The Restless Shore

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

11 Mirtul, the Year of the Ageless One

(1479 DR)

The Lash, Akanul

Uthalion winced as he ducked low and pulled his sword free of a twitching spider. An arrow grazed his ear, the fletching sending a shock down his spine as it passed. He cursed at the near miss, flinching and holding up the edge of his cloak as a makeshift shield. Though it couldn’t have stopped the speeding missiles, it gave him a little peace of mind. The white spiders scampered awkwardly away as fast as they could. The lightning strikes intensified, reaching down from the clouds to make contact with the patches of glowing blue flowers and vibrating the air with thunderous crashes. Distant trees fell apart into more of the beasts, also fleeing the high-pitched whine that reminded him of an animal trainer’s whistle.

Grateful for the reprieve from what would have been certain defeat, Uthalion kept up his guard, fearful of having traded one dangerous threat for another. Vaasurri crouched nearby in the cover of a dead spider’s abdomen; Uthalion could just see the killoren’s drawn bone-blade held out straight and low over the short grass.

“Can you see them?” Uthalion called out, adjusting his cloak so that he could see the killoren.

Vaasurri shook his head slowly, not bothering to look up as he inspected an arrow from the spider’s body. The head was finely worked bone, and the shaft seemed cut from the bone-trees of the Lash. The fletching shined and sparkled as the killoren turned the arrow over, the feathers bearing a silver, metallic sheen like the birds they had seen earlier.

“Local,” Vaasurri said at length, shrugging. He turned to peer over the spider’s body as the flight of arrows ceased and the eerie whistling faded. Squinting over his arm, Uthalion saw a line of figures in mouse-brown robes with tall longbows at their sides. Deep cowls hid their features, and there seemed to be an awkwardness in their stance, something less than comfortable yet more than inhuman. Cautiously, Vaasurri stood, gesturing behind him as he prowled closer to the bound figure of Ghaelya. “Perhaps they can do something for Brindani,” the killoren said.

Uthalion glanced at the prone half-elf, taking in the many wounds scattered across Brindani’s body, a few of which were certainly bites and undoubtedly poisoned. He stirred and moaned softly, the sound little more than a whisper in the increasingly howling winds. Uthalion shivered in the icy chill and limped over to the half-elf, careful to mind his own wounds until they could manage some kind of shelter.

Brindani did not resist or complain as he was hoisted up to hang on Uthalion’s shoulder. He was just strong enough to push against the ground and maintain some footing. They turned together as Vaasurri freed Ghaelya, and Uthalion stared down at the genasi curiously.

“The spiders wanted her, sang her name,” he muttered quietly. His racing mind was caught between wondering why she was so important and struggling to not care, to keep moving closer to the ruins, to see to his own family. “This is madness.”

“Not … madness …” Brindani said, hissing the last syllable weakly, his reason having returned somewhat despite his many wounds or, Uthalion thought, perhaps because of them “Not madness … a dream … It’s all a dream, Uth … Just an illusion …”

Uthalion drew his attention away from the babbling half-elf as one of the robed figures approached, its longbow used as a white-wooded walking staff in a pale, long-fingered hand.

“Just keep quiet and save your breath,” he whispered in Brindani’s ear as they limped closer to Vaasurri and Ghaelya. “You’re not making any sense.”

“Exactly,” Brindani replied and laughed, a wheezing coughing affair that wracked his body and made movement difficult. The sound sent uncomfortable chills down Uthalion’s spine. An unusual, ominous timbre affected the half-elf’s voice as he calmed and added, “Not making sense.”

Ghaelya sat cross-legged on the ground, holding her bare head in a white-knuckled grip before inhaling sharply and opening her eyes. Vaasurri pulled away the last of the webbing from her shoulders and gestured at Brindani.

“Will he live?” he asked.

“I suppose,” Uthalion answered uncertainly and nodded at the robed newcomer just strides away. He eyed the powerful bow at the figure’s side and the low-slung quiver just visible beneath the whipping cloak. “But for how long?”

“We can arrest the speed of the poison,” the figure said in a mostly masculine voice, though it could have belonged to either gender. He raised his thin hand, palm up in a seemingly peaceful gesture. “If you will accept our aid.”

Uthalion looked from the newcomer to Vaasurri and to Ghaelya, his sword firmly in his grip as he narrowed his eyes and considered their options. Some innate sense of wrongness emanated from the robed figure despite its assistance with the spiders and offer of hospitality. Before he could put together a diplomatically cautious reply, Ghaelya rolled to her feet and retrieved her sword.

“We will,” she answered, sheathing her weapon and glancing at Uthalion. “We don’t have much choice.”

Oh, we do have a choice, Uthalion thought. And we may come to regret this one.

“We must be swift,” the figure said, nodding. He turned abruptly south, offering no further assistance as he swiftly strode to join his companions, calling over his shoulder, “The Tide commences soon.”

“Tide?” Vaasurri asked.

The figure paused, cocking his head curiously for a moment before turning and pointing north hesitantly, as if he gestured to the simple setting of the sun or a heavy rain cloud.

Uthalion glanced back as they limped slowly along to the line of figures. He squinted as the lightning’s brightness increased, as bolts ripped across the sky and ground in quick succession. No rain fell, nor could he smell any on the air, but the unending peals of thunder sounded like nothing less than the crashing surf of a turbulent sea against a rocky shore.

The strange figures disappeared, one by one, into a circular hole in the ground protected by a lid of what appeared to be earth and grass. Upon closer inspection, after their unlikely saviors had all descended, Uthalion noted the door was lined with and held together by long strands of webbing. Vaasurri lifted the edge curiously, studying its construction and peering down into the dark with a troubled expression.

“What do you think?” Uthalion asked.

Vaasurri tilted his head, listening as he turned to face the north. His green eyes were lit by a blue-white light as a sound like ripping paper echoed in the distance.

“I think we don’t have a choice,” he said breathlessly, moving aside as Ghaelya entered the pit first.

Uthalion followed the killoren’s gaze, wincing as the ripping noise grew louder and looked upon a white sheet of wavering flame. Stretching from ground to cloud, west to east across the Lash, an endless wall of lightning lit the gray plains in blue-white fire. It burned his eyes as it rolled across the Lash, igniting azure sparks on the ground as the flowers accepted the monstrous spring storm.

“Mystra’s bloody bones …” he whispered, lowering Brindani down after Vaasurri. With one last look at the Lightning Tide, he closed the trapdoor over his head and crawled down into the dark and the unknown.

Ghaelya found the bottom of the shaft carefully, feeling her way through the dark, and slumped against a curved wall. Little bits of web stuck to her fingers, and she wiped them away on her cloak in disgust, stretching her hands and flexing them into fists. The spiders had almost taken her, and she wondered if she’d have ended up in just another tunnel in the ground, one perhaps that led to Tohrepur. She shivered, much preferring to reach the ruins by her own means and with a sword in her hand.

The others crawled down and joined her in the dark. The chamber’s size and shape was defined only by the sound of their breathing echoing softly against the earthen walls. Their strange hosts seemed to have moved on, leaving them alone as the lightning drew near. Thunder rumbled closer, shaking the walls like an army of mountains marching to war. Ghaelya’s heart pounded as it neared, though she was relieved to hear and feel anything besides the singing of spiders and the clinging grip of webbing across her body.

“Spiders …” Brindani muttered sibilantly from his place against the wall. “Spiders … in the dark.”

Before anyone could respond or quiet the half-elf, the chamber shook violently, an explosion of lightning strikes pummeling the plains as the Tide passed over. Though deafened by the tempest, Ghaelya started to make out details of the chamber as a knotted system of roots overhead glowed with blue energy. The intricate designs reminded her of her own skin patterns as they raced with a burning light.

As she marveled at the brilliant glow, her eyes caught a faint glint of pale green against the far wall, and she slowly made out a figure, sitting quietly in mouse brown robes. She tensed and reached for her blade, but the man never moved-he merely observed her curiously with eyes the color of milky jade. Dust and clumps of soil rained from the ceiling as the lightning passed over, and soon the figure removed his hood to reveal angular, almost elven features. They were touched with a slight, predatory smile that suggested a familiarity with killing and cruelty despite his calm disposition.

“You were brave to face the Lightning Tide,” he said as the thunder faded and the lights dimmed. “Spring is not kind to travelers on the Lash.”

“Who are you?” she asked, her fingers clenching on her sword as she noted the webbing laced across the walls around them. Uthalion was guarded as well, his own blade at the ready as Vaasurri saw to Brindani’s wounds as best he could.

“I am Chevat’teht ti-Skhalles’teht, but you may call me Chevat,” he said, angling his head in a slight bow.

“Fine. Chevat,” Uthalion growled, leaning forward. “Are we trapped here, or is there a safe passage south?”

“There is a passage south,” Chevat replied and leaned forward as well, a delicate finger tapping his chin as he regarded the human. “But I have not yet decided whether or not you are trapped … you see?”

“What do you want?” Ghaelya asked, and Chevat turned, flashing her a sly grin of white, sharp teeth.

“I suspect I only want what you want,” he replied and sat back against the wall, lacing his long fingers across his lap. “I have been very curious to meet ‘the twin.’”

With a sharp intake of breath her blade cleared its scabbard in an instant and leveled on the seemingly amused Chevat as Uthalion followed suit with his own sword. Ghaelya had heard enough of twins from Sefir; she had no intention of letting another monster spout prophecies and blessings without first twisting a sword in its gut.

“The twin … the Prophet …” Brindani’s voice was barely more than a raspy whisper, but it carried through the chamber like the breath of a dragon. Ghaelya pulled away from the half-elf’s side, looking at him in shock and horror as he turned darkened, sorrowful eyes upon her. “She who would sing the world into ruin …”

“I see you are not entirely ignorant of the danger you face,” Chevat said, breaking the awful silence that fell in the wake of Brindani’s words. The half-elf looked around blearily, as if he’d forgotten where he was or what he’d been doing, and was overtaken by a coughing fit that wracked his body.

“What do you know of Tohrepur?” Uthalion asked, pressing the point of his sword closer to Chevat’s face. “Are you in league with-?”

“The Choir?” Chevat interjected. His mysterious smile was unending and overly wide for his sharp features as he stared casually down the human’s blade. “No, though I suggest you mind your weapons and your manners carefully, for my people do not, by tradition, hunt during the Lightning Tide. However, should they feel threatened …”

Chevat let the statement hang on the air as he glanced from Uthalion to Ghaelya, his eyebrow raised as he considered their drawn blades. Ghaelya shared a swift glance and a frustrated sigh with the human before withdrawing her sword, though she did not yet sheathe it. Uthalion took a moment longer, but did the same.

“Your people?” Ghaelya asked.

“Aranea,” Vaasurri answered. “Shapechangers.”

“Spiders …” Brindani added in a sibilant rasp.

Chevat bowed his head once and smiled as if enjoying the sudden discomfort of his guests. Lightning flashed again through the tight edges of the trapdoor, and the glowing roots flickered, allowing Ghaelya’s imagination to shape the shadows on Chevat’s face into a myriad of chilling, insectile features.

“What do you want?” Uthalion grumbled angrily as the thunder faded.

With precise, graceful movements Chevat rose till he stood tall over them.

“I shall tell you on the way, but we must be quick,” he said, turning to a southern tunnel. As he placed his hand upon the wall, he added, “Not all of my people are aware of, or would even agree with, your presence here in our warrens. We’ve had much trouble of late with those that come seeking twins from out of Tohrepur.”

“On the way to where?” Ghaelya asked, her voice angry and frustrated as she stood. “And what about Brindani? You said you would help him!”

“Ah, indeed I did,” Chevat replied, producing a small flask from beneath his robes and tossing it to Vaasurri. “That should counteract the poison, though I doubt he shall ever recover as once you knew him.”

“What do you-?” Ghaelya began, but the aranea had already slipped into the shadows of the southern passage, ignoring her questions and her confusion. She fumed and turned away from the tunnel, her attention inevitably returning to the trapdoor above as she considered their chances on the surface. She caught Uthalion doing the same, but before either of them could speak, Vaasurri helped Brindani to his feet and made for the southern passage.

“No use in dithering now,” the killoren said sharply. “In case neither of you have noticed, we are out of choices. You had your chance.”

Ghaelya stared after Vaasurri as he and Brindani entered the dark behind Chevat. She had not expected such vehemence from the killoren. Uthalion sighed and followed, stopping to catch her eye before moving on.

“He wanted to turn back last night,” the human said thoughtfully. “Was he right?”

“No,” Ghaelya answered without hesitation and forged ahead into the flickering shadows. She ignored her own disgust as she felt along the walls, collecting tiny threads of web on her fingertips. Ahead, beyond the silhouettes of Vaasurri and Brindani, she caught the watchful jade eyes of Chevat glittering in the dark and suppressed a shudder, still imagining the spider hiding behind his face. She matched his stare coldly and descended bravely into the warrens of the aranea, a kingdom of spiders.

Uthalion felt the walls closing in as they progressed deeper and deeper into the caverns. The ghostly light of the knotted roots above flickered and flashed with energy as the walls shook, the stormy Tide rolling overhead with deafening rumbles. Down long side-passages and deep, yawning pits, he spied gleaming stares watching them from the dark. Occasionally, the pale green eyes were in somewhat comfortable pairs. But those were rare cases, and the clicking-squish of sharp unseen mandibles, salivating with poison, was unmistakable.

“Just keep going,” he muttered. “Almost there.”

He focused on an image of his wife and child, steeled his nerves for whatever could come hungrily crawling out of the shadows, and kept one foot moving in front of the other. Webbing clung to his boots stubbornly. Smaller spiders skittered among the webs and roots, feasting on gnats that seemed to thrive in the warrens. Though his notebook was stowed in his pack, he kept his thoughts busy, identifying the spiders he knew and giving names to those he didn’t.

Leading them all was the quiet, whispering voice of Chevat, echoing back eerily as the aranea spoke of what he knew concerning Tohrepur.

“Once the song was an accepted part of these warrens, like the wind or the storm,” he said wistfully. “Strong yet soft at night, weak and subtle during the day. We never questioned its presence; the eldest of us barely heard it unless they listened. But, just over a tenday ago, it changed.”

The caverns widened and narrowed as they passed, climbing close to the surface before plunging steeply again. The webbing on the walls became more deliberate, more patterned and decorative. Bones littered the silken designs, arranged in pictures and grisly mosaics that made Uthalion think of the men he’d lost upon his crossing of the Lash six years ago. He wondered if the empty sockets of cast aside skulls watched him accusingly, imagined them whispering his name and asking if he recalled theirs.

“Arasteht was the first,” Chevat continued. “He disappeared one night, following some powerful call, a summoning that no one could dissuade him from obeying. He wept when restrained and fought fiercely to escape. Several others followed him in the days after, fleeing in groups to the south. Not all of us could hear the singing, and a few that could were able to resist. Before we could learn much else, Arasteht returned and he … well …”

The aranea paused before an ornate passage that glowed with a dancing orange light. His strange, elflike features were troubled as he turned and eyed them all suspiciously. Finally, he gestured them into the passage. “In here,” he said simply.

The ceiling of the cavern rose dramatically, and a scent of damp earth and rotting flowers hung thickly. Warm, humid air made a welcome change to the colder tunnels they’d come from. The light came from torches set in makeshift sconces along the walls, adding a light smell of smoke to the chamber. Large rocks obscured their view of the eastern end of the cavern, and swirling clouds of gnats filled the damp spaces between. Fat spiders crawled lazily over their webs, their abdomens glistening in the torchlight as they gorged themselves on the plentiful bounty.

The quiet was broken by a soft moan, a hollow sound that carried loudly in the chamber. It rose to a horrible, groaning cry that set Uthalion’s teeth on edge. The sound scratched at his ears painfully, seeming to crawl through his hair and down the back of his neck as he pressed his hands to the side of his head. It faded as quickly as it had come, leaving his skin itching and tingling uncomfortably.

“What is it?” Ghaelya asked breathlessly, her wide eyes fixed on the glowing cleft between two large rocks.

“Arasteht,” Chevat answered solemnly as he strode forward. “One of the Choir.”

Cautiously they followed the aranea through the rocks into a rounded area that glistened with smooth, wet bones and polished seashells. They formed intricate and beautiful patterns around a shallow pool of dark water, designs rising along the walls and meeting across the ceiling. Ghaelya gasped as she observed the walls, shaking her head slightly at images of sea monsters and strange, watery letters that swirled into one another. Uthalion watched her curiously for a moment, but something else soon caught his attention.

On the far wall, the bone and shell patterns were obscured by a blanket of thick webbing that rose and fell as if with a soft breeze, except that there was no wind in the chamber. Something in the web twitched as they approached, a long-fingered hand bearing hooked claws and pale, mottled skin. Uthalion made out a manlike form, though any similarity to any man he’d ever seen ended at the general shape of the thing. Segmented legs protruded from the web at odd angles; the flesh was covered in dark bumps and spines like a crustacean. Thin, ropelike tentacles were tangled in silk, curling endlessly, weakly, in a futile attempt to escape.

At its head a pair of flexible mandibles pulled at the web while a sharp-angled jaw opened and closed behind them, gasping like a landed fish and hissing through protruding, spiny teeth. Where the creature’s eyes might have been was a ridged, chitinous coating streaked with blue markings.

“When they return, those that do, they usually come here first,” Chevat said. “This place has been here longer than any of my kind can remember. We call it the Temple; they call it-”

“The Deep …” Arasteht’s hoarse voice boomed through the chamber, echoing like the weak breath of a dying god yet resonating with a lilting undertone as gentle as a child’s song.

“Calm yourself!” Chevat cried, advancing closer to the hanging thing, reaching for something around his neck. “Or you shall be punished.”

Arasteht shuddered and twisted his head away, gnashing his teeth and flexing fingers that bent backward as well as forward. He remained silent.

“Why do you let him live?” Brindani asked, his eyes and voice a bit clearer after consuming Chevat’s potion. “Why do you not kill him, and be done with it?”

“For information, or at least whatever we can glean from his mutterings,” Chevat replied, crossing his arms and turning to glare at Ghaelya menacingly. “He warns us when the Choir, or their servants, are near … He told us that you were coming last night.”

“H-how could-?” Ghaelya stammered.

“How is not a factor that concerns me,” the aranea interrupted loudly. “I should think the why of it would be of far more importance.”

Uthalion stiffened, hearing the scratching approach of spidery legs from all sides. Jade eyes appeared in holes along the ceiling in groups, and others approached from behind the rocks they’d passed just moments ago. He cursed quietly, his hand edging to his sword as he realized Chevat’s intent. Though with all that had occurred, he could not blame the aranea.

“The twin …” Arasteht muttered, suddenly focused on the genasi. “The Prophet …”

“Quiet!” Chevat yelled.

“She who would sing-” Brindani uttered and took a step backward, shaking his head and wiping his lips as if they’d betrayed him. He looked wide-eyed at the ceiling and walls, turning in a circle. “They’re coming!” he added in a rushed whisper.

“Who?” Uthalion asked, narrowing his eyes at the trembling half-elf. “Who’s coming?”

Distant buzzing shrieks echoed through the tunnels, followed by growl-like clicking and sounds of combat. Chevat snarled at the sound, his face twisting briefly to reveal his dual nature, his pointed chin splitting at the base like mandibles.

“More of those you fought on the surface,” Chevat answered angrily. “The servants of the Choir.”

“The Flock,” Arasteht grumbled with a low chuckle like rocks rolling in a tin bucket. He faced Ghaelya, his mandibles rising as he spoke. “They see you little one … They love you …”

“Enough!” Uthalion yelled, drawing his sword and advancing on Chevat. “Get us out of here!”

Chevat bared his white teeth, double-sets of eyes protruding from his cheeks as he fumed and flinched as the sounds of fighting drew closer. Piercing screams rippled through the warrens, bounding off the walls like living things as Arasteht sighed loudly, licking his thin, drawn lips with a long tongue.

“If you want us dead, do it yourself, or give the order,” Vaasurri said. He drew his bone-blade though he did not level the weapon at Chevat. “But letting those things take Ghaelya will not solve the problems you have here!”

“And letting you go will?” Chevat replied incredulously.

The sound of dozens of sharp, scampering legs joined the shrieks and screams from the tunnels.

“It’s a better chance than sending your own into Tohrepur,” Uthalion answered, sensing a kindred warrior in the aranea, a leader pushed to the boundaries of strategy, and understanding the occasional necessity of such sacrifices. “If you kill us the Choir will only get stronger, push harder, take more of your people …”

“And if I let you go to them?”

“Then there is a chance!” Uthalion shouted and lowered his sword. “More than you’ll have with us dead.”

“Go to her … to the Lady!” Arasteht cooed, his voice growing stronger despite his apparent weakness, his tentacles reaching through the webbing for the genasi. The power in his words stole everyone’s attention, cajoling blades to be set aside, calming rising tempers, and obscuring the frantic struggles of spiders in the tunnels. Uthalion tried to fight back, paralyzed in the effort as Arasteht tore through a section of web. “Go to the song … to the shore … to the bloom and the-”

A roar of rage overtook the malformed aranea’s powerful voice as a blur of movement charged past Uthalion. A flash of steel freed the man’s limbs, left him staggering, his heart pounding as he looked up to see Brindani’s sword buried in the throat of the monstrous singer.