Lord of Stormweather

CHAPTER 8

At first Cale tensed, then he relaxed his body as he fell. He raised his arms to protect his head and tried not to think of the inevitable impact when he struck bottom.

Assuming there was a bottom.

Once before, Cale had tumbled through a gate between worlds. That had been a markedly different experience, like piercing a thick membrane and entering an airless room. This time, it was gravity itself that changed, tilting him from one reality to another.

"Mask, let it not be the Abyss this-"

The impact crushed the prayer from his lips.

As Cale hit the ground, he saw daylight all around him, blue sky above, brown earth below. He rolled, trying to get his legs under him to stand, but he had arrived on a rough hillside. At first he tumbled painfully amid the scree, but he turned to roll smoothly. A sharp rock raked at his ribs, but he kept his arms protectively over his bald pate.

At the base of the slope he fell on soft grass that slowed him enough to roll at last up to his feet. He wished again that before searching for Thamalon he had taken the time to fetch a weapon or to don the leathers he kept hidden in his bedchamber. Instead he crouched unarmed and unarmored, turning swiftly to scan in all directions.

The first thing he noticed was that he could breathe the air, and apart from the rough landing, he felt reasonably hale. At least this place was more hospitable than the plane he'd last visited.

Atop the rocky hill he spotted a cluster of weird trees bending gracefully against the rising sun. The wind whistled mournfully through their tubular fronds.

On all other sides rose great black tree trunks whose boughs spread out in all directions to form a dense, flat canopy. Above the forest wheeled a flock of long-necked lizards, gliding back to their perches after a brief panic.

Cale hoped it was his own sudden arrival that had startled the creatures, not the approach of some other predator.

To the southwest, the bright green meadow sprawled for about forty yards before succumbing to the forest. Here and there were patches of strange wildflowers, their petals brilliant orange, white, lime, yellow, and blue. Cale recognized none of the flowers, and he had a suspicion that no sage in Faerun had ever seen them, either.

Not ten feet away, a cluster of cerulean blossoms the size and transparency of water bottles bowed in the breeze. They formed an almost perfectly circular patch around a mossy tree stump. Their thick red stems rose waist-high before bending under the weight of their massive heads, a few of them so heavy they touched the ground. Inside the translucent walls of their petals stirred the vague shapes of fetal sleepers. As the rising sun touched the flowers, their occupants grew restless.

One of the flowers shuddered, and its surface breached. Syrupy purple liquid spilled from the flower head, and a pale white proboscis emerged from the rent. Soon after, the rest of a slender head and neck emerged. Twin lumps on either side of the head appeared to be closed eyes.

Cale realized he was staring open-mouthed at the sight. He surveyed his surroundings again. Reassured that nothing approached the birthing flowers, he moved closer to observe the bizarre process.

Over the course of twenty or thirty minutes, a tiny winged reptile emerged from the sagging petal. As it struggled and finally escaped its creche, the creature clambered awkwardly over the too-green grass. Its eyes never opened, and Cale saw that there were no slits for eyelids. Was the creature deformed? Or were those bumps some other form of sensory organ?

Cale brushed a finger upon the newborn's back. It felt as cool, smooth, and soft as a rose petal, and he realized it was no lizard after all. Its flesh was that of a plant, not an animal.

"Srendaen," murmured Cale.

Of all the languages he'd mastered, Cale loved the poetry of the Elvish tongue not only for its lyrical sound but also for its endless synonyms. The word he used for "beautiful" would never apply to a person, only a thing of luminous, natural beauty.

Led by instinct, the flower-bird began the arduous journey up the steep hillside. Cale thought how piteous it looked, how easy it would be to carry the thing to the crest of the hill. Like all living things, however, it needed to struggle to grow strong. To help it then would be to make it weak later.

Back at the flower patch, another few blossom-sacs were bursting open, while half a dozen more had finally drooped to the ground.

Cale followed the first-born up the hill.

He wasn't so fascinated by the alien creature that he forgot his duty. Mounting the hill would give him a better view of the surrounding territory. Assuming the enchanted painting had captured Thamalon and Shamur before Cale discovered it-and Cale considered that a safe assumption-he had a better chance of spotting them from a high vantage. Finding a way back to Selgaunt would be another challenge, but he could consider that problem later.

Cale remembered something else about his previous journey beyond the material plane. He imagined himself back inside the halls of Stormweather Towers, among the anxious guards. He thought of the bright tapestries in the grand hall, the polished oak tables with their gold candelabras, even the annoying tinkle of the servants' belled turbans…

Nothing changed. He remained in the strange new world, and no amount of his wishing would change that reality.

"Worth a shot," he said.

Briefly he wished Jak Fleet was with him. Together they'd escaped the ashen plains of the Abyss, and Cale was certain his halfling friend would be of help again.

"Trickster's Toes," Cale said, smiling ruefully. If nothing else, he could always count on Jak's exclamations to dispel the gloom that seemed naturally to settle around Cale at times. Times when those he'd sworn to protect were in peril.

But Jak wasn't there. Cale was on his own.

He patted the pockets of his long jacket and felt the hard edges of the keys to Stormweather Towers and the soft folds of a black mask he kept with him at all times. It was the eponymous symbol of his patron god.

Little more than a year had passed since Cale first learned of Mask's interest in him, and in that time he'd only just begun to explore his new faith and the powers it granted him. He'd finally, reluctantly embraced his role as a champion of the Lord of Shadows, but resentment over the god's manipulations of his mortal servant still lingered in his heart. Sometimes he felt like a pawn from one of Thamalon's chess armies. At other times, he suspected the god's favor granted Cale that much more power over his own fate.

At the crest of the hill, the flower-bird spread its fragile wings. They were so delicate that Cale feared the slightest gust might tear the creature to shreds, but instead the first breeze lifted the bird and carried it out over the meadow, where it floated like a tiny kite.

From that height, Cale could see for miles in every direction, for all the good it did him. The forest seemed endlessly vast. Squinting into the sun, Cale perceived the faint violet silhouette of mountains. He couldn't begin to guess how distant they were. Too far, was his conclusion.

He heard the dull twang of a bowstring.

Cale tumbled forward and rolled to the left. He came up running away from the arrow that quivered in the ground where he'd been standing.

Sibilant voices called to each other from the trees. It was a strange dialect, but Cale recognized the words as Elvish.

"You have the eyes of a mole!"

"Shoot! He's escaping."

Before him stood the dark shelter of the trees, but Cale knew there was no safety in them for a city man hunted by elves. The slope behind him provided absolutely no cover. Even were he armed with a sword, he could never close with the unseen archers before they feathered him with arrows.

He'd have to rely on his only remaining weapon.

"Wait!" he called in Elvish. "I am a peaceful traveler lost in your lands."

The elves didn't reply at first. Cale imagined they were creeping silently to better positions from which to shoot him. He hoped instead that they were considering his words and finding them worthy of parlay.

Cale remained still, awaiting the verdict.

A slim, brown-skinned elf slowly emerged from the morning shadows. He wore supple breeches and boots the color of the surrounding tree trunks. He held a gracefully curved bow.

With slow deliberation, the elf drew the bow and aimed at Cale's breast. At less than twenty yards distance, Cale knew he had virtually no chance of dodging the shot.

Cale showed his empty hands. He slowly turned around once to prove that he was unarmed.

"I wish only to find my master and return home," he said.

Two more hushed voices called down from the trees. They were just quiet enough that Cale couldn't make out the words. The elf menacing him nodded once, and he shook his head.

"Where is your home?" he asked.

"Far from here, in a land called Sembia."

The voices conferred once more.

"Who is your master?"

"Thamalon Uskevren." Cale held a hand at nose level and said, "He stands so tall, and his hair is white. Like me, he comes unarmed and means no harm to elves."

A familiar figure silently emerged from the shadows behind the elf. She raised a finger to her lips but didn't spare a glance at Cale. Her gaze was locked on the back of the elf's neck.

Cale wanted to warn her away, but he feared what the elves might do in their alarm. Instead, he kept his expression neutral, his eyes focused upon the bowman's face.

With fluid grace, Shamur Uskevren closed with the elf, drew his knife from its sheath, cut his bowstring, and held the sharp blade to his throat.

"Wait!" Cale cried to the elf's unseen companions.

He waved urgently to beckon Shamur and her hostage out into the open, and an arrow blurred out of the trees and sank deep into Cale's thigh. He felt the arrowhead exit the back of his leg, but the shaft remained stuck.

"It is a misunderstanding!" he shouted to the elves.

The pain cracked his voice, but he held it at bay with a grimace. In the common tongue, he called to Shamur, "Quickly, get behind me with him."

"Release him, or we will kill you both!"

"No," said Cale. "First you must understand that we didn't intend to harm him. This is Shamur Uskevren, wife of my master Thamalon. She doesn't understand your tongue and thus didn't know that we parlayed."

Shamur glanced at Cale when she heard her name and that of her husband. She still wore the pleated blue gown she'd worn the day before, but it was limp with dew, and gone were the lacy sash and shawl. Her ash-blond hair was disheveled, and her face was bare of rouge and kohl. Cale supposed that she'd just begun preparing for bed when the thunder shook Stormweather Towers.

While her attire reflected her station as one of the grand dames of Selgaunt, Shamur's demeanor was that of a warrior. She held the elf by his long black ponytail, keeping the knife pressed firmly to his throat. Using him as a shield, she sidestepped out of the shadow of the trees and into the open beside Cale.

"Please, my lady," said Cale. "Behind me."

The elves didn't reply to Cale's explanation, neither with words nor more arrows.

Shamur didn't budge, either. "Tell them to throw down their bows," she said. "I counted at least two others, but I suspect there's a third."

"My lady-"

"Just do it," she said.

Cale had witnessed this mood before, and he knew there was no point to further discussion.

"Throw down your bows," he called to the elves. "And show yourselves."

Two arrows buzzed through the air and sprouted in the ground less than foot before Cale and Shamur.

Shamur drew an inch-long slice upon her captive's skin.

"No!" screamed Shamur's captive. "Great mother!"

"She does not wish to kill him!" shouted Cale. The cold shock of his wound was beginning to give way to a red-hot pain, but he tried to keep anger out of his voice. "But she will do it if you don't throw down your bows."

"Do it!" wailed the hostage.

Cale could smell the elf's fear. Somehow he'd retained the childhood fancy that elves were far finer creatures than humans, but they stank just as badly when frightened.

Without the faintest rustling of foliage, a pair of elves dropped lightly from the trees and emerged from the forest shadows. They set their bows carefully on the grass and stepped away from them.

"And the other one," Cale said with a nod toward the trees.

One of the newly revealed elves puffed his cheeks with a resigned sigh and said, "Come, Kayin."

The third elf emerged from behind a tree and set his bow gently against the trunk.

"All of you," said Cale. "Come here and sit with us so that we may talk."

Reluctantly, the elves complied. Cale knelt painfully on his right knee, holding his injured leg out to the side.

"Ready?" he asked Shamur.

She nodded and said, "Tell him to stay close to me. I still don't trust them."

Cale relayed the message to the captive, who nodded dumbly. Shamur removed the blade from his throat, and the elf sat cross-legged on the ground.

"Let us talk," Cale said to the elves, "but first, will someone please help me get this damned arrow out of my leg?"

Cale and Shamur briefly exchanged their stories. As he'd guessed, Shamur had fallen victim to the enchanted painting shortly before he found her shawl. Since they arrived in the strange land so near to each other, he assumed Thamalon couldn't be far away.

Cale explained their story to the elves in the simplest terms: An enemy wizard had transported them away from their home, and they wished only to return. First, they had to find Thamalon.

The elves reacted with skepticism, then growing curiosity. Cale's command of their language, albeit with a strange accent, was a matter of great interest to them. While they'd learned the common tongue long ago, they'd never encountered a human who spoke their language.

Moreover, the elves seemed impressed by the restraint Cale had shown when injured, as well as the stoicism with which he bore the wound and the painful process of removing the arrow.

An hour later, Cale felt they'd established enough of a rapport that he could leave Shamur with the elves for a few moments. Pleading a need to relieve himself, he limped into the woods and found privacy amid the trees.

Shamur had torn strips from her skirt to make a bandage for his wound. Cale stripped off and discarded the sodden fabric nearest the wound. Briefly he worried that he looked ridiculous with one leg of his black trousers cut away to reveal his long, pale leg. Contrary to gossip among the Uskevren servants, Cale didn't actively cultivate his fearsome image. He did, however, appreciate the added authority his forbidding appearance lent him when dealing with incompetent or lazy house staff.

With a last glance ensure that Shamur and the elves remained in the clearing, Cale tied the mask to his face. It felt comfortable, even natural to have it there.

"Mask," he intoned, pressing a palm to both the entry and exit wounds, "Lord of Shadows, heal your servant."

A cool rush of power filled his body, surging through his veins to culminate at his hands. There, the coolness turned to tingly warmth and suffused his damaged flesh. He felt the divine energy travel through the ragged length of the wound, rebinding sinew and skin until they were whole. When he took away his hands, he saw a round pink scar where the arrow had struck him.

Cale removed the mask and put it back in his pocket. He stood, testing the strength of his leg. Despite a slight weakness from blood loss, he felt hale as ever.

He paused before returning. If the relationship with the elves soured, it would be an advantage for them to think he was still injured. Also, Cale didn't care to invite inquiry about his powers, even from those who knew him.

Perhaps especially from those who knew him.

He replaced the bloodied bandage on his leg and returned to the others, affecting a slight limp.

"How is your leg?" asked Shamur.

"Better than it looks."

"Do you have any idea where we are?"

"Far from Faerun," said Cale.

"Everything looks so peculiar here," Shamur added. "Those trees, the flowers, the birds… even the grass seems an odd color. On the other hand, our new acquaintances seem quite similar to the elves of the Tangled Trees."

Cale nodded and said, "And the sun looks the same, as do the sky and the clouds."

The elves watched as the humans conversed in their own tongue.

Cale said to them in Elvish, "We wish to leave you in peace. Can you tell us the way to a human habitation?"

"Human territory lies many days to the south," said the leader of the elf scouts.

His name was Muenda, and his companions were Amari and Kayin, the latter of whom still seemed awed by Shamur's ability to surprise him.

Cale didn't like the prospect of traveling for days through unknown wilderness, especially through a forest of elves hostile to humans.

"Are there human traders among your people?"

"We have had no peace with the humans for more than ten summers," declared Muenda.

Cale considered the diplomacy of the situation before asking his next question. "Would the humans to the south welcome strangers like us?"

Muenda sighed as if he had expected the question. "Yes," he said, "but you will win no friends among the elves if you go there."

"We would prefer to remain on friendly terms with your people," said Cale. "Will you help us search for my master?"

Muenda nodded and said, "If he is within our domain, we will find him. However, it is possible he will be mistaken for an enemy scout or spy."

"As were we," said Cale.

Muenda agreed, and a flick of his eyes showed that he still didn't trust the humans-especially Shamur.

"Very well," said the elf. "We will take you before the elders of my tribe. Can you walk?"

"Yes," said Cale.

"Can you climb?"

"With help."

"And she?" Muenda asked, nodding at Shamur.

"Like you would not believe," said Cale.

He suspected Lady Shamur was as nimble as Jak Fleet, though she appeared ill prepared for athletics in her current attire.

"What?" asked Shamur, noticing Cale's uncharacteristic smile.

"I realize it might seem improper," said Cale, "but you might want to slit those skirts."

Shamur didn't hesitate. With curt efficiency, she cut a line from just above her knees to the hem of her skirt, then shifted her dress and did the same in back. The mutilated garment gave her a wild look that reminded Cale of Tazi. The resemblance between mother and daughter was usually not so obvious, with their contrasting hair and eyes. Still, the two women shared an attitude of strength with a hint of mischief. Cale had rarely before seen the latter quality in Shamur. When she was done, Shamur offered the knife hilt-first to Kayin.

"I am sorry to have cut you," she said.

As Cale translated her words, the elf's face slackened with surprise. He replaced the knife in its sheath and removed the sheath from his belt. Hesitantly, Kayin bowed to Shamur and offered her the knife and sheath together, along with a few words in his mellifluous language.

"What did he say?"

Cale translated: "Thanks for not cutting deeper."

Shamur made a gracious curtsy and accepted the gift. Kayin shook his head in wonderment and bowed again, this time more deeply.

"Come with us," said Muenda.

The elves rose to retrieve their bows, but their relaxed gait reassured Cale of their armistice.

The elves led them a few hundred yards into the woods. With virtually every step, Cale noted another strange variety of flora. Tough gray vines stretched from trunk to trunk, and some mossy growth spread in patches on the ground. Giant yellow blossoms hung like bells from branches that sprung from two or three different types of tree, only to creep among the boughs and mingle with others of their kind.

"Here," said Muenda, indicating a gnarly trunk with many slender branches.

Cale and Shamur followed the elf up the woody path. As they entered the canopy, Cale wondered what sort of city the elves must have wrought among the trees. He was surprised when they emerged from the thickest foliage to see nothing but treetops in all directions.

"Where are your people?" he asked Muenda.

"They are almost here," replied the elf. "I summoned them when we first saw you."

He tapped the bone whistle that he wore on a thong around his neck.

Cale tensed as he felt a warm breeze and saw a shadow fall over the hilltop. He looked up, expecting to see the sun muted by a cloud. Instead, he saw a gigantic creature floating in the sky.

It was longer than three trade ships docked prow-to-stern, and its shape was similar to that of the porpoises Cale had seen during his voyage across the Sea of Fallen Stars. Instead of fins, thousands-perhaps millions-of transparent flagella rippled in regular stripes along its flanks. The rest of its blue-green body was striped with narrow furrows that converged in a thick, hairlike mass near the center of its belly.

The gargantuan creature's slow descent gave Cale the impression that he was falling upward, toward a ploughed field with a thicket in its center.

Despite the animal's great size, Cale could see daylight refracted here and there through its skin. In some of those lighted spaces, the shadows of smaller bodies moved within the great creature. In other spots, chaotic patches of green moss dangled from its hide, and flocks of flower-birds nested in the crannies of its vast belly.

"Do not be afraid," said Muenda. "I am telling them we are at peace."

He put the whistle to his lips and blew, but Cale heard no sound.

The elves cocked their heads to listen to the reply, which was still undetectable to Cale's ears.

A moment later, Muenda piped again. He nodded as he listened to the reply.

"You are welcome in the village."

"Up there?" asked Cale.

Muenda smiled and nodded.

"You are the first humans to climb upon a skwalos in many years," he said. "You might find the experience startling."

Cale looked up and saw that the creature-the skwalos-had stopped its decent about fifty yards above the tree canopy. From the tangled mass on its belly fell what looked like half a dozen thick, black ropes. As they struck the branches nearby, Cale saw that they were as thick as his arms, and flat like noodles. Twigs and leaves stuck to the surface of the tendrils.

Nimbly navigating the slender branches, Muenda went to one of the tendrils and wrapped it around his body. The tendril contracted snugly around his chest, waist, and thighs.

"See?" said Muenda. "It is easy. When you are ready, stroke its tongue, like this."

Tongue? thought Cale.

Muenda reached up and tickled the tendril with his hand. The elf began to rise toward the skwalos. The other elves watched him expectantly, as did Shamur.

"What did he say?" she asked.

Cale decided against a literal translation. Instead, he led by example, grasping one of the remaining tendrils.

"Like this, my lady."

The tongue-and Cale still wished Muenda had found another word for it-felt slightly warm and tacky, but not so sticky as he'd imagined. He wrapped it around his body three times and reached up to tickle it. When it squeezed him, Cale tried not to think of a constrictor snake.

Within moments, the tongue lifted him nearly all the way to the surface of the great beast's belly. He looked for Muenda but saw only hundreds of other tendrils. Some of them had withered to lumps, while others were kinked and curled close to the skwalos's translucent hide. He wondered how he would get from the belly of the beast to its back.

"Uh, oh," said Cale, as he realized the full implications of the term Muenda had used for the tendril in which he'd willingly placed himself.

He looked up to see the huge mouth of the skwalos open to receive him. Before he could call out to Shamur, the creature's great lips closed.

An instant later, the skwalos swallowed him whole.