by Jak Koke
Can they get bigger? she thought.
Slanya felt the ground falling away, sending her stomach into her throat. I guess they can, she thought. She rolled over and vomited, clutching her gut and heaving.
She was dimly aware of Duvan above her, his quick, sure movements reassuringly decisive. He reached down for something-a large triangular piece of leather. Then he lashed the corners to himself, securing his gear and donning his pack.
He is saving himself, she thought. He’s leaving me to save himself. Slanya’s heart leaped in panic. By Kelemvor, he’s abandoning me to die.
Then Duvan was lying down behind her, intimately close to her, cradling her. His proximity felt good, reassuring. He smelled of earth and sweat; his presence exuded confidence. If anyone could save her, he could.
Duvan reached around her, threading a thick leather strap under her arms and across her chest. “I’m tying us together,” he said. “I don’t know if our combined weight will be too much for the glideskin, but it will be much better than doing nothing. Doing nothing means crashing to the ground.”
Slanya nodded. Warmth filled her; she was touched by Duvan’s gesture. He wasn’t leaving her to die alone. He hadn’t left her before when she was sick. “Thank you,” she croaked, coughing. “Thank you for saving me.”
“Purely selfish of me-I need someone to argue with.”
She tried to smile, but it came out as more of a lopsided grimace.
“Besides, you stood by me, which counts for a lot. Only one other person has stood by me, ever.”
“Tyrangal?”
He nodded. “But for now, you’re not saved yet. Thank me fully when we’re both on the ground, alive and well.”
Slanya shook her head. “Don’t be so stubborn. I’m thanking you now, in case I die and can’t thank you later.” She needed to express her gratitude. She’d been betrayed and lied to by Gregor, who’d promised his elixir would protect her. Instead, she’d found trust and friendship in this rogue.
“You won’t die,” Duvan said. “I’m not letting that happen.”
“Good to know,” Slanya said, smiling. “I really appreciate it.” And in that moment she felt a surge of euphoric affection toward Duvan.
Duvan laughed then said, “However, this may hurt a little. Hold on.”
Above her, Duvan unfurled the glideskin. Slanya heard it catch the wind like a kite. Duvan held on to the leather straps attached to each corner. The glideskin used magic and air to stay aloft, but it was only built for one.
Suddenly, the leather straps that held her to Duvan came taut, digging painful rows into her waist and shoulders. At her back, Duvan grunted from strain, and Slanya watched as the mote fell out from under their feet as they lifted off.
The straps held tight as she hung suspended from Duvan, who hung suspended from a wide triangle of leather. Her vision was fractured and uneven, and her body seemed to be dissociated from her mind. This was something alien to her, but she willed herself to be calm, to breathe evenly. Slowly.
Below her, the mote grew smaller against the massive, unyielding landscape. Autumn had nearly taken complete hold. Browning grass covered the rolling hills and plains as far as she could see. Away to their left was the dark line of a road, and a geometric, angular shape that had to be Ormpetarr.
Slanya knew they might die any minute, and the urge to confess overwhelmed her. “I need to tell you something,” she said, her voice insistent. “In case we die.”
Duvan huffed in her ear. “I’m sort of busy here.”
“You were right about the story I told,” she said. “It was too glib, too organized. The truth is that my aunt used to beat me with a belt, if I took too long washing the dishes or stacking the firewood. She used to burn the backs of my thighs with an iron if I broke a mug or spilled the chamber pot.”
“Hells.”
“The truth is, I wanted my aunt to die. I hated her and wanted her dead.”
A gust of wind buffeted them, and they suddenly rose and turned. Duvan shifted his weight to steady them and keep their gliding descent steady.
“I forgive you,” Duvan said through teeth gritted from exertion.
Slanya watched as the mote crashed into the rocky hillock below, breaking apart in an explosion of sand and pulverized stone. They would not have survived that. Duvan’s glideskin might not save them, but at least it gave them a chance.
Duvan whispered in her ear, “You should try to forgive yourself.”
Abruptly, they fell. Slanya’s stomach leaped to her throat, and her breath caught. But, grunting and straining, Duvan managed to right them one more time. He seemed to be aiming them for the ground about five hundred paces out. Still, they were moving far too fast for a survivable landing. Slanya hoped Duvan could slow them down before impact.
Otherwise, they would meet Kelemvor together.
“Take it from me,” Duvan said with a laugh, “and do what I say rather than what I do: forgive yourself.”
Slanya knew he was right. And yet, she didn’t know if she could. She still hated Aunt Ewesia. She still despised how she was treated, and the only way she had been able to move on was to rewrite her own history-to structure her past in such a way as to blur the horrific things.
Duvan moved again, nosing the glideskin up to try to get the air to brake them. The glideskin creaked and fluttered, shaking violently for a second before Duvan regained control. But they’d slowed a little, and by the time they were a staff-length off the ground, Duvan had brought their speed down to a horse’s gallop.
Slanya was grateful for Duvan’s forgiveness and understanding but found no other relief. Every time she thought about what had happened to her in that tiny row house with Aunt Ewesia, she felt the past slip away until she was thinking about the fire and Gregor and not what had happened before. She could not forgive herself for what had happened. She could not even remember all that had happened.
The ground sped by beneath her. Dark rocks and tall, brown grass almost within reach if she stretched her arms. This close to the ground, the obstacles grew larger and larger; they passed by faster and faster the closer they got.
Duvan angled the glideskin up slightly again to slow them down and they almost stalled. Five yards up now, maybe lower. Perhaps even low enough to survive. Slanya put her arms over her head to protect it as they dropped the final distance. She brought her feet into her chest to form a fetal crouch as they hit.
Landing in a skidding, sliding heap, Duvan curled himself around her. Her stomach heaved as they lurched and bounced, but she felt protected and safe in Duvan’s embrace. When they finally came to a dusty stop, she wiped the dust and grime from her eyes before opening them again. Her muscles ached, and there was deep burning pain where the leather straps dug into her.
But they were out of the Plaguewrought Land. They’d made it! Solid and unchanging ground was beneath them. The rules of order and magic were consistent and predictable. The air smelled of harvest and dry grass and burning fields.
All in all, despite falling out of the sky, Slanya felt better than she had since entering the changelands.
Behind her, Duvan groaned. “I think my leg is broken,” he said.
Duvan’s left leg throbbed in agony, crumpled underneath the combined weight of Slanya and himself. He’d felt it snap when they had impacted-a sharp, shooting agony in his shin. Even with the glideskin, the collision had been too hard.
The sharp pain had mostly edged into the background, replaced by a deep throbbing in sync with the beating of his heart. Something wet and sticky slicked his leg, and he feared he was bleeding, but he couldn’t turn to see how much. Sweat prickled on his brow, and he felt lightheaded and cold. Injury and trauma could have that effect, he knew. It had happened to him before.
He did not want to pass out.
In the tall grass, Slanya rustled next to him. She was alive at least. Not gone yet.
“Don’t move,” she said.
Duvan laughed grimly. “That
’s easy advice to follow.”
“I hear horses, and I’d prefer not to have unwanted company right now.”
Duvan listened for horses; he hadn’t heard any. But focusing now, he realized that his ears were filled with ringing, and all sound was dulled through that noise. “How do you know they won’t help us?”
“If they’re on horseback, chances are they’re road agents or maybe wealthy pilgrims. Either way, they’re unlikely to help us.”
“Cynicism from such a trusting soul. I’m impressed.”
Slanya rolled over and coughed. Still considerably unwell.
Despite her advice to remain still, Duvan unlashed the leather straps and edged himself carefully and slowly out from under her weight. And although he desperately wanted to sit up and examine his leg, he remained supine. Sitting up would increase his risk of blacking out, and that would only slow them down.
When her coughing had subsided, Slanya whispered, “They must’ve seen us; they’re approaching.”
Duvan decided that he needed to risk a look and propped himself up on his elbows. Sun burnished, grassy fields rolled out around them, but he couldn’t see any horses.
No, wait. There they were, straight south, a group of five or six horses and riders. They seemed to be riding quickly, directly toward Duvan and Slanya’s location.
The silver glint of plate metal shining from one of the riders seemed familiar, but before he could place it, a wave of sparks rippled across his skin. The edges of his vision darkened.
Duvan lowered himself back down, and slowly the darkness retreated. I must be bleeding more than I expected, he thought.
Next to him, he felt Slanya rustle and try to stand. Escaping the Plaguewrought Land seemed to have given her renewed strength. “I am too weak to mount a fight,” she said. “And you’re in no condition for one either.”
Duvan had no argument to that.
In moments, the riders were on them. One of them dismounted and removed his plate helm.
“Sister Slanya,” came a familiar voice. “So glad to have found you.”
“What do you want, Beaugrat?” Slanya said. Duvan heard the warning in her voice, but the whole exchange seemed to be coming from a great distance away.
“We want to help you back to your monastery. The Order of Blue Fire has reached an agreement with Brother Gregor, and we have guaranteed your safe return.”
“What about Duvan?”
Her concern brought a smile to Duvan’s lips. He concentrated on the sun warming his skin, on the feel of lumpy earth and grass against his back. His leg throbbed, and he knew he’d lost a lot of blood, but he needed to pull himself together.
“Duvan will be taken care of as well,” Beaugrat said.
Duvan checked himself for daggers. He catalogued two on his chest and one in the scabbard strapped to his right thigh. He took a breath and waited. There would be an opportunity, perhaps, for him to use the daggers.
He opened his eyes to assess the situation. Beaugrat towered over a brave, but obviously weakened, Slanya in her torn and dirt-encrusted leathers. She stood leaning to the left as though not quite sure of the ground.
In the blurry background, Duvan could make out four others on horseback, but despite the effort he wasn’t able to identify their strengths and weaknesses. He smelled horses and something else he couldn’t identify. Like burning metal. Something was wrong with his mind.
Beaugrat said, “The Order will guarantee he makes a full recovery.”
“I’m certain you will,” Slanya said. “How about this for a deal: You give us a ride back to the monastery where we can heal up. After that you can talk to Duvan as much as you’d like, as long as it’s all right with him.”
Beaugrat said, “Let’s see … No!”
Duvan heard the sound of swords being drawn, metal on leather, and the cocking of a crossbow. Slanya said, “You don’t want to fight me. I’ve had a pretty bad day, and I’m not in the mood to let you live.”
Beaugrat laughed. “Well, it’s true that I don’t want to fight you,” he said. “But we outnumber you, and you’re both sick or injured. You have surprised me in the past, which is why I’m not taking chances this time. Cedril, now.”
Duvan heard the crossbow spring, and the quarrel made an unusually faint sound as it hit something solid. His mind imagined a lightweight bolt, perhaps hollow. From Slanya’s gasp, he presumed it had hit her. There was movement around him as Slanya attacked. Duvan grabbed for his dagger, but his hands never closed around the hilt.
“Don’t worry, the poison isn’t deadly. It will only put you to sleep for a short time.”
“How kind of you.” Slanya’s sarcasm brought a wry smile to Duvan’s lips. But then her words slowed and stopped. Duvan heard her body collapse to the ground next to him.
“What about him?” The voice floated on the air, but he couldn’t tell who was speaking. “He doesn’t look so well.”
“He looks dead,” Beaugrat said. “Like we’re going to be if that Copper Guard contingent catches us out here.”
Unconsciousness inked over Duvan’s vision before he caught the answer to the question. And then he was falling into the pit of night that yawned beneath him.
Was this what death was like?
CHAPTER NINE
Gregor stood on the balcony and shaded his eyes to look across the valley and south along the dirty road coming over the dull green hills. The sun burned overhead, its light fading and leaving the sky a bruised color in the distance where the Plague-wrought Land changed all the rules. The odor of charred flesh drifted over from the funeral pyre on the ground below. Gray smoke was all that was left of the afternoon’s dead.
With luck, Slanya would return soon with the plaguegrass, and the funeral pyre could be extinguished. The elixir would stop the procession of dead and dying.
“Come home, young one,” Gregor whispered to her. “Come home safe.”
For years after Slanya had come to the monastery, Gregor had cared for her as if she were his own child. He had been the one to take her from the orphanage. He had been the one to choose her-the neglected and abused girl. The sole survivor of a tragic fire.
It was the policy of the temple complex to take in children who could benefit from rigorous training, meditation, and adherence to a life of the religious orders. Ideal children showed great internal fortitude and strength of will. They demonstrated passion and the potential for great power. But above all Gregor chose young children who would feel enormous gratitude and obligation.
There had been something about Slanya, a fire inside her, a thirst for knowledge. He saw himself in her, or so he thought at the time. He saw a defiance burning deep in her soul that appealed to Gregor and made them the same in their passionate pursuit to impact the universe.
The young Slanya had needed so much more than the orphanage could ever offer. But Gregor knew that if she was able to maintain her studies, she would be eternally grateful for the opportunity that he’d given her.
Gregor had been a young monk of about twenty when he’d taken her in-young and idealistic and brave. He had fallen smitten with the angel with the smudgy face and dirty, blonde hair. So cordial and proper on the outside, little Slanya’s manners were belied by mischievous eyes and sly glances.
Standing on the monastery balcony, gazing across the field for sign of her return, Gregor smiled. Young Slanya had taken to the monastery life with difficulty. Originally he’d imagined training her to be his assistant, to embrace the life of a monk of Oghma, but the discipline proved too much for her wayward mind. After she’d run away the third time, only to return a few days later, Gregor gave her over to Kaylinn.
Kelemvor had room for her, and the orphaned young woman found her place within his orders. Slanya took to the care of the dead and dying with unusual focus, and Gregor’s influence over her faded somewhat after that. He still cared for her, still checked in on her, but his child of choice had moved on for the most part.
Greg
or sighed. Such eventualities always came with the passage of time, he supposed.
Scanning the horizon, he caught sight of horses as they crested a hill to the southeast. And after a brief wait, he could tell that they were the team Vraith had sent out. Beaugrat and his companions.
Gregor strained to see if there were other riders with them, but they dipped into the shadow of another hill before he could discern. When they emerged into the light, however, he did see that one of the horses carried two people, and another horse dragged a makeshift wooden travois upon which someone had been strapped.
Excellent! Gregor thought. Now to see if they’ve got the plaguegrass with them!
The recent meeting with Tyrangal weighed on him. He didn’t want her as an enemy, but he wasn’t convinced that she was right about Vraith and the ultimate intentions of the Order. His vision was so strong, and it had come to him again later that night. The vision showed him hope and a future to strive for-a Faerun where all the pockets of spellplague were stable and mapped. Ordered. Contained.
It was worth the risk to let Vraith continue with the ritual. Gregor would reevaluate after tomorrow’s festival. And in the meantime, he would have to watch out for Tyrangal; he did not really know the extent of her power. He didn’t doubt that she could be a formidable adversary, but as yet she had not made a move against him. Wait and see, that was his plan. Be ready and prepared for whatever might come.
A few minutes later, Gregor descended to greet the travelers. In the lead, Beaugrat drew reins and slid from his saddle. Behind him rode a red-headed dwarf cleric, a halfling rogue, and what looked like a pair of human wizards. Quite the party to capture one thief.
Slanya slid woozily from her saddle. Her puffy, red face was burned, though she did not seem to notice. She came to him. “Brother Gregor, you must-” She doubled over and heaved up blood-streaked bile.
“Blessed gods!” High Priestess Kaylinn stood in the doorway to the courtyard, flanked by two of her clerics. She came up next to Gregor. “You are ill, Sister,” she said to Slanya. “We must get you to the infirmary.” Kaylinn nodded to one of the clerics, Edwaif, who stepped up to support Slanya’s weight.