“Be still, child,” he said, flecks of blood spattering on her lips as he smiled and shook his head disapprovingly. “Your sister squirmed less.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
10 Mirtul, the Year of the Ageless One
(1479 DR)
Caidris, Akanul
Uthalion rolled as the dreamer’s weight bore down on him, tumbling and crashing into a row of empty barrels against the wall. Wood slats cracked and split beneath them, digging into his back as he struggled to keep the beast’s jaws from his throat. Long claws scored his armor, digging deep and drawing long marks in his skin at the end of each slash. He roared in pain, using the rush of anger to kick one leg free, slamming his knee into the dreamer’s ribs.
The beast merely grunted and ignored the attack, pushing down with its fangs. But the effort gave Uthalion the space to gather his legs beneath its stomach. He kicked out, sending the dreamer rolling into the far wall. In a moment of bitter humor, Uthalion spotted his sword just out of reach, and scrambled to his feet. He made for the blade, half running and half crawling, but a thunderous roar intercepted his bid to become better armed.
Waves of sound pummeled his side and threw him, sliding in the thin layer of damp mud. Pain spread through his chest, and he feared a possibly cracked rib, along with the lingering ache of the wyrmwind pollen, might slow him down more than he already had been. Fighting to catch his breath, he caught a glimpse of the onrushing beast’s gnashing teeth in the dancing candlelight and instinctively reached for the wall to steady himself. His hand brushed against an object, and he grasped it, pulling it from the wall to defend himself.
He barely noticed the weight of the old hammer as he swung it blindly at the charging dreamer. It connected solidly with the thing’s jaw, jarring his arm and breaking the old wooden handle, but it did its job well. Bits of tooth spattered into the mud, and foul blood sprayed his chest and face.
The dreamer loosed a piercing whine as it shuddered and fell sideways, wavering on its front claws. Uthalion cried out in pain, clutching his ears. His pulse pounded in his ears, and he was sure they would bleed, leaving him in an endless silence. As he used the wall to stand, teeth clamped down on his leg and pulled, hurling him across the room.
The quiet in his head shifted like molasses, and he felt as if he were underwater. He crashed against the bottom of the basement stairs, and the small candle fell, rolling in the mud, its wick just above the surface. Pain flared in his left leg, and he gathered his right one beneath him to dive for his sword. His knee buckled, but he caught himself on the banister and turned to face the beast as it rounded on him. Its jaws yawned wide, and he felt a swift wind brush his cheeks before the force of the unheard roar crushed into his chest. His boots left the ground, and he sprawled onto the stairs, their old wood breaking as he crashed through them.
Splinters bit into his skin, and dust blinded him as he fell. He managed a single breath before finding the ground, gagging on a mouthful of dust even as he clattered to the floor. The fall shoved the air from his lungs. His arms fell out to his sides, brushing against cold metal and cobwebs. Even in his daze of pain he wondered if blood still stained the abandoned sword he pulled free. Opening his eyes, he squinted through the dust at the flashing, glassy eyes overhead, the outstretched claws, and descending fangs of the dreamer.
Metal and rust scraped as he weakly raised the old blade, braced the pommel, and cursed as the dreamer fell on him. The impact twisted his arm, but the sword held strong, driven through the dreamer’s chest under the beast’s weight. Uthalion gasped for air and lay still as the thing trembled and coughed, its breath strangely sweet, like flowers, in contrast to its stinking blood. Though its long, mewling whine barely registered in his ears, it tore painfully through his skull, a melodic dirge of death in a single, suffering note. A limp claw scratched feebly at his armor a moment before falling still, its pitiful cry of death finished.
Groaning, Uthalion rolled out from under the beast and heaved for breath. The handle of the old sword fell from his hand, its blade broken off at the hilt. He tapped a fingernail on the metal, resting while he listened for the sound and hoping his hearing might return to something approaching normal. When the tiny click of the sound became a more recognizable ping, he sat up slowly and surveyed his would-be tomb before turning his dazed attention to the fallen dreamer.
In the pale light of the dying candle its face almost appeared human-or perhaps even elven-save for the glassy, fishlike eyes and massive fangs. He shivered at the sight of it and tried to stand, gingerly placing weight on his injured leg and grunting in pained relief. It wasn’t broken and could wait for more thorough inspection until he could free himself of the basement. Taking up his sword and fishing a short-handled axe from beneath the dreamer, he considered the climb to the door and, for the second time in six years, focused on escaping the basement.
After the last time he’d made a promise to return.
He had no intention of doing so again.
Ghaelya’s lungs burned for air as Sefir held her tight in smooth, blue-tinged tentacles. Her vision had blurred, reducing the chaos of the fight around her to dim, quick shapes that crashed throughout the house amid the occasional flare of lightning and ensuing thunder. All she could deduce was that Vaasurri was still alive, though he had no way of reaching her or Sefir. In one flickering moment of helplessness she screamed in anger, flexing every muscle, straining every thought to drown out the constant soothing whisper of Sefir’s powerful voice.
“You are stronger than your sister,” he said as her strength waned. “Though I think perhaps she is the wiser twin. I can see why the pair of you have been chosen.”
His warm, sickly-sweet breath blew hot on the nape of her neck, the heat spreading across her shoulders like a rash, itching and boiling her blood. She felt her skin quickly drying, moisture from her swim in the basement evaporating, little curls of sudden steam rising in the cool spring air. A light aroma of lavender wafted through the window as flames gathered in her spirit, her sister’s scent stoking the fires that began to burn in her eyes.
The room wavered briefly, a smoldering mirage that steeled her against the beguiling power in Sefir’s voice. Weakly, she raised her sword, just high enough to grasp the blade in her opposite hand. She squeezed tight, wincing slightly as the weapon cut her flesh, but grinning as flames burst from the wound, searing the tentacles wrapped around her.
The endless barrage of whispers became a chorus of pained screams pounding on the back of her skull. The grip around her tightened for a moment, then the room seemed to grow small. Her stomach flipped as she hurtled through the room, only the opposite corner waiting to roughly catch her. The wall cracked when she hit, leaving splinters in her back and side as she fell. Sliding to the floor she coughed, tasting blood in her mouth, and floundered to gather her legs beneath her.
Sefir trembled and fell to one knee, the thin tentacles writhing around him. Several of them had been neatly burned by her fiery blood. The element had filled her again, its flames tinting her skin red and focusing her every thought on her sister. She edged closer to the common room doorway, intent on helping Vaasurri and escaping the abandoned town, but the bloody singer’s screams slowly died to pained whimpers, and he rose again, a fang-filled snarl on his face.
“Your flames will die, little one,” he said, standing to his full height, his scarred head a hands-breadth from the ceiling. His tentacles spread wide, and the toothy round suckers lining them opened and closed hungrily like a thousand tiny eyes. “The fire in your sister died as well.”
“No,” she muttered, raising her sword and forgetting the conflict in the next room, shaking her head in denial of the singer’s words.
Before she could contemplate plunging the blade over and over into Sefir’s body until she found some vital bit of flesh, inflicted some injury he could not recover from, she saw a swift blur in the corner of her eye. A whisper of shadow hurtled toward the singer with flashing steel and
murderous intent. Briefly she saw the pale face of Brindani as he collided with Sefir in a tangle of limbs, fleshy tentacles, and clashing swords. The pair strained on the edge of the basement steps in a duel of wills, before they plummeted into the darkness and splashing water.
Ghaelya hesitated, her blade still trained on the spot where Sefir had stood, her eyes fixed on the darkened basement door. Sparks still smoldered where she had cut her hand, and she considered Tessaeril and a purpose greater than simple revenge. She turned toward the common room, catching the glittering eye of an embattled dreamer, and rushed into the room, a gusting flame rippling through her body toward the pyre of battle and escape from Caidris.
Brindani tumbled end over end, a seeming infinity of stairs pounding into his back. Tentacles writhed around him, wrapped around his arms, and slapped wetly against his face, all amid the horrid roaring of a fiendish voice that echoed in his ears like a smithy’s hammer. Flashes of blue light illuminated the nightmarish fall, creating monstrous shadows all around that he knew, without a doubt, were all too real. Though patches of numbed flesh announced the imminent arrival of painful bruises, he was somehow assured by a faint and singing melody that gave him strength and the will to keep fighting.
At the end of the long fall, the pair splashed into the dark waters of the flooded basement, wrestling for dominance. Sefir’s efforts doubled as the shock of cold water further numbed Brindani’s muscles, leaving the half-elf slow against the fluid form of the mutilated man.
The once demonic voice of Sefir was transformed as they plunged beneath the water’s surface. A wordless, calming melody issued from the open jaws and rows of sharklike teeth, the hellish image belying the sublime beauty of the singing in Brindani’s ears. Long, crooning notes reached out like living things, like the curling tentacles, to wrap around his anger and regret, crushing them both in a soft grip that drew painful knots in his throat and pulled tears from his eyes. The sword fell from his weakened hand, and his struggles faded to feeble motions. The small part of him that realized what was happening was unable to gather the strength needed to continue the fight.
The painful grip on his arms and legs softened as he was lifted from the water, coughing and gasping for air, held tight, though cradled in Sefir’s terrible grasp. He could still distantly feel the knot of constant pain in his stomach, could still recall his body’s many cries for the silkroot drug, the need that had been his trap for so long, but it too was weaker. Only for that could he be grateful.
“You have been so brave, half-elf,” Sefir crooned in his ear, his sweet breath complementing the honeyed power of his voice. “All this time, it was you who led the dreamers. Though you remained unaware, we knew of you and thanked the Lady for leading you to the girl.”
“No,” Brindani managed to whisper. “I didn’t mean to-”
“I know, I know,” Sefir replied, tilting his scarred features in a strange expression that seemed a mockery of true empathy. “We are like brothers, you and I. Two souls drifting in an ocean of fate … and song.”
The very notion that he had anything in common with the hideous man created a fresh surge of resistance in the half-elf, though it was still far too weak to break Sefir’s strength. His limbs felt paralyzed, and he shivered, drenched and trembling in the cool air.
“I shall give to you a gift … A gift that she bade me give to you,” Sefir continued. Thin tentacles curled from beneath his dark and dirty robes, drawing forth a red and pulsing bloom of horrible beauty. Supple petals of crimson flesh hung before Brindani’s eyes, tiny veins racing through the flower, bloodlike nectar gathering in little drops like morning dew as it descended toward his lips. “I shall bring back to you our Lady’s song, a blessing for those who know her will.”
The petals rested against the half-elf’s lips, a sweet, crimson kiss that tasted faintly of blood as the nectar flowed into his mouth, across his tongue, and sang down his throat. Briefly, he gagged, trying to spit out the flower, but within a heartbeat the pain in his stomach had lessened, as had his ever-present need for the silkroot. He cursed inwardly as he bit into the bloom hungrily, as Sefir whispered songs in his ear.
“The Song calls us
The Choir brings us
The Lady dreams us
And her blood feeds us”
Ghaelya roared with the flames in her blood, as she slashed and dodged the remaining dreamers. An expression of trailing fire curled from her scalp like a mane, and the world before her seemed naught but kindling. The beasts were smart, keeping them from the door, destroying the old steps leading upstairs with deafening blasts of thunder from their thick throats.
The walls shook as she fought back to back with Vaasurri, holding a turning circle of sharp edges one moment, then flying apart to divide the four beasts. She kept her strikes precise and painful, careful to take no unnecessary chances, every thought focused on escaping Caidris and finding Tohrepur, finding Tessaeril. Though she held back from more dangerous maneuvers, her patience was wearing thin, and she looked constantly toward the dark doorway to the kitchen, wondering when Sefir would return. She tried to ignore the thought that she had seen the last of Brindani, brave fool that he was.
Flashing eyes and gaping jaws leaped for her, and she sidestepped, spinning and flaying the jowls of a second dreamer as the first found Vaasurri’s bone-sword waiting to end its bounding assault. Long claws raked her leg, and she winced slightly, accepting the minor wound in order to gain position for a deeper cut. Her sword fell like a bolt of steel-blue lightning, slicing the thing’s throat. Its long, gurgling whine tingled down her back as she abandoned it to its death throes and made for the door once again.
The remaining three howled in unison as if reacting to the death of their packmate. The mournful cry tore at her nerves, aching deep in her bones, and slowed her stride. The cry was followed by yet another deafening roar, and she flinched as a large object blurred through her field of vision. Vaasurri, limp and silent, flew through the doorway and slid in the mud, motionless in the light rain outside. Before she could run to his side, the third dreamer leaped through the open window and prowled over to the groaning killoren.
The other two quickly cut her off, and she backed warily away. Their blank stares chilled the fire in her blood and made all too evident the sound of wet flesh sliding across old wood behind her. The sound rekindled her burning blood-lust, and she charged the beasts. Grasping claws reached for her legs as she jumped. She turned in the air to blind one of the dreamers and, landing in a crouch, hacked at the hamstring of the other.
As she backed toward the door, the beasts’ piercing howls of pain were outmatched only by the ominous growl that thrummed warmly on the back of her legs. Instinctively she kicked, spinning and slipping on a patch of wet floor, her boot connecting awkwardly with the third dreamer’s jaw. Trapped again, she began to backpedal, but flinched as a warm spray of foul blood splashed across her legs. A thrown axe was buried in the third dreamer’s side, and it whimpered pitifully, snapping at the weapon as Uthalion sprang into view, hacking swiftly and finishing the wounded creature.
Rolling past the human and his opponent, she felt the first drop of rain on her skin, a cool water singing through her spirit, cooling her fire. She stood protectively over Vaasurri as he gathered his wits and searched in the mud for his dropped weapon.
Uthalion backed away from the dead dreamer as the other two limped into view from the house. The human looked from her to the killoren, nodding once before raising his sword to the beasts.
“Where’s Brindani?” he asked over his shoulder, though the end of his question was cut off by a shrill, discordant scream of agony.
The entire house shook, a section of roof collapsing in a cloud of dust as the dreamers made a hasty escape, limping and whining through the tall grass. Uthalion fell to his knees, covering his ears as painful echoes reverberated through the air, a rippling tide of thick sound.
Ghaelya withstood the assault, forcing herself to remain
standing as a tall figure appeared in the doorway. His silhouette writhed with movement as squirming tentacles grasped the edges of the entrance. Dark robes dripped with water and blood as Sefir sighed, his wide mouth smiling as rain streamed across his twisted features, dark rivers pouring through the long wound she’d given him from chin to forehead.
“Brindani is in there,” she answered under her breath and tried not to imagine the half-elf’s horrible end as Sefir fixed his remaining eye upon her.
Pale blue light illuminated the rafters slowly spinning above Brindani as he opened his eyes. It was as if he awoke from a deep sleep full of dimly recalled nightmares. With his arms outstretched and his boots resting lightly on the floor, he floated in the chill waters of the flooded basement and tried to sort through the mixture of sensations that flowed through his body and mind.
The various pains of his injuries seemed distant and unimportant, minor details compared to the icy ache in his stomach, the bitter-sweet taste that filled his mouth, and the strange sense of calm in his arms and legs. His hands did not tremble as he raised them to rub at his eyes and splash water across his face. His legs did not falter as he slid his weight forward and slowly stood upright, studying the walls of the basement as if seeing them for the first time. Though his half-elf eyesight had always served him well in dim light, he had never before seen such intricate detail, even in the deep shadows of the chamber’s far corners. Amazed, he caught a glimpse of his own sword beneath the water’s surface and picked it up, marveling at the flash of wet steel before returning it to its sheath.
As if in a trance or a dream, he placed his hands over his stomach, and though a strange need still tugged at the back of his mind, it seemed to have little to do with the silkroot and his addiction. A pang of nausea gripped him as he recalled the bloody flower and his own unbidden hunger as he had devoured each fleshy petal, but it passed quickly as a soft gust of air hummed across his delicately pointed ears.
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