The Restless Shore

CHAPTER SIX

7 Mirtul, the Year of the Ageless One

(1479 DR)

The Akana, North of the Wash, Akanul

Moonlight stretched dim shadows across the ground as Uthalion eyed the dark edge of the cliff on his left, its sheer drop disappearing into an endless ocean of black. Taking a deep breath, he beat back the imagery of teeth and tentacles swimming through the inky expanse of shadow, tore his eyes away from the limitless fall, and focused on the task at hand. Brindani remained in the lead, his half-elf eyes more suited to the pale light of the rising moon, though his occasional stumbling too close to the cliff made Uthalion more than a little nervous.

The half-elf maintained a strange silence, his heavy lidded gaze wandering lazily from one patch of ground to the next as they searched for bits of deadfall. His skin was pale, and a constant sheen of sweat caused his forehead to glisten, a sure sign of fever. Uthalion said nothing, allowing Brindani his show of strength, a denial of whatever sickness had overcome him. But the farther they journeyed into the dark, the more he wondered if Brindani would make it back under his own power.

Uthalion wondered at the myriad of poisons they might have come in contact with since leaving the grove. None of them matched the symptoms Brindani was displaying. Very few of the Akana’s toxins left a man able to even walk, but walk the half-elf did and purposely, as if he were searching for something in the dark. Slowly, Uthalion increased the distance between them, feeling uneasy and keeping Brindani just within sight.

Low stone walls, overgrown with grass and weeds, rose from the ground on their right. They increased in number as the pair passed into a city fallen long before, victim to either the Spellplague or the war with the aboleths who had once laid siege to Airspur.

Though there were no signs of the nightmarish beasts now, Uthalion still gritted his teeth at the thought of them lying in wait, keeping his sword handy and a careful eye on the seemingly oblivious half-elf.

The remains of the town rose on buckled earth. Cresting its top, Uthalion turned north, studying the height and the slow rise of land leading up to the far distant Spur.

“Stop,” he called to Brindani and laid down his bundle of wood at the top of the hill. “This place will do.”

The half-elf paused, wavering unsteadily on his feet for a moment before turning back to the center of the clearing. He dropped his meager pile of deadfall along with the rest as Uthalion arranged what they’d collected into a suitable stack for burning. Brindani stood watching for a heartbeat, then turned back to his mysterious search of the ground.

“Are you really going back?” Brindani called over his shoulder as he paced the clearing in slow circles, kneeling in places to inspect something before moving on. “Or is this just a show? Some kind of honor … or obligation …”

Uthalion sighed angrily, breaking a long stick over his knee and continuing his preparation of the fire. He ignored the half-elf and cursed the desire to speak at all to one another, preferring to journey all the way to Tohrepur and back with nothing but dead air hanging between them. The very idea calmed him, but Brindani either did not share the sentiment or did not care.

“Perhaps Ghaelya and I are just some noble excuse for you, eh?” the half-elf continued, his pacing becoming more erratic, his search slightly more frantic. “Maybe you’re using us … And not the other way around.”

“What do you care?” Uthalion replied, breaking another stick, the sound of the snap swallowed by the night. “I’m here. This is what you wanted, right?”

“What I wanted …” Brindani’s voice came slurred and weak as he stopped his pacing, stared at the ground, and swayed slightly. “Right …”

“Get over it, Brin,” Uthalion said as he stood and surveyed the packed pile of deadfall in the moonlight. Turning sidelong to the half-elf he added, “Or get it out of your system.”

Brindani was kneeling on the ground and fumbling with his pack, his back to the human. He did not reply directly, but Uthalion heard him mutter distractedly, “Out of my system …”

Uthalion produced a tightly packed bundle of burn-moss and two chips of flint to start the blaze. The burn-moss ignited easily, glowing with a nimbus of flame as he placed it within the deadfall. He stood back as flickers of light illuminated the high ground of the clearing. Nodding in satisfaction, he froze as a familiar clicking growl reached his ears from the tall grasses in the northern end of the ruined town.

With his hand on his sword, Uthalion turned slowly, studying the shadows at the edge of the light. Brindani did not rise or give any indication of alarm, and Uthalion cursed the half-elf, sorely needing Brindani’s eyes to help identify the threat. He cleared his throat loudly, an old signal from their time together as soldiers. There was no reaction.

Indiscernible shadows shifted through the dark, rustling through the grass. Uthalion strode slowly toward his companion, drawing his blade and staring daggers into Brindani’s back as he listened for the unseen predators. The unmistakable sound of tiny claws scratching on stone seemed to surround them, punctuated by the clacking of tiny teeth and more of the little growls.

“That thing we faced in the Spur … the kaia,” he said, still trying to get Brindani’s attention away from the dirt. “It eats its own young or runs them from the forest, or so Vaasurri tells me.”

The half-elf’s shoulders shook, and his head nodded lazily, but he did not rise or notice the squirming bits of blackness at the edge of the fire’s growing light. Tiny teeth gleamed among the tall blades of grass, little mouths emitting the clicks and growls as the beasts circled and prepared to advance on the unsuspecting Brindani.

“They start out small, he says,” Uthalion said as he turned his sword in a slow circle. “But they’re never pretty.”

Slippery tendrils of darkness separated them from the gloom, crawling and hungrily whining for flesh. For half a breath Uthalion considered letting them have Brindani as their easy meal. Cursing, he charged at the first beast entering the light.

Ghaelya gradually eased into the hushed quiet of the Akana, lying back uneasily under a moonlit sky full of stars. She anchored her attention upon their faint light, still not comfortable with the dark of the open land. Cursing all the expanse of the Akana within her field of vision, she knew if lack of sleep did not kill her, then the awful quiet surely would. Thin clouds drifted across the moon like veils of silk, drawing smoky shadows over the land. The grasses rippled and undulated in soft breezes, a deep green tide that stirred Ghaelya’s watery soul and made her long for the flashing waves of the Sea of Fallen Stars.

Vaasurri sat on silent watch like a little tree, his coarse, grasslike brown hair whispering in the wind. He had spared her his questions since Uthalion and Brindani had left, leaving her to rest and make an attempt at sleep for which she had no desire. Restless nerves caused her arms and legs to twitch in frustration; she knew she should be on her way, racing across the wild lands to find Tessaeril. She crossed her legs, and folded her arms tight across her belly.

Though she was no stranger to falling asleep on hard ground, it had usually been her bedroom floor after a long night of drinking and not after several days of running. No howling dreamers or singing Choir came to rouse her from her rest and send her running into dark places to hide. There were no calls of the city watch or bawdy songs sung in seedy taverns, no screaming mother or disapproving father to let her know that all was normal. And above all, no Tessaeril to find her and bring her home when she’d strayed too far or had too much to drink, to wince at the sight of a new bruise or cut earned while being foolish.

Am I foolish? she thought. Am I out here for no reason other than my own guilt? A fool’s errand to ease my mind?

As the sky slowly turned before her weary eyes, stars exploded into fragments amid the facets of distant crystals. Night flowers bloomed, unfurling long stems to rise above the grass. It was an alien place to her, as most places were when she ran from the things she should have done. She’d lived so long in the shadows of life, the dark places between responsibility and obligation, that she hadn’t known true darkness until running away was all she had. She closed her eyes tightly, holding herself still and tried to pretend that in time sleep would come quickly and easily.

“You should get some rest,” Vaasurri said, causing her to exhale a held breath and smile despite herself.

“How do you know I wasn’t already asleep?” she asked. “Perhaps you woke me up.”

Vaasurri shifted in the moonlight, his fey eyes studying her closely as he leaned forward.

“Most people don’t act tough when they’re really asleep,” he answered. “Also, your breathing is too fast, your pulse too strong, and unless you intend to engage your dreams in mortal combat, that grip on your sword was a giveaway as well.”

She released the tension in her hand in surprise, unaware she had been prepared to draw the blade. Sighing, she relaxed somewhat and shook her head.

“I used to have no problem at all falling asleep. No matter what trouble I’d get myself into, I knew it would all go away by the next day or the day after that,” she said, picturing her soft bed at home with a twinge of guilt. “Out here though …”

“We don’t call it trouble,” Vaasurri replied, sitting up and returning to his watch. “Trouble is temporary. This is survival, and it is constant, one moment to the next, from rest to hunting to being hunted … The blood and the bloom.”

She turned to him at the last, wondering where she’d heard the familiar expression before and fearing the answer. Though it slipped away from her wakeful mind, she somehow knew her answer would be forthcoming if sleep did indeed find her. She rose on one elbow to face the killoren.

“How did you meet Uthalion?” she asked.

“Actually, he saved my life.” He turned and smiled. “By trying to kill me,” he added.

“Ah, that’s reassuring,” she said, eager to hear the rest of the story. But the sound of distant howls, weak and echoing through the broken land, reached her ears like the first rumbles of thunder in a coming storm. Vaasurri turned to face the sound as Ghaelya swiftly rose to a crouch, her sword drawn.

“But that,” she said, “is not.”

Two of the infant kaia charged into the firelight, squealing and snapping their jaws, their whiplike tails propelling them forward behind clawed little arms. Uthalion’s blade intercepted the first, splashing its ochre blood into the grass and splitting its wriggling body in two. Others, smaller than their dead sibling, pounced on the twitching body and dragged it back into the dark, growling and fighting over its flesh. The second kaia made straight for the kneeling half-elf even as more of the beasts crawled from their hiding places to surround the pair.

Wide jaws revealed gleaming teeth dripping with spittle as Brindani finally looked up and saw the beast advancing on him. Uthalion could not see the surprise in the half-elf’s eyes, but dearly wished he could have witnessed that one brief moment of clarity. He hurled his dagger, sending it end over end to sink into the little kaia’s body. It squealed, a keening that was a blessing compared to the thunderous voice of the adult beast.

The creature flopped away, bleeding yellow fluid from around the knife embedded in its stumpy neck. Its siblings saw their opportunity and charged in at the half-elf who’d managed to rise on one knee and draw his sword. Uthalion rushed in, cursing the bleary look in Brindani’s eyes and split the tail of one kaia before skewering another, throwing it from the end of his blade to smash upon the stone wall.

Backing closer to the firelight, Uthalion tried to form an estimate of how many kaia had surrounded them and found himself losing count by the heartbeat. Brindani had collected himself and sidestepped the charge of another beast, cleaving its skull and kicking his blade free as he nimbly joined the human. Uthalion could only stare in surprise at the half-elf’s sudden recovery.

“Why didn’t you warn me?” Brindani asked, lucid and seemingly fine as he placed his back to Uthalion’s so they could view all points of attack. “I barely had time to draw my sword.”

“Of course! Why didn’t I think of that?” Uthalion answered dryly, stabbing another kaia and shoving its little body back to the others. He added, “I thought you were worm-food for a moment there.”

Brindani laughed as he slashed at the beasts. The sound of his unexpected mirth was almost frightening, bordering on madness, and Uthalion did not like the idea of Brindani’s sword swinging so nearby.

“No, Uthalion,” the half-elf said at length. “All things in their own good time.”

The other kaia, frenzied by the scent of blood, swarmed into the light, their budding eyes glistening like drops of sap. The largest of them, the size of a hunting cat, scrambled through the dirt and hurled themselves at the two warriors. A long tail whipped around Uthalion’s ankle, and he cut it free, reversing the slash to widen the kaia’s snapping jaws. Tiny hands, the size of a child’s, grabbed feebly at his blade as he pulled it free and stabbed at the next.

Brindani defended himself skillfully, cutting precise and strong; his quick blade was well stained with the blood of the beasts. Small fangs clamped down hard on Uthalion’s boot, needlelike teeth piercing the leather. It shook its jaws furiously. Snarling in pain, he stabbed down and pinned the kaia to the ground. It opened its jaws long enough for him to escape and stomp the fight out of it. He kicked the beast into the fire where it writhed and screamed as the pair fended off the last of the braver kaia. The larger ones were dragged away by the smaller, ending their hunt without having to test the flashing steel and flames.

Slowly, they lowered their blades, watching as the kaia removed their dead, one generation feeding the next. Uthalion fell back to the fire, wrinkling his nose at the smell of the tiny body in the flames. Brindani remained standing, staring intently at the grisly scene. His hands no longer shook, and a flush of color had returned to his cheeks; his eyes were clear and focused.

“Feeling better?” Uthalion asked.

“Yes,” the half-elf replied casually, turning away from the feasting kaia. “Much better … Just needed some exercise I suppose.”

Uthalion nodded and stood, pacing to the spot where Brindani might have been eaten had he come alone. Fresh dirt had been dug up, leaving dimpled little holes in the ground, but no trace as to what had captured the half-elf’s attention. Turning back east Uthalion noticed the pack over Brindani’s shoulder. He held it close in a tight grip, its side stained with dirty handprints.

They left the blazing circle of light in silence, careful to avoid the low stone walls where the kaia munched and fought over the flesh of their siblings in the dark. Uthalion kept Brindani in the lead, unwilling to turn his back on the secretive half-elf until he had discovered some answers. His thoughts were cut off by a series of low and distant howls drifting down from the high ground where only the tops of the Akanapeaks were visible to his human eyes.

Even from so far away, the dreamers’ voices carried a small amount of power, causing his pulse to quicken and his stomach to squirm uncomfortably.

“Let’s get back to the others,” he said. “There should be enough time for some rest before dawn. I’d like to be on our feet long before those things find us again.”

They jogged along the edge of the southern darkness. The cliff traced a fine line between solid ground and what looked like the end of the world, Uthalion eyed Brindani’s pack. A soldier’s instinct set off alarms in his gut, sensing yet another threat looming on an already dangerous journey.

“Little troubles,” he muttered under his breath. “They start out small, but they’re never pretty.”

The dreamers bounded down the hills, whining and howling to one another. Their sparse fur rustled in the breeze, and their heartbeats were synchronous beats of muffled thunder as they hunted in the tall grass. Sefir followed closely behind, his dark robes barely concealing his bandaged feet as he enjoyed the cool and crisp feel of the spring grass beneath his toes. He whispered to the dreamers as they searched, singing softly to them through teeth that ached with quickening change. He could already feel the pinpricks of new growth pushing through his gums where his old teeth had been displaced and discarded.

He felt his flesh ripple in the moonlight, responding to its glow like a tide, waves of change crashing through his limbs. His robes hid the blessed scars of the Lady’s touch, the gift she gave to all of those chosen to walk among the Choir.

“She moves quickly, Favored One,” he said as his companion joined him. “I fear the dawn may yet find her before we do.”

An exasperated sigh rattled from beneath the deep hood and dirty white robes of the figure at his side. Even in frustration, the Favored One’s voice held a power that shuddered through the very ground, a beguiling melody that could barely contain its undertones of destruction. He was Sefir’s elder, tall and strong, moving gracefully as a fish in water. Scars crisscrossed his red-stained hands; yellowed robes bore the crimson reminders of his seniority among the Choir.

“She has help now. Guides,” the Favored One said as they walked in the wake of the dreaming pack. “These men, shadows of our old selves, use her toward their own ends. The girl must be rescued from their hubris.”

“Yet they lead her home, to where the Lady calls her,” Sefir replied. “Is this not proper?”

“No!”

The voice lanced through Sefir’s body like a bolt of lightning, forcing him to his knees as the pain of pure anger coursed through his flesh. He gasped, catching his breath, and was suddenly ashamed of his foolishness, his presumption of the Lady’s desire. A strong hand, cold and crusted with old blood, fell gently upon his shoulder.

“Do not make the mistake of confusing coincidence with destiny,” the powerful voice said, flooding his thoughts with calm and wisdom. Sefir rose slowly, the pain subsiding and settling in those places where his body seemed ready to burst and bloom with bestowed power. He bowed his head to the Favored One, who continued, “You are young yet among our number, chosen for the sword you wear at your side.”

Sefir’s hand rested on the old blade, nicked and stained from battles he could no longer remember, the memories of some other life already washed away by the power of the Lady’s song.

“You are to be the Lady’s warrior, a blade in her hand … A song of war.” The words filled Sefir with pride as he lifted his head to the half-hidden face of his mentor. “I bid you go and sing. Bring steel and song to those who would judge us.”

Sefir turned, his back arching as he stretched, bones popping slightly, reconfiguring to support the squirming new muscles beneath his skin. He bent forward, sniffing at the air, tasting it on his tongue, and training his ears to the howls of the dreamers. A brief pain distracted him, bringing with it a dim sense of doubt, some forgotten thought rising to the surface of his mind like a corpse thrown in a river.

“She … The genasi,” he stammered, trying to make sense of the sudden emotion, though it was small in comparison to his desire to return home, to Tohrepur. “She will become the Prophet?”

“No,” the Favored One said, turning south. “She is the Prophet. Her sister will awaken her.”

“And the men?” Sefir asked, tapping the cool metal of the blade at his side.

“Seek them upon the edge of the lowlands, what they call the Wash,” came the reply, a current of anger thundering through his mentor’s voice. “Should they escape … Well, I shall have words with Uthalion myself.”

The name meant nothing to Sefir. Most names, save for the one he’d been given at Tohrepur, seemed unimportant devices, divisive markers of loneliness. His urge to ask yet more questions surprised him, but the feeling did not last long.

The song came whispering across the Akana. Trembling at the sound, at the wordless promises of the power growing within him, his vision blurred, and he winced in pain at the moonlight. The brightness burned his eyes, the light screaming at his senses.

Averting his gaze, he turned to the Favored One, to the tight bandages wrapped over his mentor’s face, obscuring the deep gouges and bloody furrows where sight had once been seated. Sefir placed his hands over his own eyes, feeling the toughness of his skin, lightly scraping a fingernail across his brow.

“There is a place at a rise among the lowlands,” the Favored One said. “A small village … called Caidris. Find me there.”

Leaving Sefir alone, he strode into the dark, barefoot and blind, but seeing far greater than most beasts of the Akana. Sefir watched after him for long moments, until the howls of the dreamers stirred his blood and drew him into their hunt.

“Yes,” he replied to his mentor’s back, “Lord Khault.”

He loped into the descending land, following the pack through the crystals and along the steep cliffs. His voice swam through the restless waves of the melody of the Mere-That-Was, searching for the woman who would bear the Lady’s song and carry it far beyond the lonely ruins he called home.