WINDDREAMER

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  Letting out a thankful breath, he pushed his hand along the floor until he felt a wall, then braced himself and got unsteadily to his feet. He couldn't see a thing in front of him. He stood in total darkness. Even narrowing his eyes brought nothing but wavering sparks of blood-light behind his lids.

  "What now, idiot?"

  He felt along the rocky wall, wincing at the slimy, unsavory, and moist surface. With one foot feeling ahead of the other, the toe of his boot tapping for obstruction, he inched forward.

  To try to climb the steps would be futile, he realized. The risers themselves were slanted downward, like the steps. Such stairways were meant for descent, not ascension. Besides, he thought grimly, he knew he was exactly where Tohre wanted him to be. The vibrating sound seemed closer here, more intense. The floor beneath his boots hummed.

  Conar moved along until his hand touched what appeared to be a corner. Removing his fingers from the stone, he touched only air before him and to the sides, no obstruction at all. He eased his foot forward, felt firm ground, and carefully turned into the opening. Sliding his foot from side to side ahead of him, he took small, mincing steps should he find a drop-off or perilous pratfall.

  His right hand clutched Liza's talisman so tightly, the metal dug into his flesh, but it was a part of her that seemed his shield and protection. He would not pocket the precious medallion for fear of losing it. At that moment, it was the only connection he had to his beloved and just having it in his hand made him feel better.

  In the distance, a glimmer of light suddenly appeared. It wavered in an arc, back and forth, like a beacon at the end of the narrow path. Stagnant, heavy, and oppressively warm air filled the passageway. An undercurrent of something alien played just under Conar's subconscious; warning bells began to go off in his head even before two skittering creatures flitted past him in blind panic, their fearful chirping feeding on his own sense of bravery.

  He smelled the air changing. Along with it came that identifiable odor he had smelled when he and Chase had battled the demon hours ago. He shifted the talisman to his left hand and drew the Deathwelder from its sheath. Holding the black sword in front of him, he purposefully moved toward the swinging light.

  A sound like nothing he had ever heard howled into the darkness, answered by another, more sinister howl that drew out long and shrill. No sooner had that howl ended than another began, closer this time. Conar's flesh crawled. Whatever lay at the end of the passageway had company.

  Conar felt the things before he saw them. His sixth sense, so finely attuned, picked them up on his internal radar, warning him before they could scuttle out of the end of the passageway and come at him. They slithered over his feet, nipping at his boots with razor-like teeth that pierced and sank into the leather, although not deep enough to touch his flesh. One unseen entity snapped at his knee. Hearing the low growl, Conar flattened himself against the moist wall. He jabbed at the floor with his blade, grinning when he heard a startled, piercing yelp, much like a puppy would make.

  Then something rumbled with a deep, penetrating bass, shoving him sideways along the wall, his already-bruised shoulder sliding through the muck and slime.

  Straightening, turning to face his attacker, he heard tiny clicking sounds all around him, but couldn't see anything in the darkness. Once more he thrust his sword downward. Instead of encountering prey, he heard what could have only been laughter from the things surrounding him, one laugh deeper, older than the others. Had he wandered into a nest? He stepped back, the thought not setting well with his courage.

  Just along his nether vision, he saw the arc of light move closer to him. He tensed, hoping the spill of light would illumine whatever held him at bay. He flinched as something sharp grazed his left hand. He drew it back with a grunt, feeling blood dripping from the wound.

  Conar sucked in his breath. It seemed the smell of his blood excited the creatures, who clicked and hissed, like dogs slathering over a bone. A satisfied groan came from that deeper voice, along with a sliding, shuffling sound that moved steadily closer. After a grumble of laughter, the clicking sound intensified.

  Striking out with his sword, Conar heard the deep growl again, cooing to him. Something clawed at him, leaving a bloody gash down his right arm. The Deathwelder quivered in his sword hand and he tightened his grip on the hilt.

  "Only cowards hide in the dark and strike unseen at their victims, Tohre! But then, you were always a coward, weren't you?"

  The creatures issued a shocked intake of breath, then their menacing growls grew in volume until the wall began to shake behind Conar's back. How big are these things? he thought with worry.

  All of them seemed to be moving closer, bumping against him as he kicked out.

  "Tohre!" His boot buried itself into something soft and giving. As the deeper growl came from almost at his side, Conar stepped farther away. "Damn you, you bastard! Show yourself!"

  "You want to see your adversaries, my beloved Prince?" a voice called. "Then view them!"

  Before Conar could answer, the arc of light shot forward, nearly blinding him with its intensity as it threw the entire passageway into overwhelming light. He threw his arm over his eyes so his vision could adjust. As he did, something sank its sharp teeth into his left thigh. He screamed with pain, thrusting down his arms to push away the creature. His fingers encountered something so vile, so loathsome, he snatched them back.

  And when he looked down at the thing clinging to him, he nearly vomited in disgust.

  * * * *

  Thom Loure slumped down the wall, his hands coated with blood, the front of his shirt sweat-soaked and smelling of blood and gore. He plucked at the offending material, then shrugged.

  "He was a Hasdu, wasn't he?"

  Loure looked up at Storm. "Aye."

  Storm hunkered down beside his friend. "What was that he said before you killed him?"

  Thom shrugged. "I didn't catch it all, but it was something about an asp. He said he sold an asp to an Elite." He laid his head along the wall, exhausted from his bloodletting.

  "What does that mean?"

  "I don't know."

  "He was trying to tell you something, Thom. Something he thought would save his life."

  "Nothing would have saved his life."

  "Still," Storm insisted, "I think you should have let the man speak."

  "It was a Hasdu what murdered my brother, Rayle, or don't you remember that?"

  "I'm not apt to forget, Thommy. Rayle was a good friend of mine."

  Some vague memory stirred in Loure's tired brain. His forehead creased. "You know," he said, sitting up, "there was that time Conar was bitten by an asp in the garden at Boreas." He looked at Storm.

  "You think he knew who put that viper in the garden?" Storm shivered. "An Elite?"

  Thom stared at him. "There is a traitor among us, Jale!"

  * * * *

  The vile creature, maybe ten, eleven inches long, with teeth grinding into Conar's flesh, had wrapped its scaly body around his legs. The limbless creature looked like a giant slug, its back end tapering down to a twitching stub of a tail. Two beady red eyes glared up at Conar as it worked its teeth through flesh and muscle, endeavoring to reach gristle and bone. Its body had wrapped so snugly around the lower part of his knee and calf, Conar could feel the constriction like a band of molten iron. Although no more than two inches in diameter, the creature made up for its size with the ferocity of its chewing.

  Shrieking, Conar jerked it away from his leg, his flesh shredding with blinding pain. He tossed up the creature and brought up his sword, severing it in mid-air. He gagged once more, hot bile rising in his throat, and he stumbled, eyeing another creature preparing to attack.

  Before Conar had a chance to back away, the slug-like being sprang from the ground like a grasshopper. One needle-sharp tooth caught the fleshy part of Conar's right forearm, snagging itself. With a speed and agility that boggled the mind, the beast wrapped its loathsome tail around Conar's elbow
and constricted.

  In horror, Conar stared at the thing, the wide set of its closely spaced teeth snapping at him from a foul-smelling green mouth. A high-pitched sound of terror issued from Conar's lips. He slammed his arm along the wall, jamming his elbow against the stone with such force it brought tears to his eyes. But the motion crushed the creature. With a squish, it slid to the floor, oozing a noxious fluid that filled the air with breath-taking fumes.

  "Fuck!" Conar spat, shaking his arm of the creature's slimy residue.

  A fierce growl rent the air. Conar looked up to see two more things spring at him. He stepped out of the way of one, stomping on its bloated body with his foot, gagging as it squashed beneath his heel. He speared the other on the tip of his blade. Four more slithered forward, preparing to launch themselves, but the deeper growl roared out of the blinding light. Conar's heart ceased to beat when he took in the sight of the mother-creature as it shifted to block his escape.

  Slime dripped down the massive, corpulent, tube-like body. Its scales rose and fell like the breathing fins on a fish. Two huge blood-red eyes glowered at Conar with an evil so old and so powerful it feared nothing, the sweep of its vision leaving no doubt that it thought of him merely as fodder for its young. Conar trembled.

  A long thread of orange saliva dangled from it large amphibious mouth when it grinned. Two rows of razor-like teeth gleamed from the green pucker of its maw. A growl of satisfaction hummed out of its throat, and with it the putrid smell of its unholy breath.

  If Raphian, the Destroyer of Souls, had a mate on this earth, such would be the creature facing Conar. Around its tail, a dozen or so other creatures slithered over one another, snapping and clicking their teeth in a frenzy of hunger.

  Its body began to rise from the tunnel floor. It had to be at least ten feet tall, and five to six feet in diameter. Its belly boiled with unborn young, pushing against the greenish-gray flesh covering its abdomen. Even as Conar watched, the thing squatted, and with a pleased grunt, expelled more slug-like babes that wiggled like tadpoles on the stone. A putrid stench of mold and slime came from the wiggling larvae as they squirted among their siblings.

  Conar shuddered in revulsion, swallowing hard, trying to keep the bile in his throat from rising. He had to breathe through his mouth so the smell wouldn't bother him as much. He flattened himself against the gummy wall, terrified, his bravery trying to hide on him.

  Here stood the worst horror of anyone's nightmares, staring down at him, its fangs dripping hot, flesh-sizzling venom. Conar knew he couldn't fight all the slugs. For the first time, he felt defeat and didn't like the way it made him cower before this beast from hell.

  "Kaileel sent you to do his dirty work?" he snarled at the bloated thing. His breathing came in a quick, shallow cadence, while his heart hammered in his chest. "Is he so afraid of me he can't take me on himself?" He shifted down the wall, staring at beast's bobbing head. "He's afraid you can't take me either, so he made sure you brought your nest with you?" He eased away from the wall and brought up his sword. He gripped it in both hands, Liza's medallion pressing securely against the hilt. "Cowards!"

  The thing looked at the mass of offspring at her feet and hissed. The smaller slugs clicked in protest, the mother growled in warning, and the creatures reluctantly moved back, nosing the new larvae, rolling them along the wall and out of harm's way. The mother turned her attention to Conar, the gaping slit of her mouth twisted in a satisfied smirk. She moved closer.

  Conar clutched the Deathwelder. He knew the creature could rend him in half with those sharp teeth, and his only salvation lay in his sweating palms.

  "Come on, bitch," he crooned, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he readied for her attack.

  She lowered her body to the floor, a wake of slime spreading out from around her.

  "Come on." He didn't take his eyes from hers, even though they made his gut spasm. "Come let me make those little bastards orphans!"

  A menacing growl came from her. She slithered closer. Her scaly mouth moved repeatedly with loud clicks, while more orange saliva dripped from its corners. She snaked her head toward him and laughed when he jumped out of her way."Coward!" she hissed, almost sounding like a human female whispering taunting seductiveness.

  Conar snarled and glared at the thing, bracing himself to run at her. She seemed to know his intensions, for her mouth gaped in an evil grin. Inhaling, she thrust out her unprotected chest in challenge, daring him to try to pierce her. She seemed to be telling him to give it his best shot, and when he failed, she would snap him up.

  He would have run at her. He would have tried to pierce the grayish green meat behind those iridescent scales. He would have killed her if he could, then turned his attention to the squirming offspring that hissed and clicked and glowered.

  He would have done all those things if he hadn't heard the scream.

  And it wasn't just any scream.

  It was Liza's.

  The floor opened up beneath him. Conar plummeted into the great gaping chasm, tumbling over and over in space. His head struck a blunt object. He yelped in pain, seeing stars and comets shooting across the darkness. His shoulder slammed into something moist and squishy, then he continued his free-fall into a long, black maw. A thundering surge of tumbling water and the loud vibration he had heard earlier became an awful, intense cacophony of ear-shattering sound.

  Then he heard nothing.

  He felt nothing.

  He saw nothing as his head again struck something hard.

  The darkness invaded his mind, blocking out everything else.

  * * * *

  Shalu's dark eyes sparked with fury. He glared at Jah-Ma-El, ignoring the warlock's flinch. "If we separate again, there's no telling how long it will take us to find Conar. We should stay together!"

  "I agree," Roget confirmed, nodding. "This traipsing about all these blasted caverns isn't doing anything but getting us frustrated. Let's stay together and we'll find him eventually."

  "Eventually," Sentian stressed, his teeth clenched, "isn't good enough! He's in trouble. I know it!"

  "As do we all," Chase maintained. "But arguing about it doesn't get us any closer to finding him, does it?"

  Thom rubbed his head, grimacing. "I'm game." He glanced at Storm. "I've got business to see to."

  "Let's take this tunnel," Grice recommended. "I've a feeling it might lead us somewhere."

  "And why is that, Wynth?" Tyne snapped.

  Grice pointed to the ground.

  Chase's face blanched. He bent down and put his fingers into the loose sand. Bringing up his hand, he looked at the glistening red dampness on his fingertips. "It's blood...Conar's blood...

  "Then what are we waiting for?" Shalu elbowed his way past Grice and entered the dark tunnel.

  Grice looked at Chand, finding the man's cheeks wet with tears. "Keep good thoughts, Chandling. There are a lot of sharp rocks. Conar could have stumbled into one."

  "I'm afraid, Grice," the younger man said, his gaze following the others as they entered the tunnel. "I have this feeling..."

  Grice put his arm around his brother's shoulders. "We all do, brat...we all do."

  * * * *

  When Conar came to, he found himself in complete darkness. His head ached; the migraine that had fled a while back had returned with a vengeance. Nausea burned his throat. His eyes throbbed with the beat of his heart. Every cut and bruise on his battered body screamed in protest as he levered himself to his knees on the rock-strewn floor. He put a hand to his temple--it came away wet and sticky--then wiped the bloody residue on the leg of his breeches.

  Groaning, he got unsteadily to his feet and reached out a hand to find support. Locating nothing to hold, he wobbled until he could fairly command his steps. Hesitantly, he put out his hands and took a cautious step forward.

  "God almighty!" he gasped. His right leg agonized him, from the juncture of his thigh to his knee. He deduced he had pulled a groin muscle in his fall. He hobb
led forward, every step bringing tears. Bending over, hands on his knees, head dangling, he took long, calming breaths. When he thought he could move without too much pain, he tried again. The pain still pestered him, but not as severe as before. He kept moving, trying to work out the strain.

  He had no idea where he could be in reference to the Monastery, but the constant humming and vibrations came from right ahead of him. He scanned the darkness, but could see nothing but gray wiggles of light. He heard nothing but the incessant humming and felt nothing but the vibrations emanating from the floor. Taking careful steps, he continued forward until, with a start and a spitting curse, he realized he no longer had his sword.

  "Smart!" His jaw clenched against his stupidity. "Really smart!"

  "Did you lose something, my Prince?" came a seductive croon.

  Groaning with weariness and anticipation of the pain, ignoring the faint laughter that taunted him, he turned and dropped gently to his knees. The soft impact of his knees to rock hurt him all over. He gasped, aching so badly he could barely draw another breath. He paused, gathering his waning strength, then bent forward.

  Reaching out his hands in the fine spray of rocks, dirt, and grit, he smoothed his fingers over the floor, searching for his weapon.

  It found him with a nice, clean cut along his left palm. The wound meant nothing to him but an intake of breath and a swipe of his palm down his shirt before he picked up his blade. He felt along the weapon to make certain the shaft had remained intact. Satisfied it had, he replaced the sword in his scabbard. Running the back of his wrist under his chin, he wiped away a haze of sweat and grime. He lumbered to his feet, feeling like an ancient man.

  A draft of cold air billowed toward him. Figuring that where there was air, there was eventually bound to be light, he made his way forward with a great deal of effort.

  As he walked, one foot sliding before him to feel its way, his mind worked. He remembered hearing Liza scream and the creatures he had been fighting before the world dropped out from under him. How long he had been unconscious, he didn't know. The pain in his head had intensified beyond endurance, and it became hard to concentrate on his actions. Stubbornly, he put one foot ahead of the other and kept going.