The Restless Shore

CHAPTER TEN

9 Mirtul, the Year of the Ageless One

(1479 DR)

The Akana, the Wash, Akanul

As the night crawled inexorably toward the faint light of sunrise, the flames above their hidden cave died to a smoldering pile of popping wood and ash. Vaasurri awoke and crawled out into the predawn air. Uthalion said nothing as the fey left to find his place among the stilled tides of rock outside. He was well used to the killoren’s morning ritual, though he could never have grasped the depths of the fey’s attachment to the wild places of the world.

Climbing high upon a spire of rock, Vaasurri searched the shadows of the rocky ravine, hunting for signs of movement. The pale bodies of the bone moths blanketed the northern hillside; their scattered eggs collected in snowlike drifts atop rocks and among the branches of trees. Already he could see the first of the scavengers crawling from the cracks in the rock to feast upon the annual bounty. They would gorge themselves, and still thousands of larvae would survive into the summer months.

Closing his black eyes, Vaasurri placed his hands upon the rock, listening to the distant sounds of the Akanamere stirring, and searching for his place in the coming day. All thought retreated as the wild caressed his spirit, shaped his instincts, and whispered secrets to his fey soul. His heartbeat slowed to the crawl of a mountain through time, as stilled as the tide that had once filled the Akana.

His eyes flew open, and his heartbeat sprang to a quick beat again. He searched the rock walls high above for dusky lairs, where the threat he sensed might hide from the bright day. A threat despised the season, that feasted on death and hated the hope of spring, a betrayal to all it had once held dear.

His senses sharp, Vaasurri looked upon the world with the same coal black eyes as the previous day. His spirit remained prepared to act as the cold left hand of nature’s wrath. As thunder rumbled ominously in the south, the killoren could almost hear the hidden fiends above, clawing anxiously at the rock and whispering dark prayers for a day that would see no sun.

Morning had never been his element.

Brindani rubbed at his eyes encrusted with grime, opening them gingerly. Every joint in his hand felt swollen and creaked as he flexed his fingers, stretching out the exhaustion embedded in his bones. A single stab of pain doubled him over, and he clutched the tender layer of muscle over his stomach. It throbbed, though not for long, and he breathed easy as the pain faded to match the ache in the rest of his weary body.

He crawled out of the small cave, careful not to wake Uthalion or Ghaelya. Vaasurri was nowhere to be seen. He took shallow breaths and crouched out of sight of the others, troubled by the killoren’s absence and dreading the blazing light of day to come. He looked up to the land that some called the Silent Tide, to the great walls of rock curving like waves to crash down upon the ravines and valleys of the Wash. A constant breeze traveled the labyrinth of stone, creating a sound not unlike the ocean. The sensation of being trapped in a twisting seashell would have been unavoidable if not for the trees and the sky overhead.

The smell of smoke and char was still heavy on the air, and his eyes inexorably drifted up to the edge of the ravine, seeing nothing of the abandoned farmhouse where he should have died-an honorable death stolen away by flame … and Uthalion.

“Feeling better?”

He jumped at the sound of Vaasurri’s voice, and bright stars flashed before his eyes for several heartbeats as he calmed, scowling unhappily.

“Not a bit,” he answered hoarsely. “And I don’t expect today’s march to help much.”

“Better then,” Vaasurri replied and crawled down from his hiding place atop the cave. He crouched several strides away and fixed the half-elf with a dark stare. “You should be dead.”

“Thank Uthalion for that,” Brindani said. “He pulled me from the house-”

“No,” Vaasurri interrupted. “You should have died days ago, longer perhaps.”

Brindani shook his head, grinning in disbelief as he pushed back against the rock wall. He closed his eyes and cursed himself for not dying, a more preferable fate to the inevitable lecture he heard in Vaasurri’s voice.

“Don’t sound so disappointed,” he replied. “There’s chance yet.”

“Undoubtedly,” the fey said. “But you got rid of the silkroot, didn’t you? Perhaps you’ll discover a cleaner death than it would have provided.”

“How did you …?” Brindani asked in shock.

“Its smell is faded,” Vaasurri responded and pulled a pouch from beneath his cloak, tossing it at Brindani’s lap. “Leaves from the same plant and odorless. Chew on them as you would the root-they’ll help with the pain.”

Brindani stared at the pouch for long moments before picking it up in his shaking hands, ashamed for the horrors he’d unwittingly aided in following the group. Though as much as he wished to be free of his addiction, it was a weak will that he could wield against it, and he knew it would break. Just the thought of it churned his stomach anew, and the slight sensation of pins and needles in his gut caused him to gasp quietly for air.

“You won’t tell the others?” he asked.

“Not her, if that is your wish,” Vaasurri answered solemnly. “But Uthalion already knows.”

“How?”

“He doesn’t sleep,” the killoren said, turning back to his perch upon the rock. “He’s been listening to us all along.”

Thunder rumbled ever closer from the south, punctuating the growing dread in Brindani’s heart as Vaasurri drew his strangely carved bone-blade and studied the approaching clouds. Brindani stared at the weapon, blinking in disbelief and certain he’d just seen the patterns on the sword shift and squirm into new designs. Before he could look closer, the killoren nimbly leaped down to the spiraling cave mouth.

In the spaces between thunder and the growing wind, Brindani briefly caught the sound of fluttering wings echoing through the valley even as his hand absently traced the rounded edge of a small lump at the bottom of his pack. Wrapped tightly and tucked away, it called to him like an old friend-out of sight, but not out of mind.

Ghaelya awoke to rough hands shaking her shoulders, curses, and hushed whispers full of quiet alarm. Rising, she brushed Uthalion aside, glaring at him blearily in the murk of the little cave and squinting over his shoulder at the darkness outside.

“I thought we were waiting until dawn,” she said.

“Change of plans,” he replied, placing a finger to his lips and crawling outside.

Her heart thumped in her chest as she collected herself and followed the human. She was greeted not by the yellow light of a rising sun, but the flashing white glow of lightning across a dark sky. Vaasurri stood sentinel at the edge of the descending valley, his sword in hand, studying the silent tide of curving walls with Brindani. As she and Uthalion joined them, Vaasurri merely nodded and took off at a quick jog.

“Let’s go,” Uthalion whispered.

She cursed them for their mystery, but respected the need for silence and fell in step. Though tired and still waking up, she quickened her stride at the sound of small rocks rolling down the sides of the valley, bouncing off trees, and trailing lines of disturbed dust. Thunder obscured much of what she strained to hear, but occasionally she caught the sound of scratchy whispers echoing in the dark behind her and high-pitched birdlike calls that kept her moving. She drew her sword, searching wildly for any sign of approaching danger, seeing naught but the flickering shadows of trees in each flash of lightning. The smell of rain and wildflowers carried easily on the quickening breeze of the rolling storm, a soothing scent that did nothing for the growing anxiety in her white-knuckled grip on the broadsword.

Brindani ran just ahead of her, his slight limp becoming more pronounced as the morning wore on. As her own legs grew tired of running, she caught herself huffing loudly for several breaths, receiving a concerned, yet warning look from Uthalion. Biting her lip, she bit back the angry retort that slipped quickly to the tip of her tongue and breathed evenly, passing the human and sticking close to Vaasurri.

Dark shapes flitted overhead, blurs of shadow darting from one side of the valley to another, and she ducked reflexively, gooseflesh rising on the back of her neck. With her eyes up, she stumbled a few times, cursing and slowing down, unable to divide her attention in the dark lest she break an ankle. The dim disc of a late morning sun teased with enough light to make out vague shapes and shifting shadows, but little else-just enough to keep her warily watching and wondering when their pursuers would grow more bold.

“Eyes forward,” the killoren said grimly. “Seeing them won’t help.”

“What happened to being quiet?” she asked, breathless and feeling what seemed to be the first drops of a cold rain fall on her cheek. Brushing at the moisture, she felt it stick, fibrous and icy, like a cobweb covered in frost. She pulled it away in disgust, thin filaments of shadow sticking to her fingers.

“Not much point whispering anymore,” Uthalion answered from behind as Ghaelya ran headlong into a thick mass of clinging shadow.

It stretched, cold and clammy, against her skin, filling her mouth with the bitter taste of stagnant water. The fibers stuck to her teeth and muffled her curses. She pushed and thrashed against the dark wall of shadows, blindly pressing through and shivering in the effort. Droning wings hovered overhead as buzzing whispers reached her through the morass, taunting her in a haunting, harsh tongue that made her struggle all the more to escape.

Breaking through with a gasping breath, she stumbled forward into Uthalion’s shoulder, and he wisely gripped her sword-arm until her sight returned. Lightning struck at the far end of the valley, tracing thin arcing spots across her sight, and she could see well enough to spot the approaching figure. Barely more than a short silhouette, it hung in the air on large black dragonfly wings and regarded her with blank white eyes.

She froze in that gaze, even as more of the things streaked overhead, swarming beneath the half-light of the growing storm front. The being emitted a wet, smacking sound as it drew back a thin arm, wielding a short spear of living shadow. Its stomach churned with a strange glistening undulation. Ghaelya’s grim fascination quickly became the calm simplicity of battle as the beast hurled its weapon.

She rolled out of its path, fluidly giving herself over to the coiled tempest of water that flowed through her spirit. Rising, she slashed at a darting wing, slicing through the tip like thick parchment. She grinned as the thing shrieked and faltered. She turned, reversing the stroke through its abdomen, unleashing a dark torrent of cold, gushing shadow that drifted away like smoke. She charged others that drew too near, still running blindly south. Her companions were close, but beyond the reach of her unrelenting blade.

Dark javelins of shadow thumped into the ground around them, one cutting across her shoulder before disappearing in a puff of acrid smelling mist. The things buzzed overhead, still trailing webs of shadow that Ghaelya ignored. She cut down another as she forced her way through its chilling net, rising and falling with the tide in her heart. Pulses of energy flowed from foot to fingertip and back again as she lent her will and blade to the drowning force of her spirit.

Lightning and thunder struck the valley again, close enough to knock the breath from her lungs and set her ears to ringing. Staggering back as the fluttering creatures faltered in the wake of the thunderbolt, she caught sight of a featureless face, covered in a thick black carapace. There was an alien intelligence in its pale stare, an expression that held no reasoning; but no desire to which she might relate, only a cold nothing.

Vaasurri was right. Seeing them didn’t help.

“Here!” Brindani’s strident shout reached her through the ringing thunder and flashing lightning. It cut through the constant drone of wings and drew her to him.

He held onto the edge of a wide crevice in the side of the valley wall and waved his long sword high. The blade reflected the flickering white light of the stormfront. Fibrous streamers of shadow drifted into her path, muffling Brindani’s shouts as she dived toward him, once again blind and trusting to her instincts. Claws scraped at her cheeks and back, and pulled at her armor as she fought to reach the dim hope of shelter. As her arm brushed against rock, hands grabbed her and pulled her deeper into the dark.

They held her sword down, and she swore at them, screaming a challenge and struggling to free herself.

“Stop it!” Brindani shouted as he shook her once more. She complied, pulling the sticky shadow from her eyes and trying to adjust her vision. A stone wall pressed against her back, smooth and cold, sending a shiver through her legs. A white flash illuminated the opalescent interior of the crevice, and brief rainbows of color swirled on the wall before the dark returned. Uthalion stood at the opening, slashing at anything that drew near, with Vaasurri close at his shoulder.

“Shaedlings,” the killoren said. “Though I’ve never seen them in such numbers.”

“No use counting them,” Uthalion muttered, straining as he beat back yet another of the shrieking creatures.

Thunder rumbled through the valley again. Buzzing wings drifted away, claws scratched at rocks high above the crevice as the shaedlings continued their whispering conversations, their language unknown and their intentions only guessed at. Uthalion glanced over his shoulder, keeping his sword forward. “Out of the stew pot and into the fire,” he said. “Any suggestions?”

“Bring back the sun,” Brindani said, his dark attempt at humor overshadowed by the haggard tone of his voice.

“Unless the gods owe you a favor, I don’t think it likely that they’ll be delivering another sunny day anytime soon,” Uthalion replied, brushing shadows like fine black dust from his blade that never reached the ground.

“How close are we to the southern end of the Wash?” Ghaelya asked, eager to escape the cramped crevice. A rushing sense of bloodlust still pumped through her body.

“Close enough to see it given enough light,” Uthalion answered. “But far enough to make getting there a steep gamble against mounting odds.”

“We should stack the odds in our favor then,” Brindani muttered from the back of the crevice. His gleaming eyes fixed on Uthalion as the man nodded slowly and sheathed his sword, kneeling in the dirt.

“How?” Ghaelya asked eyeing the human. “Prayer?”

“If it makes you feel better, by all means,” Uthalion replied, rummaging through his pack.

“We’re splitting up,” Brindani explained as he squeezed past her and Vaasurri to stand near the entrance by Uthalion. “Two of us south and two west.”

“Why? So we can die in different places?” she pressed angrily, taking breath to argue more against what seemed a foolish plan. But Vaasurri laid a hand on her arm.

“It’s another fool’s fire,” he explained calmly as Uthalion and Brindani whispered and pointed. “Only this time we may have to burn a couple of fools.”

Uthalion crept across the valley floor, following close behind the surefooted half-elf. He made a show of pausing and looking around every few strides, careful not to glance up too high, lest the shaedlings think his stealthy approach was anything more than an act. Their cruel fey nature demanded the illusion, drew them along like cats inspecting an injured mouse, watching and waiting until their prey was sure of escape. Brindani would stop at each flash of lightning, rush forward in the following thunder, and hold his hand out, palm up to signal a halt as he pretended to scan the path ahead.

Uthalion hid his grin at the half-elf’s exaggerated show, musing that any field captain worth his command would have had them both shot down immediately-and would have made the archers aim carefully, so as not to waste more than two arrows on such buffoons.

Despite all, it seemed that Brindani was doing well, not yet showing the more extreme signs of a silkroot addiction. But Uthalion knew it couldn’t last long. He wondered when Brindani’s other illusion, the one of health, would begin to crack and fall apart. Silkroot was not kind; he’d seen men try to tear out their own innards when the drug became too much for their meager purses to afford. It had seemed to him the worst kind of ignoble death for, what he considered, the least amount of reward.

Passing into the western valley, Brindani paused again, bringing Uthalion up short as he angled their path through the center of the deep brush on either side. Low trees and bushes waved in the wind, likely hiding dozens of bone-moth swarms waiting patiently for one lucky stroke of lightning to start the fires they thrived on each spring.

In one burst of lightning, Uthalion spied a spot of color just ahead, but darkness claimed the valley before he could identify what it had been. He kept a watch for it to appear again as he patted Brindani on the shoulder, signaling that they could abandon their show and appear comfortable, as if they’d slipped by the watch of the predators on their trail. They ignored the telltale scratch of claw on stone and buzzing whispers as they made their way further from the crevice where Ghaelya and Vaasurri waited.

As lightning arced across the sky again, Uthalion searched curiously for what he’d noticed earlier and caught sight of it-just a step away from Brindani’s boot. Cursing, he threw his shoulder into Brindani’s side, tackling the surprised half-elf to the ground in a cloud of dust. Patting Brindani’s shoulder, Uthalion sat up and crouched over a small clump of yellow flowers with wide, thick petals and stout stems. He hovered just out of reach of the blooms and held the half-elf back, shaking his head and breathing a sigh of relief.

“Wyrmwind,” he whispered, answering the quiet question in Brindani’s eye. “This time of year, it sheds pollen at the slightest contact, a deadly poison to anything that breathes it.”

Adding credence to his observation, he gestured to several thin twigs scattered around the base of the plant and the valley floor where they stood. Bleached a yellow white, the bones of dozens of animals littered the ground, an occasional skull here and there grinning in the flickering light of the storm.

“Don’t disturb the trees, don’t look at the shaedlings, and now,” Brindani whispered back, “Don’t step on the yellow flowers. Is there anything here that can’t kill us one way or another?”

“Well,” Uthalion sighed as they stood and circled around the wyrmwinds, keeping an eye out for more of the deadly plants, “If you happen to see a chilled flask of fine wine don’t take any chances … let me deal with it first.”

“Don’t be a hero,” Brindani muttered.

Though Uthalion tried to press farther into the valley, hoping to put as much distance between themselves and the others as possible, he could no longer deny the growing mass of shadowed forms trailing behind them. He’d glanced casually a few times, appearing not to notice the white eyes and long claws in the brief flashes of lightning, prowling closer and ready to pounce. Eyeing the edge of the long valley, he cleared his throat. Brindani caught the signal quickly and kneeled to prepare for the next step.

Uthalion knelt as well, drawing a handful of long sticks from the top of his boot and a bundle of thick, sweet smelling grass from his belt. Large wings fluttered closer, landing lightly atop the curving valley walls. Claws scrabbled nearer over the rocks, scraping at insectlike hides as the dark fey fought for position. As Uthalion quickly wove grass and sticks together, Brindani carefully strung the longbow he’d used as a walking stick and swung a quiver of arrows around from beneath his cloak.

“When this starts, if you see a chance to escape,” Brindani said quietly, “Take it. Leave me.”

“Now who’s being a hero?” Uthalion said as he carefully bent his green wooded sticks together, overlapping them to create a roughly spherical shape.

“I’m serious.”

“And I am ignoring you until we both get out of here,” Uthalion replied as thunder cracked loudly overhead, causing a chorus of buzzing whispers that drew closer with each step. His fingertips tingled slightly with a burning sensation as sap and damp grass mingled in his hands. “Do you see a good spot?”

After a moment of hesitation, Brindani exhaled in frustration and scanned the area slowly, looking up to the narrowed opening at the valley’s edge. He nodded and drew a single arrow. Uthalion had gathered a handful of the small bones along the valley floor, and he placed them carefully inside the crude basket-lantern of grass and sticks. He nodded back to the half-elf with a held breath.

“Ready your bow,” he said.

Brindani stood, took aim, and loosed the shaft all in one fluid motion. As the arrow thunked solidly into the low hanging branch of a tree bent over the edge of the valley, Uthalion was briefly grateful for the influence of the silkroot still in Brindani’s system, though he knew he’d regret the feeling in a few hours. A long, thin length of twine, soaked in water, hung from the arrow, and he swiftly tied the end to the basket as the shaedlings rose into the air, sensing the end of their game.

Uthalion drew his sword and backed away, his eyes widening at the multitude of shadowy figures rising against the stormy backdrop of the sky. Lightning crashed, and thunder growled through the valleys, shaking the ground as the wind howled and whistled through the Wash. Brindani drew another arrow and sparked his flint to the cloth-wrapped end of its shaft.

Buzzing shadows droned toward them, shrieking what sounded like a feigned dismay at finding their prey unsurprised.

“Don’t look,” Uthalion warned as Brindani strung the arrow and aimed.

Shaedlings dived from the sky, spears of shadow coalescing into their hands as their white eyes glinted with the thrill of the hunt’s end. Brindani’s arrow streaked toward the lantern, and Uthalion shielded his eyes, lowering his sword and turning as the fire met the basket and flared into a brilliant, blinding white light. Pained shrieks tore at his ears as the dark fey recoiled from the radiance, their lost spears clattering to the ground and disappearing in smoky puffs.

Uthalion smiled at the pained sound of the blinded shaedlings, and clapped Brindani on the shoulder as they made for the darkness at the valley’s edge.

The lantern, a fey weapon that Vaasurri called a sugar-star, would burn for several breaths, and time was short. As Uthalion strode forward, gingerly opening his eyes, he turned toward the southern branch of valley. He stopped short for a heartbeat, his eyes widening as Brindani ran past him. His stride faltered, and he stumbled into the shadow beyond the already dying light of the blazing basket as he surveyed the horror that had lain hidden in the darkness behind them.

The floor of the north end of the valley, illuminated by the lantern, shivered and swayed. A rippling mass of yellow flowers shook ominously in the strengthening wind of the storm.

“Mystra’s bones,” he swore and turned to run. The first drops of a long-held rain splashed on his cheek and roughly disturbed the deadly yellow petals of the wyrmwinds.