by Jak Koke
Panting, Duvan got his bearings. Where was he? Was he actually safe? Yes, seemed to be for the moment. Good.
Where’s Slanya? he thought.
Abruptly, dread filled him. His flight to safe ground had taken him away from the campfire. Slanya was far outside his protection now. With the plaguelands erupting so close, she was sure to be exposed. And that much exposure could easily kill her. He needed to get back.
He needed to get back now.
After Duvan disappeared, Slanya instinctively moved closer to the fire, not for warmth but a need for protection. She knew that the fire could not protect her from anything in the spellplague storm, but it felt safer.
Spellplague lit up the air around the camp. Like a spiderweb, strands of magic hung glowing in the air. The small cocoon that had been their camp grew smaller and smaller until Slanya felt the universe coming apart around her.
Chaos.
Tiny filaments of shimmering magic sliced through the air and the ground and the haversacks. And Slanya. In their wake they left a vortex of randomness. There was no pain as they cut through her, only the sensation of dissociation between her mind and her body.
The pain only came in the aftermath, in the wake of turbulence caused by the crystals. And when it came, it started small-a pinprick on her shoulder and a tiny burn on her toe. But then there was another and another, each small, but adding to the others until she was besieged with a thousand pinpricks, ten thousand tiny burns.
Duvan would return. She had never seen him so angry, but she felt strongly that he would come back, that he would not leave her alone. Although even with his ability, what could he do against anything this intense? She did not know, but his companionship would be a comfort now.
Slanya had been trained to focus her mind, to use the power of her thoughts against material pain, and she tried to use it now, tried to concentrate to keep the unity of her body and mind. But in the wake of each filament, the onslaught of pain made it impossible to focus, and her mind grew disoriented.
The elixir would protect her. Gregor’s concoction would keep her alive through this. She had to trust him.
She did trust him. Didn’t she?
The last segment of her right pinkie finger spun away like a tiny fleshy mote. She watched it in silent fascination. This time there had been no pain when the churning magic had severed it from her hand. And as she looked down now, she wondered in amusement at the blood.
So unpredictable. So incomprehensible.
Screeching leather on steel filled the air, and Slanya was suddenly upside down, floating. How was it possible? It was as though the storm had picked her up and was examining her like a trapped insect before squashing her. Slanya found herself floating toward the campfire, which had grown to the size of the monastery funeral pyre. Blue mist and white fog burned gauzy sheets across her vision.
Was it her imagination or did she smell burning bodies? An intricate weave of palest blue gauze blanketed the camp, permeating all things. Slanya could not help but breathe it in-inhale disease and exhale fire.
The rational, objective part of her mind knew that this was too much exposure. Pilgrims to the changelands tried for the briefest of touches-a kiss of spellplague, an oblique lash of blue fire.
But this … this was like bathing in it. Drawing it in, spellplague permeated her whole being, and she could not run. She could not escape or withdraw. She had to endure, merely endure the choking and the disintegration.
The campfire’s yellow and red flames belched black smoke as they beckoned to her. Give in, they said. Abandon reason.
Slanya listened. Why not? She had lost, so why not embrace the changelands? Twisting in the air as she floated, Slanya danced. Whirling and spinning and throwing herself in writhing, acrobatic circles, Slanya took in the pain and the chaos. It was the true power of nature, and she could not force it to make sense. She felt her mind unhinge, and she did not care.
If Kelemvor meant for this to be her time, then she would celebrate.
Slanya watched, detached, as she reached into the fire with her maimed hand and moved the flames. Her arm lit up and with amusement she waved it around in her dance. The entire camp was ablaze in glorious yellow and red, with constellations of tiny blue electric balls unraveling pale strands throughout Slanya’s personal sky.
Abruptly, her world went dark, and Slanya felt herself falling … falling.
Was death coming?
She wondered if she should be afraid. Most people were afraid of dying.
In fact, Duvan was the only person she’d ever met who did not fear dying. Where had he gotten to?
The truth was that at this moment, Slanya had no fear. Something told her that she was ready, that she had prepared for death, and that Kelemvor would have a place for her in the City of Judgment.
Blackness and silence filled her senses until she knew no more.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Slanya!” Duvan yelled into the swirling darkness. He forced himself to sprint, back toward the campfire. Fear of what he would find clamped down on him as he ran. Swirling wind and dust pelted him with needle sharp fragments of stone. Pale blue threads lit up the night around him like ball lightning, itching at the periphery of his sight.
Duvan sped back the way he’d come. Or so he thought. It seemed to be taking too long to find the camp. The changelands were tricky and shifting. Rule number one was to never separate. He shouldn’t have left the fire.
But she had made him so angry. Nobody can understand what it was like to lose a twin like that. If he’d stayed with Talfani, maybe she’d be alive now. It was his fault that Talfani was gone.
Just as it would be his fault if something had happened to Slanya.
Duvan slowed his frantic, headlong crashing through the swirling darkness. “Slanya!” he screamed. “Slanya!”
But no answers came through the howling wind. No voices reached his ears, save the growling, mocking laughter of the storm.
Maybe I’ve lost her too, he thought. Maybe I’ve given her to the storm.
Ribbons of blue fire seared the air around him, but none touched. In the flashing, eldritch light Duvan caught sight of red embers and the square shadows of two backpacks in the blackness.
He ran toward the fire, stumbling over a dark lump. “Slanya!”
She lay motionless and silent, curled into a fetal position on the rumbling ground at his feet.
“Slanya?” he gasped. “Slanya, can you hear me?”
She said nothing in response, but he saw that her body started making gentle rocking motions. “Alive,” he breathed quietly. “Alive.”
But when he saw the web pulsing inside her like veins of blue light, he gasped. Not again, he thought. This is not happening again.
Duvan had lost one soul under his care to spellplague, and it had devastated him. It had, in fact, defined his life. And even though he knew that to be true and knew that he should move on, he could not simply shed his guilt and his responsibility. His failure had led to Talfani’s death, and now it would result in Slanya’s.
No, he told himself. No, it would not.
“Slanya,” he said, not sure if she could even hear him. “I’m going to get us out of here if I can. If we stay here you will surely die, and I won’t let that happen.”
The gentlest hint of a nod from Slanya indicated that she’d heard him. He took quick stock-she looked physically whole. There were no major wounds he could see. There was blood coming from her right pinkie finger where it had been cut at the last knuckle.
Duvan grabbed a bandage from his pack and strapped it around her finger. It would help stop the bleeding, at least. That was the only part of her condition that he had any treatment for.
Tiny, translucent blue stars of magic twinkled at hundreds of points on Slanya’s skin. But Duvan could do nothing to address it. Slanya would have to mend herself. Duvan found himself hoping that Gregor had not been lying, that his elixir would save Slanya from the funeral pyre.
“I am going to carry you,” he said. “We’re just going to the edge of the mote for now. I have to see where we are and where we’re headed.”
Duvan put his pack on backward so that it rested on his chest instead of his back, then lifted Slanya across his shoulders and stood up. She was larger than he was but weighed about the same.
The rim of the mote was no more than forty or fifty paces away, but he didn’t want to take the chance of losing Slanya. When he reached the edge, he lowered her to the ground and stared out at the maelstrom.
Their mote seemed to be caught in an ever-tightening vortex, spiraling down.
Duvan watched another mote ahead of them reach the center of the vortex and plunge down abruptly and disappear into the fabric of the land.
Time to vacate this mote, Duvan decided. But how?
He considered the glideskin in his backpack. If he’d been alone, using the glideskin might have been ideal for flying off this rock and drifting down on the gentle winds. But he wasn’t alone and the winds were far from gentle. Slanya’s weight in addition to his own would be too much for the glideskin to hold for long, even in ideal conditions. This storm was far from ideal, and falling here would mean death, or worse, surviving and landing in the Underdark.
An entire realm of vile and hostile creatures, the Under-dark could be more dangerous than the Plaguewrought Land. Duvan had heard enough from Tyrangal to know that he did not want to go there, ever. Armies of drow elves, cities of mind flayers, hungry beasts-even Tyrangal wouldn’t travel the Underdark. Duvan and Slanya would never make it back to the surface alive.
Duvan had failed Slanya once already, like he’d failed Talfani years ago. But this time he was going to get her some help in time to save her. He liked Slanya, and he wasn’t going to let her die.
Duvan looked out over the distance and watched for opportunities. In the purple and blue light, Duvan saw patches of what looked to be relatively solid land masses below. They might be able to lower themselves down with a rope.
No-a quick calculation showed they were most likely too high up for that. At the limit of their rope, they’d still have a long fall. Too long to survive, even with the glideskin.
Then an idea came to him. It was incredibly risky and would take exacting timing, but with luck and skill it could be accomplished. Every few minutes, a smallish mote would shoot across the storm, its trajectory bent by the pull of the vortex.
The fastest motes avoided getting caught by the vortex. Instead they sped out of the center and into calmer sections of the Plaguewrought Land.
Duvan didn’t know if he could do it, but catching any one of those fast motes would probably be safer than staying where they were. The mote they stood on was destined to be crushed and torn apart while being hurled into the Underdark. Not his first choice.
Lying down next to Slanya, Duvan used leather straps to secure the cleric to his back. She was heavy enough that the straps would leave marks in her skin. But it was the only way he could move her.
When she was as secure as he could make her, Duvan struggled to his knees and then pushed up to his feet. Breathing hard and feeling the burn in his legs and back, Duvan went about the business of scanning the sky for incoming motes. He tried to find one big enough to hold them, but that also would fly close enough to theirs so that they’d have a chance of crossing to it.
A short wait later he found a prospect arcing across the plane of the vortex like a comet. It was larger than many of the others, but far, far smaller than the one they were on now. It might be moving too fast, but Duvan knew they had few options.
First however, they’d have to move. He watched the smaller mote’s trajectory and tried to estimate the rotation of their current mote. They needed to be on the opposite side of their mote.
Duvan checked to make sure the leather straps holding Slanya were secure and tight, then he began the trudge out across the rock. Most of the vegetation had been stripped off by the storm, so it was a little easier to move, but the flashes of light made it hard to see holes and jutting stones. Duvan caught his foot on a rock as he ran-he stumbled. He struggled to keep his balance and sank to his knees.
Slanya groaned in his ear. A good sign. She was still alive, at least.
But he did not fall. Duvan smelled the iron tang of blood mingled with the faint odor of lilac soap from Slanya’s skin. He recovered his footing and pushed. Hopefully there was still time.
The smaller mote was almost to them by the time he reached the other side. He was still pulling out the rope and grappling hook when it whizzed by and disappeared into the distance.
Chagrined, he watched the mote vanish. One chance gone.
The night wore on, and it looked as though they would have no choice but to ride their mote through the vortex, when he saw another possible opportunity. This time a very small mote hurtled toward them. Tiny, Duvan thought, but perhaps large enough. This one was traveling very fast.
It’s not like we have a surplus of options, he thought wryly.
Duvan predicted that this tiny mote would pass by extremely close. No need for him to carry Slanya very far this time. He took a couple of narrow leather strips from his backpack and lashed the wrists of his fingerless leather gloves so that they wouldn’t slip off his hands. The gloves might just save his palms.
Then he readied his rope and grappling hook. The other mote would pass below them, so he lowered the rope down and swung it so that, as the speedier mote passed by underneath, the hook would catch.
The rope sped through his glove-clad palms. “Time to go,” he whispered to Slanya. “Our coach has finally arrived.” Duvan tightened his grip on the rope as he watched it draw taut. Even so, his arm nearly ripped from its socket as the rope pulled him and his burden-Slanya and pack and all-over the edge of the mote.
Wind blasted his face as they fell, his hands sliding on the accelerating rope. Duvan gritted his teeth and held on with all his strength. Even through the reinforced leather of his gloves, he felt the heat of the rope. Finally, just when he thought his strength would give out, they came to a stop, swinging like a pendulum beneath their new mote. They sped through the loud and chaotic night.
Duvan folded his legs and feet around the dangling rope, entwining himself with it so that he could use his legs to hold them while he rested his arms and hands. The leather straps that held Slanya’s unconscious body to him chomped deep gouges in his shoulders, but he could hardly feel that over the burn in his hands.
Taking quick stock of their situation, Duvan realized that they couldn’t remain where they were for very long. They were flying through the sky, tethered by a black filament of rope three hundred feet below the mote. Even if Duvan could hold them there for the duration, the chance was great that they’d slam into something-the ground or another mote or who-knew-what.
So after a few minutes’ rest, Duvan stretched his thumb muscles. He laced his fingers together and cracked his knuckles. He could climb anything on his own, but this load was unlike any he had borne before. He massaged his palms, alternating between the left and the right until much of the burn and ache had receded for the moment.
When he was ready, Duvan started climbing. Hand over hand, he ascended the rope, using his entwined legs as support. Slanya’s body was canted awkwardly, slightly off-center and heavier on his left side. His muscles burned from the effort, especially his left shoulder.
“We’re going to make it,” he said, not sure if he was trying to reassure Slanya or himself. Wind dried sweat on his face as he climbed. Far below, the ground was a dark expanse illuminated in patches by dim blue fog. It seemed mostly solid to Duvan.
Above them, past the small, dark silhouette of the mote at the top of the rope, the black and purple sky was cleaved in twain. Through the
gash flowed a swirling hurricane of blue galaxies and fiery red motes of fire. Pure chaos and the Nine Hells could not have been more frightening.
It took over an hour and several rest stops along the way, but finally Duvan was able to pull himself and Slanya up over the ledge and onto the stone surface of the mote. There was just enough level ground for them both to fit lying down.
Duvan made sure that Slanya was fully on solid earth, then he tied the rope around them and collapsed. And as exhaustion took hold of him, he realized that they were headed back north toward the border, roughly in the direction of Ormpetarr.
“I did it,” he said. “I got us off that mote.”
Slanya said nothing in response, and perhaps she was already dead, strapped to his back. But for now, he was too exhausted to do anything but lay there with the grit of gravel against his cheek, and stare out at the approaching horizon.
They were far from safe, he knew. But at least they still had a chance. At least, for the moment, they weren’t in imminent danger of being sucked though a hurricane of blue fire and vomited into the Underdark.
Duvan knew there was a huge array of things that could still go wrong, and that he should get up and start dealing with them. But he was too exhausted to move. Too tired to even think about moving. Those problems would have to wait their turn.
He needed to rest. And if something killed them while he was recovering, then so be it. Duvan closed his eyes as his exhaustion overcame his pain and pulled his consciousness down into the sweet dark numbness of oblivion.
Gregor felt the last drops of the thick liquid on his lips and swallowed. The oily potion tasted of bloodbark and lavender. He immediately found the small cot in the corner of his lab and lay down on it.
In moments, his awareness was out of his body, slicing through vaporous walls and ghostly objects. The magic of the potion allowed him only limited time, but his awareness could move fast.