The Restless Shore (13 page)

He peered through the dust and webs, squinting to see between roping vines of ivy and weeds. Frozen in place, his heart pounded as he searched for movement and pulled close a long silver dagger that had fallen beside his leg. A low shape darted through the murky shadows, sending a shower of dust falling from the rafters. Sudden pain tore through Brindani’s stomach, and he leaned forward in agony, struggling to keep his neck at an upward angle. Tears sprang from his eyes at the effort, and the blurry shadows shifted again, growing closer. As the pain subsided, he brushed the wetness from his eyes, raising his head enough to see the gleam of an ebony gaze watching him from above.

Gods no, he thought, the dark was not deep enough.

“How are you feeling?” Vaasurri asked, crouching predator-like upon a low rafter. “Is there much pain? I imagine so, and more to come, surely…”

“Wh-what do you mean?” Brindani stammered, averting his eyes from the black stare and trying to appear casual as he gathered his belongings, stuffing them back into his satchel.

A soft bundle thumped into the dirt near his feet, the scent of it unmistakable. It caused his mouth to water, though his lips had never felt drier. He didn’t want to look at it, he didn’t have to; but he couldn’t stop himself, couldn’t hold back the needy fixed stare that the pain in his gut and the ghostly voices from his memory demanded. He faced the silkroot, no longer alone, and saw it for all that it was: guilt, shame, secret, and addiction wrapped up neatly in a small leather knot.

“I smelled it just last night,” Vaasurri said, prowling down a thick support beam. His long black hair did not obscure the menacing gleam of his pitch-dark eyes. “You must have nearly used it all by the time Uthalion found you in the Spur, else I would have detected it earlier. But your pack has the odor of silkroot—faint, but it’s there.”

“What do you know about it?” Brindani growled angrily through his pain.

“Some,” Vaasurri replied “Speeds reflexes and induces a temporary sense of euphoria, it’s also known as Knight’s Veil, Styxroot, Velvet, and most commonly Widow-Pin… A name I’m sure you are quite familiar with, correct?”

“None of your business,” Brindani answered defensively, though a fresh wave of needlelike pains flowed through his abdomen. “I can manage just fine, no one needs to—”

“Oh, I am afraid it is my business,” Vaasurri said ominously, the glossy blade of his curved bone-sword coming into view. “You see, out on the Akana the silkroot is also known as Wolfbloom. The stems mark any passing creature with a scent that can be tracked for miles.”

“What are you saying?” Brindani asked as his hand’ closed over the soft bundle lovingly, easily resisting, the almost non-existent urge to crush the small lumps within and hurl them into the dark.

“I’m saying”—the killoren crept closer—”that you have betrayed us all.”

“Wh-what?” Brindani stammered again, clutching the silkroot to his chest. The scent alone eased his mind and teased the agony in his stomach. “N-no, I haven’t—”

He stopped short, his breath quickening as the sound of eerie howls joined the whistling wind through the windmill. With a flash of the bone-blade and a puff of disturbed dust the killoren was gone, disappearing into the night outside and leaving Brindani alone to stare in horror at the leather bundle in his fist even as the familiar, needling pangs worked their way through his gut.

*************

In the notebook laid limply across Uthalion’s lap, a half-drawn bloom of lavender had been neatly sketched out in thin lines of charcoal. Tiny notations on the page detailed the region’s conditions, the season and current weather, the consistency of the soil, and the sweet scent of the bloom—a smell that somehow, at some point during the drawing, had become important to him, almost familiar.

The tight handwriting scrawled away into meaningless lines near the bottom of the page, forgotten as he stared out the window, peering into the southern darkness. His eyelids felt heavy, but would not close, fluttering as the whispering trickle of song of the last few nights became a steady stream. The corners of his mouth curved into a smile as the familiar tune was made clearer, and the memory—one of his wedding day—more distinct.

Maryna’s oldest niece had sung before the ceremony, an old rhyme that spoke of destiny and promise, of a warrior lost and lonely, a love taken away, and a promise of peace at the end of the road. Paralyzed by the tune, part of his mind squirmed at the memory, like the lucid moment of a dream before waking up, when the terrors of a nightmare are drawn clear and escape is but a gasping breath away.

Drawn sword in the morning light,

A shield upon his arm;

The long road into the night,

And still the bride’s faint call,

“Come here to me.

Come here to me.” The girl’s voice changed, growing deeper as the lyrics slurred and shifted, digging rhythmic claws into his waking mind, dragging him back from the edge of escape. Though he struggled not to hear, he was powerless as the rhyme overtook his senses in a soothing grip of thundering chant.

Sword falls to the endless tide,

A shield lies ‘on the shore.

In the deep shall wait the bride,

For bloom, for blood, she sings,

“Bring her to me.
Bring her to me.” Uthalion blinked’ at the last words, flailing his arms as he pushed away from the window. He sat heaving deep breaths as the voice faded away. A damp chill passed through him, and he ran shaking hands through his hair, furious at having been caught unawares again. Calming himself, he lowered his arms and stared hard at the sorcerous silver ring on his right hand, somehow certain that he’d been betrayed by his own lack of sleep. Endlessly awake by his own design, he hesitantly gripped the ring, wondering if he might be able to trade beguiling song for recurring nightmare.

As one held breath led to another, the decision was made for him as the howling voices of the dreamers reached him, close to cresting the top of the long slope into the Wash. A hand fell on his shoulder, and his frayed nerves reacted swiftly, gripping the slender arm in a tight grip as his free hand drew a handspan of blade from its sheath.

Ghaelya looked down at him in surprise, wrenching her arm free as he recognized her and loosed his grip. He made no comment, staring at her, troubled, as the eerie lyrics of the song repeated themselves in his mind.

Bring her to me, bring her tome…

He shook his head and stood, stretching his legs as he joined her by the window and studied the edge of the tall hill, searching for movement.

“They’re here,” he whispered solemnly.

“Hmph,” Ghaelya replied, glancing at him with a wry smile. “Keep up the good work.”

He ignored her derision, though he’d earned it well enough.

“How soon do you think?” she asked quietly.

The trailing edge of the last dreamer’s howl echoed once from the southern valleys as Uthalion listened. A shadow prowled silently into sight, slowly rising int.o the silhouette of Vaasurri, his sword in hand at the foot of the porch-steps.

“Soon enough,” Uthalion answered grimly, drawing his own sword and quickly shouldering his pack. “Be ready for a fight.”

“Not sure I know how to be otherwise anymore,” she replied with a sigh and stepped outside.

9 Mirtul, the Year of the Ageless One

(1479DR)

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 andbeyond.

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.