Long grasses flowed in the light wind, rolling like the waves that had once lapped these shores. Spiraling whorls of crystal dotted the landscape, the sculptures of a mad god, turning sunlight into blinding rainbows that dappled the fields with color. Small birds flew among the prismatic reflections, with translucent feathers and long trailing tails, almost invisible as they hunted flies and beetles.

  Shivering despite the day’s warmth, Brindani turned away from sight of the Akana, only half-remembering the last time he’d crossed the Mere-That-Was. He was not particularly ready to recall the other half. A soft moan drew his attention to Ghaelya, turning in her sleep, her eyes twitching beneath their lids. She seemed lost in dreams of her own. He leaned close, wondering if he might somehow hear the things she heard in her dreams, but her lids fluttered open, and her hand immediately slapped to the hilt of her sword.

  He leaned back nonchalantly as she sat up, shielding her eyes from the sun and peering out across the Akana. The whirling energy lines on her skin flared until she calmed somewhat and rolled back to her side with a sigh of relief.

  “Where are the others?” she asked.

  “Scouting the area, I suppose,” he replied, squinting east and west for Uthalion and Vaasurri, even though their trail would be hard to pick up. “They’ll be back soon.”

  “Any sign of the dreamers?”

  “No, but I heard them howling, just before I drifted off to sleep,” he answered, shuddering at the memory. Like wolves howling at a rising moon, the dreamers had heralded the sunrise with their own song from deep within the Spur before falling silent. “I think we’re safe from them for now, until nightfall at least.”

  “Not surprising,” she said and stood, stretching in the sunlight. “Their eyes never close. I don’t think daylight agrees with them much. What about the Choir?”

  “Nothing of them either, though I’m not sure I’d know them if I saw them.” Brindani looked back to the edge of the forest, wondering if they were watching from the shadows, waiting for the dark. Looking askance at her, he asked, “Why do you think they chase you?”

  She looked back at the distant line of trees and shook her head, shrugging slightly.

  “I killed one of them, when they took Tess,” she said hesitantly. “Vengeance, perhaps?”

  “Why not kill you then?” he asked in turn, certain that she was hiding something, that maybe she had dreamed more answers than she was willing to part with. “Why would they leave with your sister and then come back for you?”

  “I don’t know,” she answered shortly, fixing him with a hard stare before striding away, pointing at the Spur. “Go and ask them if you wish.”

  Letting the matter drop, he collected his pack and held it close to his chest. As he squeezed it, water leaked out, soaking his hands and spilling onto the grass. Reaching in, he found the silkroot pouch and placed his hand on little more than a mushy clump. Squeezing his eyes shut, he let it drop and struggled to collect his racing thoughts.

  “Ruined,” he muttered. Tremors tried to reclaim his clenched fists.

  He had stumbled crossing the wide stream last night, too slow to react when the kaia came. Worse he had dropped his torch in the water. He paused as a cold bead of sweat ran down his brow, chilling him—the first herald of the gut-wrenching pain to come. Carefully he opened his eyes, scanning the grassland and the various flowers that grew nearby.

  “Useless,” he whispered, seeing nothing that might help him. He closed his eyes again, the familiar ache already beginning to grow behind them. He tried to clear his mind, hoping he might hear the song again, drifting as it did from the south, soothing him with wordless promises. But it was silent, and he cursed it for hiding from him.

  Catching sight of movement from the west, he squinted through the sunlight and saw Uthalion speaking with Vaasurri.

  “He will get us to Tohrepur … He has to,” he said under his breath. The first needles of pain pricked at his stomach as his hands shook and absently fidgeted with blades of grass. Ghaelya paced at the edge of the narrow field, the land dropping off steeply beyond her, and he relaxed somewhat. He nodded, knowing the song that had lured him to her outside Airspur would come again, that he would find it wherever she went, and that it would fulfill its promise. Looking back to Uthalion, he whispered, “Of all those we fought at Caidris, of all the graves we left behind … There is one grave left to dig …”

  “Do you trust them?” Vaasurri asked.

  Uthalion studied the waking pair that had disturbed his mostly quiet life in the Spur. The half-elf sat silently in the distance as Ghaelya paced the edge of the rise, staring out at the southern lands. Uthalion had tried to ignore the spectacle of the Akana himself, unmoved by its savage beauty.

  “Not sure it matters now, but I’d be lying if I said yes,” he answered at length. “One’s got too many secrets, and the other one … Well, the other one is due for a reckoning.”

  Vaasurri tilted his head curiously.

  “Which is which?” he asked.

  “Take your pick,” Uthalion answered and eyed the edge of the Spur, still able to feel the moment of death that had loomed over him before dawn. It had been many years since things had been so clear for him, a clarity it seemed only death was capable of summoning. He shifted the heavy waterskins he carried from one shoulder to the other and looked to the killoren. “I suppose we should help them … So far as they deserve our help at least.”

  Uthalion tasted the lie on his tongue as soon as he’d spoken it. At dawn, while the others slept, he’d stared into the sketchbook of plants and animals he’d kept up for years. He’d knelt down by new specimens he’d never seen bloom before on the Akana, and he had ignored both, his thoughts traveling deep into the shadows of the Mere-That-Was.

  He’d considered leaving them all as the sun had crested the horizon, setting out for Tohrepur alone. He’d told himself it was finally time to go back and face the ruins, had convinced himself he needed to see that nothing had survived the Keepers’ assault. But in the end he feared it was the memory of the song that had driven him to such an impulse.

  “Then we’ll need to move soon.” Vaasurri’s voice stirred Uthalion from his darker thoughts.

  “Yes,” Uthalion replied. “We should get as close as we can to the Wash before dark.”

  “I suspect dark will bring those hounds, the dreamers,” Vaasurri said and caught Uthalion’s eye. “They’re after Ghaelya. I don’t know why, but there’s more prey in the Spur than just one genasi girl … Their pursuit has nothing to do with mere hunger.”

  Uthalion nodded slowly, eyeing the shadows of the Spur casually, but seeing far beyond the trees and the foothills of the mountains, looking instead toward Airspur and Maryna.

  “I agree,” he said distractedly, adding under his breath, “Beyond mere hunger.”

  “Perhaps we’ll find out more when she’s ready,” Vaasurri said and headed toward the waiting pair. But Uthalion barely heard his old friend, torn between two directions: north and south.

  When he considered south, he saw only the end of the journey: an unremarkable collection of ruins called Tohrepur, once a small city on the edge of vast inland waters. It had been standing six years before and would stand for many more, crumbling slowly to dust until only the memory of a city remained, not enough to disturb a soul.

  As he stared north, another ruin caught his mind’s eye, though that one had been constructed of love. Unlike Tohrepur, the ruins of his marriage might yet be saved, though he did not know how to repair the rifts opened between the two of them. Unlike Tohrepur, he knew Maryna would not grow old waiting f
or him—and he knew he couldn’t go back yet, couldn’t make the same mistakes twice.

  Uthalion needed to see Caidris and Tohrepur, to kick the dust, to see the dead, and bury his nightmare once and for all. He turned south and truly looked upon the southern lands of the Akana.

  He recalled a particular flower in the Spur that lured flies into a sticky, foul-smelling trap, drowning them in its green gullet. Such was the northern shore of the Akana, sparkling and pretty, lulling the unwary into a world touched by the throes of a dying goddess. The morning sun never shone on the waiting teeth or the hidden poison, never dulled its shine enough for one to see the razor’s edge of a graceful crystal. The swift little birds never sang of the terrors beyond the north shores, their tiny beaks too full of a bounty of carrion to bother with warnings. The Akana was a perfect illusion, but, he supposed, no more than many other places in the world.

  He thought of Vaasurri and recalled one of the sayings of the killoren as he stared through the shine and the glitter of the Akana.

  “It is all a road to death,” he whispered and strode toward the others, his mind a bit clearer, his purpose more determined. “And it is all a road to life. It is the blood, and it is the bloom.”

  Giant crystals rose from the tall grass, twisted and shining. Motes drifted over the grassland like storm clouds made of glass and greenery, filled with noisome birds and dragging shadows beneath them. Ghaelya had heard the crystals called Mystra’s Tears, and had dreamed of them most recently, like a landmark she was to search for and that she was afraid to look upon. Afraid because if she confirmed where she stood, the dream would evolve, change, and begin to show her other places. It was not the places she feared so much as the things she could only half remember when awake.

  The beast in the Spur, the teeth and the eyes, the twisted tail, and the wheezing hunger rumbling in its hot breath—that had been real, not some figment in a dream. She imagined Tessaeril being taken through the forest, running from the kaia, standing where she stood. A sudden cold dread raised the hairs on the back of her neck as she turned toward the Spur.