Through Stone and Sea

Chapter 6

Misery dragged Wynn toward consciousness. Grudgingly, she cracked open her eyes.

She lay on a rock-hard bed in a strange room, still fully dressed, but she had no strength to wonder why or where she was. Rolling over was torture, and she came face-to-face with Shade's snoring muzzle.

"Oh," she moaned, slapping a hand over her mouth and nose.

Dog's breath wasn't good for a sick stomach.

Cream-colored shimmers from Shade's undercoat peeked through her charcoal fur every time her rib cage rose in a slow breath. Fragments of the previous night returned to Wynn: the greeting house, a barter with a thänæ, and a telling before a crowd, then the smithy … and Sliver. She had enraged High-Tower's sister, alienating the one possible lead to finding the Stonewalkers.

"Oh, seven hells," she said, groaning as her stomach clenched.

Shade's left ear twitched, her crystal blue irises peeking through slitted eyelids.

Wynn rolled away to hang over the bed's side, desperately looking for anything to throw up in. Another convulsion came, and she hung there to vomit on the floor. But nothing came up.

When her dry heaves passed, they left a skull-splitting headache and a feverish flush. Something cold and wet snuffled Wynn's cheek, and a slathering warmth dragged over her face.

"Oh, don't do that!"

Wynn shoved Shade's muzzle away, but at that touch, flashes of last night poured into her head.

She remembered—Shade remembered—Wynn sitting in a doorway as Chane headed off after the forgotten pack. Clear images showed him returning to carry her down the mainway near where they'd first entered Sea-Side. He had all three packs and her staff.

"All right, I see," Wynn grumbled, looking around the unfamiliar room.

Where was Chane?

Shade growled, and Wynn rolled back. The dog sat behind her, gazing steadily beyond the bed's foot. Wynn crawled around Shade and went to look.

Chane lay prone on the floor with a pack for a pillow and his cloak as a bed-roll. His jagged red-brown hair was a mess, and his white shirt was wrinkled. With his eyes closed, his long features were smooth and relaxed.

He wasn't breathing and lay still as—was—a corpse upon the floor.

Self-pity and a throbbing head made Wynn almost envy such a state.

The tiny room had no window, of course, and was sparsely furnished with the one hard bed, a lidded brazier of dwarven crystals, and a small door-side table bearing a tin cup and clay pitcher. She desperately needed to wash the horrid taste from her mouth.

Scooting back, Wynn climbed off the bedside, not wanting to step over Chane's body, and staggered to the table. She hoisted the pitcher and gulped from it.

Her stomach felt as if it had been turned inside out. How could three or four—or was it more—sips of ale affect her like this? What was in those tankards that had worked so slowly, creeping up on her, until the night had gotten completely out of hand?

She sipped again and then grabbed the cup, pouring water for Shade. As Shade hopped off the bed to lap at the cup, Wynn plopped down on the floor, sick and miserable. She remembered Sliver's raging and pained expression.

She couldn't go back to the smithy again. She had closed that door more soundly than Sliver had. So what now? They couldn't give up. They had to locate the texts and uncover what the wraith had been seeking. She had to learn more about the orb, its purpose, and the Ancient Enemy of many names. She had to find out if it was returning … and if it could be stopped.

Something—anything—that might connect even one disjointed piece to another.

All of this made her dizzy and sick again.

She rose with effort, barely able to stand with her head pounding even more, and then slapped a hand over her mouth. For an intant, she feared she might lose the water she had just swallowed. Then she heard soft voices somewhere outside the wide oak door.

Where was she? There were only two things she could reason out: Chane had procured a room in some inn, and it must be daytime, since he was still dormant. She pulled back the slide bolt and cracked the door open.

Two doors down, the corridor emptied into an open space. There stood a somewhat flabby dwarven woman in an apron, gripping a straw broom. She was chatting with a young male behind a stout desk.

"Pardon," Wynn called, and her own vile breath made her want to cover her mouth again. "Can you tell me the time of day?"

The male leaned sideways, peeking around his companion, and both dwarves' eyes widened.

Wynn winced—she must look worse than she imagined. But the one behind the desk corrected his expression to polite disinterest.

"Yes, miss, it is just past Day-Winter's start."

"My thanks."

Wynn pulled back and shut the door. How could she have slept until midafternoon?

She had only one friendly contact in all of Dhredze Seatt. That was Shirvêsh Mallet, back in Bay-Side—all the way on the mountain's other side. Perhaps if pressed more subtly, the old shirvêsh might give her another lead, some other way to find the Stonewalkers. Or failing that, he might provide some custom to help make amends with Sliver.

The dwarves were a people of long tradition, couched in clan and tribal rules and rituals. Yes, for now Shirvêsh Mallet was her best and only choice—in a retreat from her mistakes.

Wynn slid down the door and patted the floor for Shade's attention. The dog just stared at her, so she held out her hands. Shade padded over, and Wynn took the dog's face in her hands, calling up memories of the temple. Before she even raised an image of the tram, Shade backpedaled out of reach, growling at her.

"I know it was awful," Wynn whispered, "but we have to go."

Chane still hadn't moved. Back at the guild, he'd slept in a bed in Domin il'Sänke's chambers, but she'd peeked in there only occasionally. So far in this journey, they'd arranged for separate rooms, and Wynn had never seen him in full dormancy before. The sight was unnerving, but at least the sun didn't matter inside the mountain.

If they started back now, the tram would arrive at Bay-Side by early night. They would reach the temple not long past supper—a good time to speak with Shirvêsh Mallet.

Trying to ignore her pounding head, Wynn crawled toward Chane.

She stopped near his shoulder and looked down at him, almost feeling as if she invaded his privacy. He might not like for her to study him like this—so dead and still upon the floor.

He was proud, but secretly this was one of the things she admired about him. She could not help thinking back to those distant nights in Bela, at the newly founded branch for the Guild of Sagecraft, when he visited and drank mint tea with her as they pored over historical parchments. A handsome young nobleman seeking out her company, of all people.

Then she'd learned the truth about him.

He was a vampire who drank blood to continue existing, and of course she'd shut him out of her life. But nearly every time her life was in danger, he'd appeared from nowhere to throw himself in front of her, to protect her at any cost. Once, when she'd been locked away by a brutish warlord, Chane had broken into the keep, killed several soldiers, and carried her out through an underwater tunnel.

Wynn didn't fully understand Chane's feelings for her. She knew they were strong, and she wasn't the sort of woman who normally inspired such in men. There had been only one other.

Osha, a young elf and an'Cróan had been in training to be an Anmaglâhk—an assassin—though he'd been ill-suited to such a pursuit. He was not handsome, even compared to a human, with a long, horselike face. Nor was he as brooding or intellectual as Chane. Osha's emotions were always so plain to see, but this made his wonder and kindness show as well, even when tainted by his people's hate and fear of other races. He was unflinching and steady, and had befriended Wynn when she'd needed one. And perhaps he had felt even more than friendship for her.

If Wynn had wanted to, she could have pulled him further toward her— but she hadn't. He'd had to return to his people, and she'd been told to return home as well. What could've been, couldn't be between them.

Sometimes, she missed him, thought of him. But when his face rose in her thoughts, somehow, Chane's always did so as well—even when she didn't want it to.

Wynn sat there on the floor, looking down at Chane's smooth, pale features and red-brown hair, wishing… .

Things could be different, if he weren't undead. But he was, and nothing could change that.

She finally reached out and touched his shoulder, stiff under her fingers.

"Chane," she said softly. "Wake up."

He didn't move. The sun's rhythm shouldn't affect him down here. Was something wrong? She grasped the side of his shirt, trying to shake him, and the effort made her stomach worse.

"Chane!"

His head lolled. That limp movement was almost frightening, as if he were truly dead … or no longer undead … dormant … whatever.

Chane's eyelids snapped wide.

Wynn jerked upright, but not before his hand shot out and grabbed her wrist.

"Oww! Stop!"

Before she pulled against his grip, he whirled over and pinned her to the floor.

"Chane, stop it!"

He sat halfway up, staring down at her, and then recognition spread across his twisted features. He rolled off of her in sudden shock and closed his eyes as he flattened onto his back again, as if exhausted.

Wynn sat up, watching him cautiously as she rubbed her wrist.

"Don't go back to sleep," she urged. "We need to catch the tram and return to Bay-Side."

This time, Chane opened his eyes and truly looked at her. "Wynn?"

"Of course," she answered, but the question left her worried about his state. "You have to get up. We've lost too much time already."

She felt as if they'd lost whole days because of her blundering.

"Tonight …" Chane slurred. "We can … go … tonight."

If they waited until dusk, it would be the middle of the night before they reached the temple. Mallet would be asleep, and she didn't know if anyone else would be up to let them in. Who could say when she might catch the shirvêsh at another opportune moment?

Wynn took hold of Chane's arm. "Get up! You can sleep on the tram."

"I do not … sleep!" he snarled. "That is for the living."

Wynn froze, but she didn't have time to ponder his strange comment. With a mix of coaxing and bullying, she got him on his feet, and they gathered their belongings.

Without Shade, Wynn didn't know how they would've managed. The dog's perfect memory led them back to the tram station, though in the end, Wynn had to wrestle a groggy Chane and a stubborn Shade on board. At least it distracted her from her own reluctance for the ride.

Chane collapsed on a bench, and Shade growled as Wynn shoved the dog's rump to get her into the tram. Wynn settled on the bench's end near the aisle.

The long ride back began, and soon, the sickness she'd felt upon waking became nothing compared to the return to Sea-Side. Somewhere along the way, she forgot everything but her misery.

The car was sparsely populated, and she leaned forward, bracing against the back of the next bench. She tried hard not to retch, but Shade lay under her bench making enough pathetic noises for both of them. Only Chane remained still and silent.

Time passed too slowly in the tram's endless rush. Trying to think of anything besides her suffering, Wynn found herself wondering …

Was there something more Chane had meant about sleep being "for the living"?

"Chane," she whispered with effort. "Do you … do Noble Dead dream … when they sleep … I mean, go dormant?"

At first he didn't answer. He finally twitched, straightened, and then fell back against the rail wall before catching himself.

"Wynn?" he rasped, his eyes half open in confusion. "Where are we? Are you all right?"

He seemed himself again, and in part, she was relieved to have him back. The sun must have set outside the mountain, though it was always dark as night in the tram tunnel. He frowned and reached for her, trying to help her sit back.

"No," she managed to say. "I'm not all right. Just let me lean here."

They returned to silence beneath the chatter of the tram's wheels in the tunnel's steel-lined ruts. Wynn was barely aware when those wheels began to screech and finally slowed.

Bright lights from huge crystals in the walls illuminated the Bay-Side station platforms.

Chane tried to help her up. She pulled away, grabbing her pack and staff.

"I can walk."

When they reached the market cavern, Wynn balked at the noise of lingering vendors and customers hammering at her aching head. She couldn't remember ever feeling this ill before, not even the morning after Magiere and Leesil's wedding feast. Chane led them out through the cavern's enormous mouth.

Wynn later remembered stepping into the cold night air and seeing the back side of the way station's crank house. She remembered Shade trotting up the street of great steaming orange crystals, and Chane taking hold of her to follow. But the rest remained a blur.

She forgot about speaking with Shirvêsh Mallet and barely recalled passing through the temple's tall brass arch bell and the wide marble doors. Even these details didn't come back until she found herself in a small room, dimly lit in red-orange, and she crumpled upon the hard bed. Chane pulled a blanket up around her chin.

He held a cup of water to her lips, but she could take only a sip.

"I will check on you before dawn," he whispered.

The little world of that room grew dark, but not before Wynn again wondered … Do the dead dream?

It wasn't the best thought with which to fall asleep.

Chane slipped from Wynn's room under Shade's cold stare and quietly closed the door. He was hungry and dazed. Rarely had his dormancy been interrupted, and he felt something like what he remembered of going without sleep in his living days.

It made him feel even weaker … and hungrier.

Worse, when he turned about, Shirvêsh Mallet came bustling down the corridor. Chane was not up to polite conversation.

"I was told young Wynn is ill," Mallet blurted out. "Does she need care?"

Chane tried to stand straight. The blunt question was welcome, as all he could do for Wynn was give her water and let her rest.

"She drank dwarven ale … too much, in a Sea-Side greeting house," he rasped. "It has affected her badly."

"Oh, good grace!" the shirvêsh exclaimed. "What was she thinking? And you moved her? What were you thinking?"

Chane bit his lip in restraint. "She insisted on coming back," he answered politely. "I could not refuse."

Mallet's wrinkled face softened. "I will fetch purifying herbs for tea to clean out her blood. She will be shaky for a few days." He shook his head, white hair swishing over his shoulders. "Dwarven ale is not for such a tiny Numan … someone should have stopped her!"

Indeed, Chane thought.

"Get some rest yourself, lad," Mallet added.

Nodding, and surprised at his own gratitude, Chane stepped into his own room across the way, but only closed the door to a crack. He waited long enough for the shirvêsh to trundle off and then slipped along the passages and through the roundabout circling the chamber of the dwarven Eternal. No one seemed to notice him, even as he exited out into the night. He paced the mountainside's winding streets, his thoughts twisting inward.

Wynn's ignorant gift of goat's blood made him wonder about feeding on livestock. Mules used at the crank house's turnstile had to be stabled nearby. Or could he solve the mystery of Welstiel's arcane feeding cup?

The beast with hands, chained down within him, lunged at its bonds, howling to be fed.

Neither cup nor livestock appealed to him. Yet he had to find a way to survive, while keeping his feeding to a minimum. He wandered down the mountain's street, poignantly aware that he was alone and unrestrained. To protect Wynn, he needed the strength of life—and she need never know how.

Chane slowed.

Directly ahead lay the lift's way station, crank house, and the huge glowing maw of the market cavern's entrance. He had not even thought about where he was going, yet here he was. Or had that other part of him known? Had the beast pushed him here, already hunting while he was distracted in thought?

Chane looked from the way station to the cavern's entrance. People were still about. A few even passed him on the street, giving him little notice. He could not risk feeding upon someone who lived here—someone with a clan and a tribe, as well as family, who would notice one of their own gone missing. His brief encounter with Sliver emphasized Wynn's warning against matching strength with a dwarf.

He needed a visitor, a traveler … a human.

Chane stepped away from the pylons' crystals and slipped into a darker path between buildings at the settlement's cliff side. He took little notice of the structures' back sides as he moved quietly down the short-walled cobbled walkway along the cliff. When he neared the row's end, close enough to see the way station, neither a cargo nor a passenger lift was currently docked. He peered over the retaining wall and along the sheer mountainside, but did not see any lift crawling up the steep stone road.

Chane leaned against the wall and looked upward. He had to shift along the path to see between the buildings. It was the same above, where the empty stone road continued toward the mountain's top, perhaps all the way to what Wynn had called Old-Seatt.

Sudden voices made him duck away from the wall and against the last building's back side.

Chane peered around the corner toward the night chatter's source. Four humans in the attire of the well-to-do rounded the crank house. One sounded as if he were chuckling at his own wit. The others merely smiled or nodded, and only the last responded, too low to hear. But the first boisterous one …

Chane knew what to look for.

The small group separated as three headed off toward the lift. But the talkative one, so amused with himself, waved a hand in parting and turned up the street along the pylons.

A lone merchant in a foreign settlement.

Chane sped along the cliff-side path behind the buildings. When he reached the next alley back to the main street, he crept out near its end to watch. Searching the street's far side, he could not find the man—not until he looked along the frontage of the cliff-side structures.

There was his quarry, strolling along, but Chane held back, remaining still in the shadows. Beyond the merchant, a pair of dwarves in matched attire trudged the street's far side. Both appeared armored in hauberks of hardened leather scales. Each carried a long oak staff, used like a walking stick, not that they needed such. They glanced about with no serious interest, yet they were clearly some kind of night watch.

Chane ran his tongue over his teeth and backed deeper into the alley until the two dwarves moved on, out of sight. Then he flattened, still and quiet at the sound of approaching footfalls.

The merchant strolled right past the alley's mouth.

Chane stepped out and dropped his coin pouch.

It landed on the street with a clinking thud. An old but simple trick, used many times before—because it always worked.

"Sir," he called in Numanese. "You dropped your purse."

The merchant started at the sound of Chane's maimed voice and spun too quickly, stumbling for an instant. When he spotted Chane in his long brown cloak and well-made boots, he calmed, and then quickly checked the small bulging pouch tucked into his belt. He was more stout and solid than Chane had first noticed, with a large brown mustache hiding his upper lip.

"Thank you," he said, "but I have mine."

"Are you certain?" Chane asked. "I thought I saw it fall in your passing."

The man clearly had his purse, but he walked back toward Chane with an expectant expression. Either he too wondered who had lost it, or he thought it was just a lucky find that he might share in. He never had the chance to express either notion.

Chane lashed out.

His right hand closed over the man's mouth and jaw, and he spun back into the alley. The merchant flailed in surprise, his feet twisting under him. Before he could set his heels, Chane jerked him further into the darkness and slammed him hard against one building's stone wall.

On impact, the merchant shuddered and slumped.

Chane held his unconscious prey pinned as his senses widened.

He smelled warm flesh, heard a quickened heartbeat. His jaws ached under shifting teeth as his canines elongated. Somewhere within him, that beast clawed the floor of a dark cell, trying to break its chains and reach for the promise of blood. Its snarls mixed with screeches of hunger that shook its whole body.

Chane began to shake as he stared at the merchant's throat.

A thunder crack jarred him into sharp awareness, and he whipped his head around.

Far beyond the alley's end, across the wide main street, the two dwarves had turned back on their patrol. Their wooden staves rose and fell with every other step, cracking out the rhythm that had seemed so near in Chane's heightened hearing.

Chane rushed down the alley, dragging his prey along the wall. When he reached the end, he pinned the man against the short wall above the cliff, and clamped his other hand around the merchant's throat. He glanced back for an instant.

The night watch passed up the main street beyond sight.

Chane wrenched the merchant's head back. His jaws widened at the sight of a distended throat. The beast within him went still, panting in anticipation—until Chane paused, frozen as well.

Reason crept in—he had to think.

This moment promised ecstasy … and consequences. Among Numans, the humans of these lands, and perhaps dwarves as well, undead were nearly unknown. If Wynn heard of a corpse with its throat torn, who else would she think of but him?

Could he cut the man's throat, not even kill him, and make it look like a common assault? He could still drink, and the blood as a conduit would carry a bit of life into him—just enough to sustain him for a while.

The beast snarled, howling denial.

Chane wanted … needed this moment … this kill. He could do this and simply heave the body over the precipice. Days, or even a moon, would pass before it was found, if at all. No other hope of bliss was his in this existence… .

Except a small place in Wynn's world.

A howl vibrated deep inside Chane.

He released the merchant's throat, still gripping the man's jaw, and reached for his sword. It would take a deep but careful slice, enough to be life-threatening but not fatal.

The merchant awoke, and his hands latched onto Chane's wrist.

Even muffled beneath Chane's palm, the man's shriek rang in his ears.

Panic—or a rush of delight—smothered all reason.

Chane jerked the merchant's head aside and clamped his jaws onto the man's throat. Fatted flesh tore in his teeth and he swallowed blood as starvation took over. Life filled him, coppery and salt-laden and vibrant with a prey's horror. It had been so long since he had given in. Even in feeding in Calm Seatt, he kept himself distanced from the pleasure.

There was no beast. There was no Chane. There was only painful hunger to smother and drown. He remained fastened to his prey's throat until the man's thrashing weakened beneath him. He heard—felt—the final heartbeat.

Chane raised his head, swallowing blood that welled back up his throat into his mouth. He languished, wavering slightly in regained strength and release from hunger. When he finally opened his eyes, he gazed up at one string of stars barely shining through a cloud-coated sky.

To him, those points of light were as brilliant as full moons. The stars, like a writhing path in the blackness, reminded him of …

Something he thought he had glimpsed once in dark dormancy … and a question.

Do Noble Dead dream?

Memory of Wynn's voice made every muscle tighten, and Chane heard a muffled crackle.

Bone shifted beneath the flesh clenched in his left hand. His gaze dropped instantly from the night sky.

The merchant's jaw had shifted sideways in his grip, broken and disfigured. Even then, the beast settled in glutted contentment, and Chane dared not close his eyes or he might see Wynn staring at him.

Do Noble Dead dream when they sleep … I mean, go dormant?

Chane shuddered, suddenly cold inside.

Perhaps they did—or he did—but not always. When had that first started? At times, as his limbs and eyelids grew heavy and he slipped into that vacant darkness, he had been thinking of her.

He would remember her in the library of the old converted barracks in Bela. Or he imagined her in a castle far away, searching through a great library of books, tomes, and scrolls that stretched beyond sight's reach. In this last day's dormancy, he had been remembering her small room back in the guild at Calm Seatt—a place he had seen only once.

Wherever he imagined, always at night while he lay dormant for the day, she was there with him. But there was someone … something … else?

Now and then, something had moved in a dark corner or under a table beyond the reach of a dreamtime Wynn's cold lamp. Something like stars—or glints upon a black reflective surface—that coiled and rolled. But whenever he looked, nothing was there.

Always just before he rose at dusk, or when he roused too early for the tram back to Bay-Side. Wynn had been pulling at him and …

The beast's eager rumble made Chane convulse and then turn rigid.

Had he lunged at her? Pinned her beneath himself? No, that could never happen.

Chane jerked his hand from the corpse's dislocated jaw and let it drop. None of this mattered. It was just the power of his desire, like that of the hunt. He needed her so much that it breached the vacant time of his dormancy. That was all.

He remembered the sight of her standing in his doorway, an urn of goat's blood in her arms. What she must have endured to get it for him. He would never let her suffer that again. Now he was strong, his thoughts clear and sharp, and she need never know how.

Chane crouched to seize the body, pausing long enough to wipe his face off on the man's cloak. He heaved the corpse up and out. It cleared the wall and fell down the mountainside.

One prey among many meant nothing.

But vampires each developed different and differing degrees of abilities. In the past year, he had started to feel the difference between truth and deceit. Not often, and only when he was not expecting it. The beast inside of him snarled in warning, as if sensing a threat.

If Wynn found him gone, later asking where he had been …

Would Chane hear—feel—his own lie to her?

Sau'ilahk waited in a Sea-Side side tunnel just beyond a common dwarven tavern called Maksûin Bití—the Baited Bear. He had risen from dormancy feeling strong and alert, vital with the life of three victims. On this second night beneath the mountain, he was beginning to appreciate its many shadowy places.

Wynn had gone back to the temple at Bay-Side, but this did not matter for now. Within moments of awakening, he had conjured two servitors of Air and sent them in search of a word: "thänæ." Any such mention would trigger his elemental constructs to record all utterances until conversation ended. And one had proven useful, returning to echoing dwarven voices chattering in excitement.

"… thänæ will come tonight!"

"Where did you hear this? No one's seen him in nearly a season."

"Well's Bottom and Gatherer were at the People's Place last—"

"Oh, mirth of the Eternals! Do not believe what you hear in that place!"

"He is back—Hammer-Stag has returned! And tonight he comes to the Baited Bear!"

"Why? That is no greeting house, and even so—"

Sau'ilahk banished his servitors, not needing to hear more. It took time to find this basic house of ale and an opportune place to lie in wait. He knew a dwarven "telling" could last late into the night. It was not necessary to see the thänæ's arrival, only his departure.

The thänæ in question, like all such, had already achieved a place among the dwarves' honored dead. Ultimately, all such hoped one day to become Bäynæ, one of the Eternals, the spiritual immortals and ancestral patrons of their people. To do so, one had to accomplish great feats that exalted their virtues or served the people—and in the "telling" to be judged worthy by all. Only when the people began to demand the marking of a new thänæ would a tribe's leaders sit in conclave. A unanimous vote was required before shirvêsh of the appropriate temple were called to bless a new thôrhk for the recipient. Only the Thänæ had their names engraved upon the temple's walls, but even then, decades or centuries would pass before even one of them, one day, might be ranked among the Eternals … if any ever did.

Sau'ilahk knew these general details, and that the process was more complex in subtle ways—and that dwarves were fools.

To spend one's life, even one as long as a dwarf's, in such a pursuit was insipid. He had no interest in their superstitions or false divinities—compared to his Beloved. Only the final detail of the process mattered, the one thing that would make the Stonewalkers come.

A thänæ had to die.

And after all, was not this what they all wanted … if they wished to become false saints?

Sau'ilahk waited within sight of the alehouse, a place usually not sought for a "telling." As night dragged on, he memorized other passages along the tunnel, as well as the far end of his own leading back to this level's mainway. He had to be able to blink to the mouth of any one of them at will without line of sight. But not until dormancy threatened, warning that dawn was near, did he hear voices growing in the mainway.

People poured from the alehouse, their noise quickly overriding the indistinct murmur from inside.

"What a night!"

"I will be dead on my feet for the day, but it was worth it!"

"And I will relive that last tale unto my death!"

Exclamations and adoring claims mounted one upon another, as patrons headed off both ways along the mainway of closed shops. Finally, Sau'ilahk heard one voice that overrode all others … deep, sure, and arrogant.

"No, no, brothers and sisters, you've paid me enough drink for the next two tellings! Time for all to sleep. But I promise to share your hospitality again before I venture afar once more."

Sau'ilahk remained as still as a shadow, listening to Hammer-Stag. This one preferred wallowing with riffraff, those too ignorant to see through him. All to procure a name he hoped might last into eternity. How pitiful.

There was only one true divinity who could grant eternal life. Such as Sau'ilahk had prayed and begged for—and been given by his Beloved. But he had no time to mourn the bane hidden within that boon.

The thänæ turned the other direction down the mainway, and Sau'ilahk was forced to blink ahead of the bulky loudmouth by three intersecting passages. There, he focused on the life presence of his quarry, feeling Hammer-Stag's spirit like a breeze or running stream one touched but could not hold on to. He no longer needed to listen to the braggart's bluster.

Twice more he blinked down the mainway, staying well ahead, then again down a side passage the thänæ turned into. He watched Hammer-Stag's every turn, until the last of the well-wishers and sycophants went their own way.

Hammer-Stag was alone in the deep sleeping back ways under Sea-Side. He was still far down a passage as Sau'ilahk retreated from its other end.

Sau'ilahk hurried along the wider intersecting tunnel, and then stopped, quickly preparing. He would not take a dwarf directly. It had been a long time, but he remembered how difficult they could be. He had to put this one down before noise attracted attention. Sound carried far in these underground ways.

Sau'ilahk manifested one hand, making it solid long enough to snuff the closest lantern. He quickly began the first conjury, calling up its shapes not in the air but upon the tunnel's wall. He needed a powerful banishing.

Within his mind's eye, a glowing crimson circle appeared upon the rough stone, large enough to encompass him if stepped up to it. Another of pulsing amber rose within that one, followed by an inverted triangle. Sau'ilahk raised one incorporeal finger wrapped in frayed black cloth. He traced signs, symbols, and sigils between the shapes, his fingertip racing over the stone. Though no else could have seen, every mark burned phosphorescent.

Soon, all light reaching from down the tunnel toward him began to dim—not everywhere, but only within the great seal that only he could see. Lantern light from up or down the way faded within an expanding space bulging outward from the wall.

Sau'ilahk drifted in against the stone, poised at the center of his banishing circle.

To conjure the Elements, or construct the lowest of elemental servitors, took years of dangerous practice. Banishing was often no more than releasing them, if one did not make them last longer than willful attention. Dealing with the natural world was another matter. Banishing anything natural to the world was nearly impossible, always temporary, and not for dabblers.

Though the next and previous lanterns still burned in the tunnel, clear to see, their light touched nothing within the outward bounds of his pattern. Sau'ilahk stood unseen within a pocket of pure darkness that ate all light.

It was costing him, weakening him. Yet he had one more conjury to accomplish, as he heard the thänæ's heavy footfalls closing on the passage's exit.

As a spirit, Sau'ilahk did not posses a true "voice." Even in the brief moments he willed himself corporeal, as an undead he did not draw breath. When and if he spoke, it was by conjury, faintly manipulating any noise made by the air's natural movement. He now needed a true voice—one urgently familiar to Hammer-Stag.

Sau'ilahk put the heels of his palms together, one hand below and the other above, with fingers outstretched. As he sank halfway into the tunnel wall amid his pool of darkness, he forced his hands solid. Envisioned glowing glyphs swirled in a tiny whirlwind. He arched his hands, fingertips still touching, and those bright symbols rushed into the space between, as if inhaled by a mouth.

Sau'ilahk felt air shudder between his hands, until it became a dull, vibrating thrum.

Hammer-Stag stepped out of the passage into the tunnel, turning the other way without pause.

Sau'ilahk curled his fingers inward like claws. He opened his hands like a clamshell, fingers tearing at thrumming air as if prying open a mouth.

A woman's agonized shriek echoed along the passage.

Hammer-Stag halted and spun about.

He looked down the passage, eyes wide, and then the other way. When he turned back, apparently seeing nothing, he reached over his right shoulder. His wide callused hand gripped the battle-ax handle behind his head, but he did not pull it out.

Sau'ilahk rotated his grip, twisting the air between his hands.

A whimper rolled out of his pool of darkness, followed by a familiar terror-choked voice.

"Please … help … me!"

Hammer-Stag pulled the ax and gripped the haft with both hands. He lunged two steps and then paused with his brows furrowed.

"Who is there?" he growled.

Sau'ilahk's satisfaction grew. This was so predictable. He twisted his hands again, feigning the familiar voice.

"Fiáh'our … Hammer-Stag? It's me, Wynn … Wynn Hygeorht!"

The thänæ craned his neck, trying to see where she was.

"Little mighty one?" he breathed, then shouted, "Where are you?"

"Please help me! It's coming!"

"No!" he snarled. "I am! Call to me … I will find you!"

Hammer-Stag charged down the passage, straight toward Sau'ilahk. As he passed the place where no light reached, Sau'ilahk opened his hands. The patch of darkness died under the light as Sau'ilahk slipped out behind the thänæ.