"As ready as we're going to be," Llan said.
"Good." Burden stood, keeping to the shadows. Nightshade disappeared along the dark rim of the bridge. Burden wouldn't be able to watch him. Dream Riders always traveled at their own pace.
Wind shrank until he was the size of a blade of grass. Then he turned into a spark and swirled through the air ahead of them. Fants moved ahead of Burden, leading the troop. He kept them low in the tall grass, pushing it down as he moved, somehow doing so silently. Burden thanked the Mysteries that Fants had agreed to come. Burden wouldn't have been able to move that quietly without him.
The Foot Soldiers slinked off to one side, moving as a unit, almost looking like a creature themselves. The grass continued to the wall, and then there were hedges along the side. But when they reached the wall, Fants slid along the side, moving to the road. It wasn't until Burden followed that he saw the open gate.
So trusting, these Islanders, even in the middle of a war.
Or perhaps they didn't think it was war yet, not with only two casualties. It was the importance of those casualties that escalated this conflict.
A dark shape slithered over the wall. Nightshade was inside.
Fants worked his way around the gate, keeping to the shadows. Burden and the remaining infantry followed. The Foot Soldiers climbed over the spot that Nightshade had used.
Burden could no longer see Wind. The light from four torches burning over the arched doorways made sparks of their own. Wind probably played in those sparks, waiting for his companions. The courtyard seemed unusually light. The tiles depicted scenes of some sort, religious scenes. Burden's heart began to pound hard. He didn't know if he could safely touch those tiles. If the Islanders were smart, they would have poured poison on every surface in this place.
Nightshade slithered along the tiles, heading toward the flower pots lining the building's wall. He was a giant black shape that remained unchanged. No poison here. He apparently didn't even have any fear of it.
Fants signaled with his hand and the entire troop moved as one unit to the pots near Nightshade. The edge of the rope was tied to a tree. The Islanders probably forgot about it in the excitement from that night.
A spark floated past Burden, swirling up and up and up. Nightshade wrapped his body around the rope and parts of it disappeared under his darkness. Burden climbed up next. It had been a long time since he climbed a rope. Fortunately it was sturdy. It curled around his hands. He pulled himself up slowly so that he wouldn't touch any of Nightshade's darkness.
The rest of the troop would follow, two on the rope at all times, in rank order. The Foot Soldiers would climb next, followed by the Infantry. Fants would bring up the rear, partly because he had lost all of his rank, and partly because it would work better to have a competent pair of eyes at the bottom.
When Nightshade reached the edge of the balcony, he got off the rope and slithered along the stone, hiding in the shadows. Wind was floating over the rope, waiting for the others.
Burden pulled level with the stone floor of the balcony. The guard had torches around him. His feet were bare and black with dirt. He couldn't have been more than sixteen. His angular face didn't even have the trace of a beard. The pockets of his light robe bulged with poison, and a vial of it sat on the table beside him. Behind him, the double doors leading into the room were closed, and the room was dark.
Nightshade had reached the edge of the doors. Burden clung to the rope, his arms aching from supporting his weight. He looked down. Owrie was behind him, several feet lower on the rope.
Wind floated past him, a tiny light in the darkness, as if checking the position of the others, then floated up. He was a spark the size of Burden's fingernail — almost big enough to see the little man in the center of the light — and he looked vaguely threatening, more as something that would start a fire than as something that would become human.
He floated toward the Islander and Burden held his breath. He moved one hand higher so that he could see better. The Islander didn't notice.
Wind floated around the Islander's face. Burden's heart was pounding. If Wind did this wrong, he would die.
Suddenly Wind shot up four sizes until he was the size of the Islander's head. He slammed his small body into the Islander's nose. The boy screamed and clawed at his face.
Nightshade rose to his full height and pulled open the doors.
Burden climbed on the balcony.
The boy grabbed at Wind, but Wind shrank to spark size. The boy's shaking hand found the vial and tried to uncork it. Wind landed in his hair and pulled. The boy got the cork off.
The rope below Burden shook as another Fey climbed on it.
The Islander boy had enough poison to kill them all.
The Islander grabbed at Wind with his other hand. The poison was shaking out of the vial, drops landing on the stone. Burden grabbed his knife as Nightshade slipped inside.
Wind raised his small head, saw Burden, and placed his hands over the Islander's eyes. It was a dangerous move, because the boy was very likely to pour poison on Wind. The boy splashed the poison toward his own face as Burden let his knife fly.
It caught the boy in the chest. He grunted and toppled backwards. Wind floated up with the air, becoming small again, and floated inside the open doors.
The poison spilled all over the stone. Burden grabbed the railing around the balcony and sat on it, raising his feet above the liquid. He hadn't counted on this. Other vials smashed as the boy fell.
The sound was deafening.
Burden waved at Owrie, indicating that she should stop. She rested halfway up the rope, with Llan behind her. The rest of his troop were huddled near the wall, open and vulnerable to anything that appeared on the courtyard below.
Wind landed on Burden's shoulder, sending a warmth down his arm. "Warn them about the poison," he whispered.
The boy wasn't dead yet. He raised his head and pulled at the knife, making whimpering sounds as he tried to free it. Burden would have to finish him off, but he couldn't get near. The boy was soaked in poison.
Wind floated down the rope, pausing beside Owrie and then beside Llan on his way.
Burden crawled along the railing toward the boy. It shook beneath his weight. It wasn't made for more than decoration. If an Islander had hit it at full speed, the railing would shatter.
The boy didn't see him. He was muttering something — a prayer? — the words were unfamiliar, but their pattern was ritualistic. His hands were dry as they latched onto the knife.
Suddenly Wind was beside Burden. He was tiny, about the size of a finger. He grinned at Burden then hovered above the boy and shouted. The boy started, his hands falling back. He groped for a vial of the poison as Burden leaned over, grabbed the knife, and twisted it as he yanked it free.
Blood poured out of the boy. He wouldn't last long now.
Wind floated past Burden and toward the door. Burden shoved the knife back into its hilt. He braced himself on the railing, holding himself in place with his hands. He would have to leap past the boy and hope that the stone was dry.
The railing shook as Owrie climbed on it. It creaked under the strain of their combined weights.
"Watch out for the poison," Burden whispered, but she didn't appear hear him. She was staring at the Islander. His hands were groping, but otherwise he wasn't moving. The blood coated his robe.
"Let me finish him," she whispered. She almost licked her lips as she did so.
"No." Burden spoke louder than he had planned. Were these Islanders deaf? He had never had a troop make so much noise. "He's coated in poison."
"Pity," she said, her voice matching his. "Such a waste of marvelous materials."
Wind opened the doors from the inside. He had transformed to his full height, his wings ghostly shapes in the darkness. If Burden leapt carefully, he wouldn't touch the balcony at all.
"This thing isn't stable," Owrie said.
"I know." Burden rose on his toes and launc
hed himself toward the doors. Wind stepped back. The railing clanged behind him as it shook.
"Careful!" Owrie snapped.
Burden landed on the rugs and rolled away from the balcony. His back hit a piece of furniture.
The room wasn't as dark as he had expected. A fire burned in the next room over, sending a bit of orange light into this room. He stood, rubbing his back, and Owrie jumped inside.
She rolled and banged herself too. Llan was crawling along the railing, looking hungrily at the dying Islander.
"Keep your people off that Islander," Burden whispered to Owrie.
"Don't worry," she whispered back. "We don't like dying any more than you do."
He brushed himself off. Light filtered under the door across the room, and when he squinted, he saw two pairs of bare feet pacing. What were these Islanders thinking, guarding their religious leaders with children?
Still, that made things easier for Burden.
Llan landed in the room, but didn't roll. He picked himself up with grace, and stared out the door at the boy. VeHeter was on the railing. The others were coming up.
Apparently the Islanders outside hadn't heard them at all.
Burden threaded his way around the couch. It all rested on Nightshade now. He didn't see Nightshade or his quarry, so he headed toward the light, keeping in the shadows as best he could.
When he reached the other door, he looked in.
The room was sparsely furnished; two tables and matching bedside chairs, a fireplace in which flames were dying, and a large bed covered with quilts. Vials sat on the tables like sentries, but they hadn't been used.
A man lay on the bed, long and thin, his golden curls spread along the pillows. He was on his back, his hands pinned to his side, his face completely hidden by Nightshade's darkness. The dreams hadn't started yet or the Rocaan would be twitching with them. But Nightshade had barely had a chance to begin.
Owrie came up behind Burden and started to go in, but he caught her arm. He had forgotten about the Foot Soldiers' enthusiasm for their work. He pulled her out of the room and closed the door halfway behind him.
"Give Nightshade a moment," he said.
She frowned and wrenched her arm from his grasp. Then she stuck her hands under her armpits and wandered back to the balcony. VeHeter was inside now, and Condi was on the railing. It looked precarious, but Burden figured it would hold.
By the time all of the troop was inside the room, Nightshade would be ready for them.
Then the Fey would be rid of this menace once and for all.
FORTY-SIX
Adrian ran across Shadowlands. The mist swirled around him almost as if it could stop him. He had never moved this fast, not in Shadowlands. The cabins seemed closer than they had before, and more than one Fey watched him run.
He had to get to Coulter.
He was probably already too late.
He remembered seeing bits of Ort's broken body after they finished with him. He no longer looked like a person. Most of his skin was gone, his mouth had been grafted shut, and his hands were solid slabs of flesh. Only his eyes remained, opened and filled with terror.
Coulter was too young to die.
Especially like that.
"Wait!" Gift's reedy voice called out to Adrian in the fog, but he wasn't going to wait. For all he knew the Black King's great-grandson had handed his best friend over to the Warders when Coulter told Gift he was going to leave.
No one stood near the Warders cabin. Smoke rose from the chimney. Adrian bounded up the stairs and hesitated. All the years of training, all the years in Shadowlands had taught him not barge anywhere, to figure he was unwanted instead of needed.
He was unwanted.
They were probably killing Coulter.
He shoved the door open.
And stopped.
Touched and Rotin stood beside each other, their arms covered with blood. The room smelled of fear, iron, and smoke. But those were only details. The thing that caught his attention was the giant circle of skin resting on the table.
"My god," Adrian said. "What did you do to him?"
The boy had no face or limbs left. He was just a circle of skin with blood dripping off the sides.
"Get out," Rotin said.
"Not without Coulter."
"You have no place here, Islander," Rotin said. "Get out."
"No." He walked toward the table. He didn't know what he would do with the boy once he had him. Mend couldn't fix this. Only the Warders could. "Coulter?"
He thought he heard a whimper from inside the circle. As he got closer, the stench was nearly overpowering.
Touched put a finger on Adrian's arm and he winced. "You'd better leave," Touched said softly.
"Not without Coulter," Adrian repeated.
"Or you'll do what, Islander?" Rotin asked. "Melt us all with your holy poison?"
Adrian whirled. He'd lost five years of his life to these people trying to protect his son, and still they'd ruined Luke. Now they were killing Coulter. He had nothing left. Nothing.
"If I had holy water, I'd pour it on you first, Rotin. You're the most evil, useless creature I'd ever seen. And you, Touched, preying on a child. Coulter did nothing to you. Give him to me. Now."
"So tough," Rotin said, her voice almost a caress. She came closer to Adrian. He had to keep his feet planted so that he wouldn't back away. Some of the stench was coming from her. Pouches lay at her feet. Empty pouches.
His stomach turned.
"Give him to me," he said.
The stench had grown stronger, almost like burning flesh instead of rotting flesh. His stomach rolled, and a wave of nausea swept through him. Someone pounded on the door behind them.
"You have no rights to the boy, little man," Rotin said. "He's ours now."
A curl of smoke rose off the flesh circle. Touched made an odd sound and placed a hand on the circle's side. It jiggled.
"Rotin!"
She turned, saw the rising smoke, and glanced at Touched in confusion. Adrian grabbed the flesh circle, wincing as it squished against his hands. It was hot. He pulled his hands away. They weren't burned, but nearly so.
The smell of crisped flesh grew stronger.
Then a hole broke through the circle and a beam of light slammed into Adrian, knocking him against the wall. The light held Coulter in it, not his physical self, but his mental self. He was terrified, assaulting Adrian with deep emotion, words and babbled phrases inside his mind.
The air had left Adrian's body. "Stop, stop," he said, but he didn't know if he was speaking or thinking the words. Coulter didn't stop. The light encircled Adrian like a protection. He couldn't see for the brightness. Outside the pool of light and emotion, he could hear vague voices, and more pounding, but he could make no sense of it.
Finally the breath came back into his body. His chest hurt from the lack of air. It almost felt as if Coulter were clinging to him in that light. Adrian stood, slowly. His vision was coming back, studded with red and green dots as his eyes adjusted to the brightness.
Touched and Rotin had backed away from the light stream. Smoke rose from the flesh circle. It was melting, and as it melted away, it revealed Coulter inside, huddled in a ball.
Adrian had never felt such relief.
Apparently Coulter felt his relief too and some of the emotional assault eased. Coulter, Adrian thought, We have to get out of here. Quickly before they can recover.
Coulter's grip on Adrian seemed to tighten. The light got brighter. Suddenly Coulter flew through it, his small body ensheathed in it. He landed beside Adrian, both wrapped in light.
We have to go, Coulter thought, the words so powerful they felt like blows. They know how to break through this.
Adrian picked up Coulter. The boy wrapped his legs around Adrian's waist. Coulter felt as strong as his emotions had. The light tightened until it was close around them. Rotin was shouting at Touched — something about a pouch. The door had opened and Niche came in, holding
Gift's hand.
Coulter was right; they would only have a moment before the Fey would converge on them again.
Adrian ran for the door, bumping the table with his hip. He felt odd, moving with such light around him, but the light didn't seem to protect him from anything except the people. Niche moved away from it. Gift was yelling at Coulter. Coulter sent a beam of light in Gift's direction, but Adrian only saw it. He felt nothing.
Fey 02 - Changeling Page 49