The Restless Shore

CHAPTER NINE

9 Mirtul, the Year of the Ageless One

(1479 DR)

The Akana, Edge of the Wash, Akanul

The weight of the heavy blade was comfortable in her hand. The thought of resistance on the honed edge, skin and muscle giving way, perhaps the grating of bone on steel, was easier to contemplate, simpler than the chaos of the dream. Sleek forms, pale shadows in the moonlight, prowled down the slope slowly, cautiously, as if they were waiting for something. Uthalion’s boots clomped through the farmhouse as he created a racket, throwing things against the walls, muttering to himself all the while.

“What’s he doing?” Vaasurri asked as he joined her on the porch.

“Not sure,” she answered as a handful of the dreamers quickened their loping strides. “Doesn’t matter, not now.”

“Get inside,” Uthalion said from the doorway, breathing heavy and brushing dust from his hands. “We’ll wait for them in the front room.”

As Vaasurri nodded and stepped to the door, Ghaelya caught his arm, scanning the darkness at the side of the house curiously.

“What about Brindani?” she asked.

“He’s … He’ll be fine,” Vaasurri said, avoiding her gaze. “He’s involved in another fight.”

“Another what?” she asked. But Vaasurri slipped into the house without another word.

Though she was worried for the half-elf, the dreamers were getting closer. She could already hear them growling in anticipation. Frowning, she followed the others and found the front room piled with furniture. Every scrap of wood or cloth Uthalion could find had been thrown against the walls. A strong scent of potent spirits hung heavy on the air like the breath of a dwarf drunkard with a story of battle to tell.

Uthalion knelt close to the window, his bow in hand and squinting into the night.

“Going to burn us to the ground, or are we opening a tavern?” she asked, anticipation for the fight to come lightening her mood somewhat.

“Something like that,” he replied dryly.

“They only hunt at night,” Vaasurri added, “Avoiding the day. They do not seem to like the light too much.”

“That seems to be true,” Ghaelya said, eyeing the kindling-to-be nervously while at the same time wishing there were a spot of the spirits left over for quick drink. She turned to face the hallway behind them. “But there’s no back door here …”

“Eyes forward,” Uthalion commanded, putting arrow to bowstring as Vaasurri crouched near the north window. “They’re coming … And they are not alone.”

Brindani stepped outside and inhaled, smelling the night air as it filled it lungs. Exhaling, he shook his arms out and stretched his neck. A feral sense of exhilaration carried him through the tall weeds, a ready bounce in his step as he drew his sword. Bounding down the slope came the first of the horrid beasts, Ghaelya’s dreamers, its glassy eyes flashing, its fangs bared. With a nimble hop, Brindani was on the porch, swaggering across the steps calmly. A cruel grin played on his lips as the dreamer dug its claws deep in the dirt, leaping at him with a vicious growl.

With a twirling flourish, the half-elf slashed his blade lightning-quick across the dreamer’s throat as he sidestepped the beast’s deadly charge. It crashed onto the porch, thrashing and gurgling in a foul-smelling sprawl of claws and teeth scraping on the old wood. Brindani stabbed it again, piercing the barrel chest deep and stilling its frantic heartbeat.

Pulling the blade free he studied the stinking blood on the sword, feeling the tightness in his wrist and arm, the speed and power bundled in every muscle and nerve. Some diminished part of his mind was haunted by Vaasurri’s words about the properties of silkroot, but the concern was fleeting and distant, nothing next to the three dreamers closing in. He turned to the shocked eyes watching him from within the farmhouse.

“Are we doing this or not?” he asked, smiling broadly even as arrows flew past his shoulder and buried themselves in one of the beasts. It tumbled down the slope, yelping and kicking up dust. Brindani laughed and slapped his sword across his chest in a soldier’s salute as he faced the twisted hounds. “Excellent!” he cried.

Rough hands grabbed his shoulders and pulled him backward, still laughing his challenge at the strange pack as he staggered into the shadows of the farmhouse. Vaasurri spun him sideways, shaking him slightly and placing a thin finger to his lips.

“We have no need for wild heroes,” the killoren said, his once fearsome black eyes now lacking the terrifying luster they had held before. Porch slats creaked as heavy paws landed close to the open doorway.

“I beg to differ my green friend,” Brindani replied and set his blade to receive the growling guest as Uthalion cursed and dropped his bow in favor of steel.

“Plenty of time for differences later,” Vaasurri whispered and rolled to the doorway, his bone-sword slashing at the searching paws on the threshold. The dreamer whined and snapped at the fey, but caught only Ghaelya’s blade across its thick skull before it retreated to crouch at the edge of the porch. It howled angrily, a call that was answered again and again from its packmates on the slope and beyond.

As Vaasurri and the others winced, covering their ears at the sound, Brindani felt little but the smallest pressure on his temples, barely enough to give him a headache. Before he could breathe easy however, a mournful wail followed the dreamers’ calls. Beautiful and full of sorrow, the new voice burrowed through the fog in his mind, tearing through the veil of the silkroot like the screaming groan of twisting metal.

He fell back, shaking his head and tasting the bitter drug on his lips, feeling the burn of it in his throat as the pining voice rippled through his skull. The walls shook, and dust fell into his eyes as the muffled curses of the others overtook the trailing edge of the singer’s thunderous tune.

“What in the hells was that?” Uthalion asked, his question lost as another dreamer charged through the doorway. Blades flashed before Brindani’s eyes, and he blinked, struggling to take back whatever the wailing voice had stolen.

Ghaelya hacked at grasping claws through the window as teeth snapped mere inches from her hands. Uthalion fought on the floor, his blade buried in an intruding beast’s side as Vaasurri took up his bow and loosed several arrows into the night. Disoriented, Brindani tried to react, to call back the strength and speed he’d reveled in just moments ago. Ghaelya swore as a claw scraped her forearm.

“No,” Brindani whispered, wincing as yet another beast reached the old porch and the full extent of his unwitting crime lanced through his gut sickeningly. “I brought them here … I led them to us.”

He fell to one knee, shaking and catching his breath even as a soothing tingle spread through his limbs, calming his trembling hands and steadying his balance. His eyes burned with unspent tears, the brief shame fading as his senses returned. He spun at the sound of heavy claws on wood, his eyes darting to the hallway. Smiling as the fog of silkroot and bloodlust returned, he rushed to the northern bedroom, pausing as the hulking form of a dreamer crouched at the end of the hall.

Glassy eyes and bared teeth greeted him with a rumbling growl and huffing breath.

“Can you smell me, dog?” he asked, prowling forward, the bitter scent of silkroot strong on his breath. “It was me that you tracked all this way. And you shall have me … Not her!”

He charged the dreamer, and it leaped through the air, meeting his quick steel with fang and claw.

Uthalion strained under the weight of the dreamer, shoved back a thick paw, and pulled his blade free of the limp corpse. He slashed at gleaming black eyes in the doorway, forcing the next beast back as he regained his footing, yelling furiously and planting his boots to take the next charge. Snapping bone echoed through the room, heralding the pained whine of Ghaelya’s kill at the windowsill as Vaasurri sent two more arrows speeding through the other window.

Growls and curses came from the northern end of the house, the walls shaking as Brindani fought on that unexpected front. Uthalion took all of it in, thrusting his blade at the snapping jaws in the doorway and shoving the dead body at his feet into the opening with a grunt.

“We can’t last here,” Vaasurri said, and Uthalion nodded, the shrieking voice that had accompanied the dreamers still ringing in his skull.

“No need to,” he replied, kicking the corpse with his toe. “Just had to set a proper stage.”

“Well, I’d say the stage is set and ready for whatever comes next,” Ghaelya said as she wrenched her blade free of a twitching dreamer. “Unless you’re just having fun.”

“Not in the least,” Uthalion answered and turned to the back of the room. “Let’s get Brindani and-”

“This can end now,” a voice said, booming through the house and shaking the boards beneath their boots. Uthalion gasped and stumbled forward, turning as the words reverberated and distorted into meaningless echoes that burned in his ears. Vaasurri had squeezed his eyes shut, ducking down beneath the open window. Brindani’s struggle in the northern hallway fell silent, and the dreamers outside mewled submissively as they backed away from the house, gathering at the edge of the porch.

Crouching and crawling forward, Uthalion caught the knowing look on Ghaelya’s face as she turned away from the window, shaken by the thundering sound of the newcomer.

“What was that?” Uthalion whispered.

“The Choir,” she answered at length. “Or one of them at least.”

Uthalion peered out the window and looked beyond the gathered pairs of gleaming eyes ringed around the porch. He caught a glimpse of a tall figure in dark robes. A palpable unnatural aura surrounded the being, clinging like gossamer webs of shadow as he ambled awkwardly down the slope, his movements quicker than his appearance would suggest.

“What is it?” Uthalion muttered under his breath.

“I am but a man, like you,” the voice said, oozing into his ears like molten metal. He ducked away from the window, as if he might hide from the approaching figure and the painful sound of its voice. “Unlike you,” the voice continued, “I bear a blessing upon my flesh and carry purpose in my heart. Call me Sefir, and let us have an agreement between us, man to man.”

“And what might that be?” Uthalion replied, looking to Vaasurri and gesturing to the back hallway as he spoke to Sefir. “For, truth be told, I can’t imagine what we could possibly have in common.”

Vaasurri and Ghaelya moved quietly from the room, the genasi looking back only to see Uthalion shoo her away quietly. He sheathed his sword loudly, certain that the sharp-eared Sefir would hear the gesture and hoping it might cover the sound of the others’ retreat.

“She is not meant for such as you,” Sefir growled, causing the dust to dance upon the floor. “Your band will be undone by the genasi, torn from each other by greed and envy, secrets and lies … unless you bring her to me.”

The words gave Uthalion pause for thought as the musical quality of Sefir’s voice spiralled madly into chaos. Each syllable seemed to fall apart and scurry into the cracks of the walls, vibrating through the floorboards. Somewhere in the voice were familiar notes of song, twisted and of a lesser quality than Uthalion recalled, but the connection was there.

Bring her to me, bring her to me …

He shook free of the memory and crawled away from the window, easily resisting the discordant charm in Sefir’s voice. Scowling, he quietly stood, backing into the shadows of the hallway and taking up a small lantern he’d found in the piles of furniture in the common room.

“Well?” Sefir asked impatiently.

“I’m considering it,” Uthalion answered. “Can you give me four or five days to think it over?”

A low tone, humming loudly, slowly rose into a shriek of quaking rage that shook the ground. Uthalion fell to his knees, certain that his ears would bleed at any moment as the walls shook, and dust turned his hair a venerable shade of early gray. He gripped the edge of the doorway for balance, the old wood trembling beneath his fingers and creaking as Sefir’s show of anger threatened to shatter the farmhouse into splinters.

“I thought not,” he grumbled, kicking out the legs of a carefully placed chair. It brought down a pile of debris, blocking the door as he turned to the back of the hallway.

He kicked and punched the old wood, mostly rot held together by rusted nails and the barest memory of what might have once been paint. Satisfied, he gestured to Ghaelya and presented the new, gaping hole in the back of the house.

“Back door,” she muttered and sheathed her sword. “My mistake.”

The house shook again as the dreamers joined the dreadful singing of their master, roaring and pouncing onto the porch, fighting one another for the opportunity to lead the attack. Vaasurri gripped Uthalion’s arm before rushing out into the ravine behind the house.

“Don’t take too long,” the fey said.

“No worries,” Uthalion replied. He clapped his friend on the shoulder as Vaasurri leaped into the dark, swiftly followed by a grumbling Ghaelya.

Uthalion turned back to the makeshift barrier just as Brindani appeared, crashing into the wall from the north bedroom. His leg was bloodied, but still carrying his weight. Uthalion grabbed his arm and pulled him back to the opening.

“Let’s go,” he said roughly, feeling time slip away with each scrape of a claw on the floor, each creaking snap of wood to the dreamers’ fury. But Brindani resisted, pulling away and shaking his head.

“No,” the half-elf said. “I’ll stay. Ghaelya needs you more than me. I’ll hold those things back for as long as I-”

Uthalion shoved Brindani aside, pushing him toward the back of the hallway.

“Already taken care of,” he said and eyed the barrier as it shook and shifted, making a quick estimate of how much time it might buy them.

“You?” Brindani said in disbelief. “No, she needs you to-”

Brindani flinched as a spark of flame erupted between Uthalion’s fingers, the glow of a tindertwig illuminating the hallway. He flinched again as Uthalion tossed the small lantern onto the barrier. Broken glass scattered through its gaps, and a glistening pattern of lamp oil splashed through the old wood and cloth. The hallway filled quickly with the smell of fresh smoke and oil.

“I’m no hero,” he said to the surprised expression on the half-elf’s face. He tossed the tindertwig as he added, “I’m not an idiot either.”

Oil and old dwarven spirits burst into flames that licked at Uthalion’s heels as he turned to the dark outside. The dry wood popped, and the fire caught easily. He managed half a confident grin before he was roughly tackled from the left and pinned to the wall. Fangs pierced his shoulder. Yelling in pain and shock, he punched at the bloodied dreamer with his free hand as he was dragged to the floor. Smoke stung his eyes as the dull burn of shock and pressure radiated from the bite, the beast’s teeth breaking through his armor just enough to reach flesh.

Through the blur of smoke, tears, flame, and shrieking beasts, a flash of steel lanced into the vicious dreamer, digging deep and stilling the thunderous heartbeat that pressed against Uthalion’s chest. The wide jaws fell slack, and the thick neck twisted away limply as Uthalion pushed free of the creature, pausing curiously as he caught sight of tiny fishlike scales glistening around the dreamer’s jowls and glassy eyes.

“I thought you’d already killed it,” he said, gripping his shoulder tightly to slow the bleeding.

“Me too,” Brindani replied, coughing in the smoke. “Guess we’re both idiots.”

Uthalion merely scowled, saving what breath he had as he shoved Brindani outside and followed after. A cloud of swirling black smoke trailed them both as they tumbled and rolled down the steep ravine, the furious cries of Sefir and his twisted hounds echoing through the winding cracks of the Wash.

Ghaelya sat at the bottom of the ravine, coughing and bruised, and slapping dirt from her legs. She stared up at the growing nimbus of flames through the thick brush and small trees along the side of the ravine. She grinned at the discordant, yet musical fury of Sefir, but the pained whines of the dreamers gave her a momentary pang of pity. Something in the creatures’ voices, almost childlike, touched her deeply. She shivered despite herself.

Vaasurri approached, keeping low and glancing around nervously, a hunter’s gleam in his dark eyes.

“We must hide, and quickly,” he said and prowled into the dark, motioning for her to follow.

She stood her ground a moment longer, sick of running and hiding. But trusting to the killoren’s instincts, she fell in step behind him, dashing into the shadows beyond the moonlight and the glowing flames. He led her to a curving spiral of rock, like the abandoned shell of something from the sea, and crawled inside cautiously. She waited impatiently at the opening, still looking back to the fire above and searching for Uthalion or Brindani to appear at any moment, but finding neither.

“Where are they?” she whispered. A shower of sparks danced toward the stars as some part of the old farmhouse collapsed. Cursing, she made to follow the killoren when she heard something crashing toward her. Muffled curses seemed to answer her own as the human and the half-elf rolled and slid into view.

Coming to a sprawling stop, they coughed and swore. The edges of Brindani’s cloak smoldered with sparks that he quickly beat into the dirt with a free hand. Smirking, Ghaelya ran to them, helping Brindani to his feet as Uthalion groaned and stood, bleeding from his shoulder and choking on swallowed dust.

“Well,” she said. “No one will ever accuse you of being graceful.”

“Fire …” he croaked, unable to say more as a fit of coughing overcame him, managing only a brief sign of “thumbs-up” before pressing an already bloody hand to the wound on his shoulder.

“Perhaps that will get them off our trail for a bit,” she said. Brindani limped at her side as she led them to the spiraling cave where Vaasurri waited, the fey’s eyes constantly on the sky.

“You do not know the half of it,” the killoren said grimly as they crawled inside the smooth-walled cave. Like a sea-shell, the walls were smooth and almost glassy; the evening breeze passing through the spiral made an excellent imitation of a rolling tide. Ghaelya leaned her head close to the entrance curiously.

“What is the rush?” she asked “The dreamers aren’t following. We should-”

“Listen,” Vaasurri said, cutting her off and placing a finger to his lips.

Reluctantly, she did as he asked, intending to give the fey a moment before renewing her argument. But the faint sound of beating wings sent chills down her arms. Wide-eyed, she leaned forward, watching as trees and bushes across the ravine shivered. Tiny blue-white lights blinked through the foliage, glowing brightly and launching themselves into the air, drifting up to the roaring flames. Large, pale insects crawled from beneath the bushes as the droning of wings grew louder. Thick mandibles clacked below multi-faceted eyes. Soft wings, their span as long as Ghaelya’s forearm, spread wide as the insects took flight, careening madly into the heat and smoke above.

“Bone-moths,” Uthalion whispered, grunting slightly as he bandaged his injured shoulder. “They use lightning fires in the spring to lay their eggs. And given half a chance, they’d chew through your arm.”

Ghaelya shivered at the thought of it, but could not turn away from the glowing swarms of white light streaking through the air.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, then tore her eyes away, leaning back into the little cavern. “Now what?” she asked.

“Dawn,” Vaasurri said before anyone else could answer, shooting a swift glance at Uthalion, who muttered and shook his head. “We sit tight until dawn. There are bigger wings in the dark than just moths.”

The dreamers bounded up the hill, whining low in their thick throats as they responded to their master’s summons. Their sparse fur rustled in the breeze, and their heartbeats were synchronous beats of muffled thunder as they settled in the cool grass, far from the roaring flames of the farmhouse.

Sefir knelt in the grass, wheezing in pain and attempting to catch his breath. The painful light of the roaring flames was little more than a glow at his back, and he could still feel it screaming across his skin, burrowing through his skull. Bent double, he gagged, spitting up streaks of blood across the green blades of grass. His stomach heaved even as his skin itched with its continuing change. Whimpering softly, the dreamers gathered around him, warily watching as waves of agony flowed through his limbs.

Quiet, wracking sobs left him near helpless as the blessing of the Lady and the song spread through him like an infection, settling upon him in his moment of weakness to make him stronger.

“I failed you,” he muttered shamefully, feeling unworthy of the gifts that had been bestowed upon him. Several dreamers growled, baring their teeth and creeping toward him like the wolves they resembled, as if sensing his weakness. Sefir quickly straightened, facing them though he was not yet brave enough to open his aching eyes. “Back!”

The command turned them away whining, a simpering mewling tone that only served to feed the impotent rage burning in his chest. Collecting himself, he stood, wavering on his feet and stretching his changing anatomy. New growths writhed on his back, constrained by his robes, and he shuddered at the acute sensation of touch they delivered. Rubbing his jaw and baring the strong needle-teeth that had pushed through, he caught a faint sound of buzzing from the south.

He smiled grimly, imagining the black wings that made the sound, far larger than the annoying moths immolating themselves in the burning farmhouse. Laying his palms upward in supplication, he spoke to the voice that filled his every waking thought, the music that lived in every part of him.

“To Caidris I shall travel then, my Lady,” he said and spread his hands to the assembled pack of dreamers, “We shall greet them beyond the lowlands and embrace those that survive through the valley of black wings. It is her will.”

Relief flooded through him, certain that his failure had been part of the Lady’s grand design all along and pleased that he could be of service. Khault had known, had told him as much, and Sefir felt blind for not seeing the truth. Attempting to open his eyes again, he winced, his left eye still fresh with a pain that was maddening. He pressed his palm over the closed lid feeling the tight thrum of the pulse behind the darkness in his sight, the veins squirming at his touch as if reaching for release.

Sighing in understanding, even smiling, he reached up and placed a dirty fingernail against the soft flesh beneath his eye.

It gave way to his strength easily, in a ritual he had imagined ever since the first soft touch of his Lady’s spirit had graced him. The pain was a price he willingly paid, eager to step closer into the fold of the Choir. Rolled clumps of tissue gathered beneath his nails as he led the dreamers southwest, tearing strips of filthy cloth from his robes and blessing each one with a light kiss before pressing them over each fresh wound.

Despite the falling moon and the long distant flames, the night became brighter than any day he’d ever known.