The Restless Shore: The Wilds

by James P. Davis

  Uthalion hid his grin at the half-elf’s exaggerated show, musing that any field captain worth his command would have had them both shot down immediately—and would have made the archers aim carefully, so as not to waste more than two arrows on such buffoons.

  Despite all, it seemed that Brindani was doing well, not yet showing the more extreme signs of a silkroot addiction. But Uthalion knew it couldn’t last long. He wondered when Brindani’s other illusion, the one of health, would begin to crack and fall apart. Silkroot was not kind; he’d seen men try to tear out their own innards when the drug became too much for their meager purses to afford. It had seemed to him the worst kind of ignoble death for, what he considered, the least amount of reward.

  Passing into the western valley, Brindani paused again, bringing Uthalion up short as he angled their path through the center of the deep brush on either side. Low trees and bushes waved in the wind, likely hiding dozens of bone-moth swarms waiting patiently for one lucky stroke of lightning to start the fires they thrived on each spring.

  In one burst of lightning, Uthalion spied a spot of color just ahead, but darkness claimed the valley before he could identify what it had been. He kept a watch for it to appear again as he patted Brindani on the shoulder, signaling that they could abandon their show and appear comfortable, as if they’d slipped by the watch of the predators on their trail. They ignored the telltale scratch of claw on stone and buzzing whispers as they made their way further from the crevice where Ghaelya and Vaasurri waited.

  As lightning arced across the sky again, Uthalion searched curiously for what he’d noticed earlier and caught sight of it—just a step away from Brindani’s boot. Cursing, he threw his shoulder into Brindani’s side, tackling the surprised half-elf to the ground in a cloud of dust. Patting Brindani’s shoulder, Uthalion sat up and crouched over a small clump of yellow flowers with wide, thick petals and stout stems. He hovered just out of reach of the blooms and held the half-elf back, shaking his head and breathing a sigh of relief.

  “Wyrmwind,” he whispered, answering the quiet question in Brindani’s eye. “This time of year, it sheds pollen at the slightest contact, a deadly poison to anything that breathes it.”

  Adding credence to his observation, he gestured to several thin twigs scattered around the base of the plant and the valley floor where they stood. Bleached a yellow white, the bones of dozens of animals littered the ground, an occasional skull here and there grinning in the flickering light of the storm.

  “Don’t disturb the trees, don’t look at the shaedlings, and now,” Brindani whispered back, “Don’t step on the yellow flowers. Is there anything here that can’t kill us one way or another?”

  “Well,” Uthalion sighed as they stood and circled around the wyrmwinds, keeping an eye out for more of the deadly plants, “If you happen to see a chilled flask of fine wine don’t take any chances … let me deal with it first.”

  “Don’t be a hero,” Brindani muttered.

  Though Uthalion tried to press farther into the valley, hoping to put as much distance between themselves and the others as possible, he could no longer deny the growing mass of shadowed forms trailing behind them. He’d glanced casually a few times, appearing not to notice the white eyes and long claws in the brief flashes of lightning, prowling closer and ready to pounce. Eyeing the edge of the long valley, he cleared his throat. Brindani caught the signal quickly and kneeled to prepare for the next step.

  Uthalion knelt as well, drawing a handful of long sticks from the top of his boot and a bundle of thick, sweet smelling grass from his belt. Large wings fluttered closer, landing lightly atop the curving valley walls. Claws scrabbled nearer over the rocks, scraping at insectlike hides as the dark fey fought for position. As Uthalion quickly wove grass and sticks together, Brindani carefully strung the longbow he’d used as a walking stick and swung a quiver of arrows around from beneath his cloak.

  “When this starts, if you see a chance to escape,” Brindani said quietly, “Take it. Leave me.”

  “Now who’s being a hero?” Uthalion said as he carefully bent his green wooded sticks together, overlapping them to create a roughly spherical shape.

  “I’m serious.”

  “And I am ignoring you until we both get out of here,” Uthalion replied as thunder cracked loudly overhead, causing a chorus of buzzing whispers that drew closer with each step. His fingertips tingled slightly with a burning sensation as sap and damp grass mingled in his hands. “Do you see a good spot?”

  After a moment of hesitation, Brindani exhaled in frustration and scanned the area slowly, looking up to the narrowed opening at the valley’s edge. He nodded and drew a single arrow. Uthalion had gathered a handful of the small bones along the valley floor, and he placed them carefully inside the crude basket-lantern of grass and sticks. He nodded back to the half-elf with a held breath.

  “Ready your bow,” he said.

  Brindani stood, took aim, and loosed the shaft all in one fluid motion. As the arrow thunked solidly into the low hanging branch of a tree bent over the edge of the valley, Uthalion was briefly grateful for the influence of the silkroot still in Brindani’s system, though he knew he’d regret the feeling in a few hours. A long, thin length of twine, soaked in water, hung from the arrow, and he swiftly tied the end to the basket as the shaedlings rose into the air, sensing the end of their game.

  Uthalion drew his sword and backed away, his eyes widening at the multitude of shadowy figures rising against the stormy backdrop of the sky. Lightning crashed, and thunder growled through the valleys, shaking the ground as the wind howled and whistled through the Wash. Brindani drew another arrow and sparked his flint to the cloth-wrapped end of its shaft.

  Buzzing shadows droned toward them, shrieking what sounded like a feigned dismay at finding their prey unsurprised.

  “Don’t look,” Uthalion warned as Brindani strung the arrow and aimed.

  Shaedlings dived from the sky, spears of shadow coalescing into their hands as their white eyes glinted with the thrill of the hunt’s end. Brindani’s arrow streaked toward the lantern, and Uthalion shielded his eyes, lowering his sword and turning as the fire met the basket and flared into a brilliant, blinding white light. Pained shrieks tore at his ears as the dark fey recoiled from the radiance, their lost spears clattering to the ground and disappearing in smoky puffs.

  Uthalion smiled at the pained sound of the blinded shaedlings, and clapped Brindani on the shoulder as they made for the darkness at the valley’s edge.

  The lantern, a fey weapon that Vaasurri called a sugar-star, would burn for several breaths, and time was short. As Uthalion strode forward, gingerly opening his eyes, he turned toward the southern branch of valley. He stopped short for a heartbeat, his eyes widening as Brindani ran past him. His stride faltered, and he stumbled into the shadow beyond the already dying light of the blazing basket as he surveyed the horror that had lain hidden in the darkness behind them.

  The floor of the north end of the valley, illuminated by the lantern, shivered and swayed. A rippling mass of yellow flowers shook ominously in the strengthening wind of the storm.

  “Mystra’s bones,” he swore and turned to run. The first drops of a long-held rain splashed on his cheek and roughly disturbed the deadly yellow petals of the wyrmwinds.

  9 Mirtul, the Year of the Ageless One

  (1479 DR)

  The Akana, the Wash, Akanûl

  Heavy drops of rain splashed over Ghaelya’s skin, each one tingling as they ran along the glowing maze of patterns across her body. They were a soothing balm to her spirit, but only fed the tempest of rage in her heart. She pulled herself over the edge of a wide island of green, and saw the jagged valleys of the Wash, the stilled and silent tide, laid out at her feet. Whiplike trees stood as sentinels to the darkness beyond the Wash, their sharp thorns twisting and swaying at the end of long tentacle branches.

  Lightning rippled through the sky, spreading far to the south. It was a storm beyo
nd any she’d ever witnessed in Airspur, dark waters drifting like an airborne ocean through the night. Water and lightning mingled, calling to the element in her spirit and summoning her to join them in the unstoppable flood of nature’s wrath.

  Vaasurri knelt nearby, stringing his bow as Ghaelya paced along the border of the cliff, staring daggers into the dark depths they’d crawled from in silence.

  “I do not enjoy being sheltered like this,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “You would risk your life needlessly?” the killoren asked.

  “It’s what I’m best at … Well, according to my family at least,” she replied.

  “And what of your sister?” Vaasurri pressed, standing. A touch of anger in his voice gave her pause. “I was led to believe that she was the reason for this little journey. How will she fare if you are dead, I wonder?”

  “I—I didn’t …” she stammered, taken aback by the killoren’s sudden anger.

  “You didn’t think,” he said simply, though his black eyes seemed to say much more as they bored into her. “Yes, I understand lack of thought. It seems to be a common curse of late.”

  His eyes shifted to the skies over the Wash as he adjusted the quiver on his shoulder, nodding as dark shapes rose against the backdrop of the storm and the buzz of their dragonfly wings drew closer. A flash of brilliant light, a brief and dying sunrise, flared to life in the distance, scattering dozens of the dark fey across the valleys, their shrieks echoing through the wind and the thunder.

  “Now perhaps you’ll get the fight you desire,” Vaasurri said, his words stabbing at her even as her bloodlust returned to a quick boil. “I would say fight for your life, but perhaps you should concentrate more on your sister’s life.”

  “Tess,” she whispered, the name escaping her lips on a held breath as the shaedlings drew near. A shaft of pure shadow, long and sharp, streaked toward her, silhouetted against the flash of yellow-white cloud lightning. She loosened her legs, letting the fluid motion roll through her body, bending like grass in the wind as she rolled out of the spear’s path But it was not the inexorable crawl of the tide that gave motion to her instincts. Deep waters did not surge to draw the dagger from her boot or take aim on the black figure diving toward her.

  Something older took her spirit in its warm embrace.

  Her sister’s soft red eyes rose to the forefront of her mind’s eye, heating her soul with a flickering tongue of flame. Her arm hurled the blade burning through the air to blaze into the shaedling’s chest. Its shriek of pain and shock fueled a hot spark within her that she hadn’t felt since childhood, bringing a phantom scent of smoke that seemed to steam beneath her skin.

  The spark cooled slightly as the rain grew heavy, as the twitching body of the dark fey plummeted back into the Wash, but the familiar flame warmed her hands. It throbbed as a living thing in her heart, her element twin waiting and ready to direct her, an unsheathed sword to cut down the descending black wings and reduce her foes to ash.

  “Tess,” she whispered again, and she assumed a fighting stance as the shaedlings came for her from the shadows of her singing dreams.

  Uthalion’s boots skidded as he ran, loose rocks bouncing loudly down the valley slope. Bushes shook as he passed, and small thorns scratched at his leather armor. His heartbeat pounded in his ears. Rain, pattering through the underbrush, streamed into his eyes, blurring the dark form of Brindani, limping quickly ahead of him. He dared not look back, knowing without a doubt the danger that crept up behind them, slow and swirling on the wind.

  Shaedlings buzzed overhead. The bolder ones were still in pursuit, swooping low and spinning their shadowy veils in an attempt to separate the pair. Half-blind already, Uthalion easily weathered the cold darkness the creatures spun, unhindered by them. He was focused on reaching higher ground where he could place steel between himself and death—rather than a brief moment of held breath in the drowning wave of the wyrmwinds’ deadly pollen.

  Shadowy spears cracked into the ground around him, shivering in the dirt only a moment before dissolving, filling the valley with a stagnant, sour smell that burned in his throat. With the edge of the Wash in sight, a stone wave crested with green, he drew his sword and cursed the flicker of hope that sprang forth in his thoughts.

  “No time for that just yet,” he muttered and dived through a wall of clinging shadow, the smoky black mist enveloping him for a single, chilling heartbeat—enough time for a well-aimed javelin of darkness to cut deeply into his injured shoulder.

  He winced in pain and lost his footing, one leg slipping out from beneath him as he tumbled forward into the dirt and rolled onto his back. Blood pulsed from the wound as he raised his blade blindly, struggling to find his bearings and push himself up on one arm. Pain flared through his shoulder, and a thundering buzz filled his ears as a dark figure bore down on him.

  Rain crashed into Uthalion’s eyes as he swung his sword, its edge catching on something he could not determine. Lightning sizzled through the clouds, and thunder matched the pulse pounding in his ears as he imagined himself, prone and helpless before his enemies. There would be no funeral, no missive sent to his estranged family, only a little death in the mud, a body never found nor cared about save by the flies and flowers.

  “Blood and bloom,” he muttered.

  Shrieks broke through the storm, and a strong arm lifted him from behind. Regaining his footing and favoring his injured shoulder, he stepped back as Brindani loosed two more arrows. A shaedling lay twitching on the ground with an arrow in its chest, its broken wings fluttering madly to a sudden stop. Its companions backed off, seeking refuge from the half-elf’s range and shrieking unintelligible curses.

  Brindani turned without a word and continued on, the cliff and a dangling rope in sight. The shaedlings gave chase, closing again, but the quick release of a snapping bowstring from above scattered the dark fey back into hiding.

  “Go!” Uthalion yelled over the thunder, clapping Brindani on the shoulder and swinging the rope into the half-elf’s hands.

  “No, I’ll stay!”

  “You’ll do me more good up there!” Uthalion yelled, cutting him off and gesturing to his shoulder.

  Brindani nodded reluctantly and pulled himself up, hand over hand toward the others.

  Uthalion ignored the hidden shaedlings as he waited, leaning against the rocks and watching. In between arcing crackles of light, the undulating cloud of sickly vapor that flooded the valley rolled inexorably toward him. The misty river of the wyrmwinds crashed in slow motion against the walls, breaking like waves through the silent tide. Uthalion raised an eye to the cloudy heavens, considering all the gods to which he had once prayed.

  “If any of you give a damn,” he muttered, “Here’s your chance to give me a sign.”

  He took the slack rope and gritted his teeth, pulling the first measure of his weight with his wounded shoulder. He pressed on, the pain numbing only slightly, pushing with his legs when he could and quietly swearing with each gained length of rope. With every breath he expected the shaedlings to attack again, ready for the crude javelins that would pierce his back, wounds full of shadow-stuff one moment, then spilling blood the next. The two bows covering his ascent meant they never came. Near the top he could smell the grass, hear the swift whoosh of arrows leaving Vaasurri’s bow, though the beating of shaedling wings was distant.

  Then, in a sudden hush, his vision blurred again, and what little he could see turned a sickly shade of yellow, like old bones drying in the sun. The misty river of wyrm-wind broke against the wall, surrounding him. His lungs burned with a last held breath, and his shoulder ached anew as he pulled himself up another length. His eyes watered and felt as if they were on fire; he clenched them shut, focusing on the rough rope and the numbness in his hands. Four times his hands passed one another before the pressure in his chest grew too great, and in a panic, he gasped for air.

  Thick, chalky pollen coated his throat, filling his mouth with the bittersw
eet taste of flowers as burning tears streamed from his eyes. One of his hands slipped on the rope, and somewhere he could hear distant voices calling his name as his vision narrowed to fine points of flashing light surrounded by inky darkness.

  Ghaelya pulled at Uthalion’s arm, yelling with the effort as the human became a dead weight in her grip. Brindani reached down, securing a hand on the man’s bleeding shoulder, and the pair dragged him into the grass and away from the edge of the Wash. Turning him over, Ghaelya paled at the sight of his face covered in pollen, eyes swollen shut and nose running. Vaasurri knelt quickly, letting the rain wash away the poisonous wyrmwind as he raised his waterskin and forced the human to drink. Uthalion coughed and spat most of it up, but remained among the living, and for that at least Ghaelya was grateful.

  She decided she would wait and yell at him later for his foolishness.

  The shaedlings had scattered when the wyrmwind drew near, but Vaasurri warned that they’d not gone far and would likely follow. Heeding that, she and Brindani hauled the human to his feet and began a slow stumbling through the grass, the killoren wielding Brindani’s bow and watching their backs. Brindani’s eyes guided her, and Uthalion was able to manage almost one step for their every two as the half-elf pulled them slowly toward the east.

  The thin trees they passed seemed fragile, their green-skinned bark twisted like free-standing vines and clinging only to the air for support. They seemed harmless at first glance, but Ghaelya cursed loudly as her shoulder brushed against a low branch, causing it to swiftly whip its sharp thorns into her skin. She crouched as low as she could with the human’s weight at her side, though several more of the vine-trees caught her with their stings as she passed.