The only conceivable way to prevent the vines from repairing themselves was to destroy the entire structure in one hit. I couldn’t do that with the sword. Maybe with magic, I thought. But I’d still be shooting blind. Regardless of the weapon, though, I still had no clear understanding of how to hurt my enemy.
I lowered the sword. As if in response, the target of my attack spoke, reminding me without emotion or inflection, “We know what you fear.”
A chorus of chants bled out from deep inside the fog to echo him:
“We know what you fear.”
“We know…”
“We know…”
The phrases repeated, over and over. Their overlapping voices slammed into my ears. Words merged into an unintelligible clamor, rattling my bones, beating inside my head like a thousand drums. Blood blurred my vision. More trickled from my ears and nose.
I was on my way to the ground when the sensations vanished.
Only the blood remained.
I wiped the moisture away as I straightened. “Was that your way of showing me who’s in charge? A flex of muscle to make me back down?” Getting no answer, I grunted. “You’ll have to try a lot harder than that.”
“You resist,” the male spoke again. “You must show us. You must give.”
“You must give,” the faceless chorus chanted. “Give us… Give us…”
I talked over them with a heated, “Give you what? What the hell do you want?”
After a short pause they answered, “Trade.”
“Okay.” I swallowed my desire to lash out and sheathed the sword. The latter was useless, anyway. The former would have to wait until I knew how. “I’ve got a deal for you. You tell me where Jarryd is, give me back my ship and—”
“Patience!” the male’s booming roar ricocheted out into the fog.
Softer, the female replied to her companion, “You cannot ask for what he does not have.” Vines rustling, she closed in. Stopping inches away, to scrutinize me, the depth of expression on her misty face was staggering. The darkness that formed her eyes shifted, giving the impression of movement as she ran her “gaze” over me. It slowed, lingering on the hood. “I see you understood its purpose and took what was given.”
“The coat?” I guessed. “You left it for me? Why?”
“The cloth is woven with certain properties to sustain your frail vessel.”
I frowned at her. “My what?”
“Organs and flesh are not made for extreme environments. Falling ill would prolong and complicate your stay with us.”
“It is already complicated,” the male murmured.
His dislike of me was obvious, as was the female’s more reasonable nature. If had any hope of getting answers, it would be from her. I glanced between them. “Do you have names?”
“Once,” she said. “But they are no longer needed.”
“You know mine. Consider it an exchange. A trade. You’re fond of those.”
“Names are pointless,” the male put in.
“So, I should just keep calling you assholes?” I shrugged. “Works for me.”
The female’s lips drifted into a smile.” If it provides you comfort, you may call me Isuara.” Veins bent to permit her slight bow. “My attendant, Taalman,” she gestured at the male.
His wrapped chin tightened. “You indulge this one too much.”
“It is rare for a fellow caster to walk upon our land, is it not?” she countered “I indulge my own curiosity with the discourse. If it offends, you may leave.”
I bit back a grin as Taalman’s head dropped in deference.
“You will have what you came for, traveler,” Isuara assured me. “In time.”
“I’m more interested in what you did to me. Was any of it real?”
“You experienced what was needed. What was required to continue.”
“But was it real? What I saw, what I did… Did it happen? Did I…” I forced the question out. “Is Jarryd all right, is he alive?”
“He is where he must be,” she said, “for the process.”
Tension bled out of me. It wasn’t confirmation, but it was the best I was going to get. “Take me to him.”
“Impossible. He is not done.”
“He’s not a fucking rabbit on a spit. I want to see him. Now.”
“Did you not seek us out?” Taalman stiffened. “Do you not desire the drink?”
“Yes, we heard the rumors,” I said. “But I told you before. We didn’t mean to trespass. We thought the islands were abandoned. If you let us go, you’ll never see us again.”
“Contrition,” Isaura mused. “Laced with petulance, but there, nonetheless.”
Taalman leaned toward her. “Desperation is setting in faster than expected.”
“Trust me,” I shot him a glare, “you’ll know when it does.”
Isuara’s head tilted. Her details were more subtle than a flesh and blood woman. I couldn’t decide if she was considering my threat or her companion’s assessment. Either way, she offered me a simple, “Your bottles are not done. You cannot leave without them.”
“I’m pretty sure we can.”
“You misunderstand. The process takes time. It cannot be disrupted.”
“What process? Tampering with my mind? Making me face off against your twisted illusions? And how much time?”
“As much as is required.”
Fists clenched, I stared at her. “Where are your workers? Your city? For that matter, where are we?” I said with force. “Are we on the Wandering Isles or did you take me somewhere else? How does a run-in with my dead father translate into a goddamn fucking bottle of liquor?”
“It is your process, Shinree. It is not up to us to decide what you endure.”
Fed up with going in circles, a growl of exasperation rumbled from my throat. “We are not here to be your entertainment. Whatever deal you think we struck—it’s off.”
Her reply was an adamant, “Impossible.”
On reflex, I woke the obsidian. The stone warmed against my skin. I pulled the power in with a terse, “Nothing is impossible.” Spells and outcomes swirled in my mind.
Doubt swept in on their heels.
My spells were limited. My adversaries were powerful. And I still had no strategy or solid intelligence on my surroundings. For all I knew, what stood in front of me was another magical projection, and their true forms were elsewhere on the island, tucked away in a village or city. Their home could be nearby, veiled by a spell, packed with living, breathing, innocent people. Retaliating now, full of anger, with no grasp of the potential loss of life—and the ghostly images of my many victims fresh in my mind—it could be catastrophic.
I wasn’t ready to go that route.
If Isuara was to be trusted, there was a way back to the ship: their way.
Endure the process. Claim our bottles. Complete the trade.
It was the last thing I wanted. Yielding to some bizarre ritual I didn’t understand was a shitty plan with even shittier odds. At best, I’d gain some useful information to help me escape. At worst… I was playing into their hands. Until I knew more, though, standing down was the least-worst option available.
That didn’t mean I had to like it.
With a snarl I didn’t even try to hide, I released the obsidian’s aura back inside the stone. “Let’s get this over with.”
Chapter Six
The fog dissipated, thinning into wisps of red to stripe the night sky; then evaporated completely, revealing a bright, full moon. The air was chilly. Shadowy branches hung over me, dripping a recent rainfall off their tips. The smell of moist dirt and vegetation was pungent and fresh, a complete contrast to where I was before.
Did they take me inland?
My last recollection was of the vines unfurling and dropping to the ground, reverting to their previous, less vibrant state, as Isuara and Taalman lost shape. The cloud wall darkened and enveloped me. There was a sense of heaviness, like a violent sustaining wind pressing a
gainst me, and then…nothing. I must have lost consciousness. It was likely easier for their spell to transport me here. But where was “here” and what new threat was looming?
Isuara neither confirmed nor denied my accusations, but I assumed I was destined for another altercation of some kind, crafted for their sadistic pleasure. If that was my half of the trade—surviving some make-believe, magical fighting pit—the notion was somewhat amusing. Yet the islanders going to such lengths for recreation only, didn’t sit right. The beings exuded too much intelligence and evolved thought for something so base being the answer.
I was here to be more than a court jester.
I wiped the grit and leaves off my hands as I stood. My armor was gone. The surcoat Isuara gave me was now overtop a soft, homespun tunic and comfortable leather breeches. I was armed, but with a Langorian short sword; a thick weapon designed for hacking more than true swordplay. Frays and rents aged my garments. Scuffs marred the tops of the boots. Both the belt and sheath were scored, indicating it was well-used. Though, I’d never seen either before now.
Circumstances aside, I couldn’t help being impressed with the authenticity. I felt wholly in this moment. Yet, for all I knew, I was out cold, lying in a cell somewhere. Which only made the level of detail and realism more extraordinary. The crisp woodland scent of pine dominated the air. It was too sharp for Langor’s harsh mountains or the small, occasional forests dotting Rella’s farmlands.
My sight adjusting to the gloom, a defined trail became visible beneath my boots. Fluffy clouds raced across the sky, pushed by a strong autumn wind. Shapes swayed as the boughs of great trees bent, this way and that. I studied the foliage, on and around the trail. If there were any red vines in the underbrush, I couldn’t see them.
I pushed aside the tree limb waving in my face and studied the jagged outline of forested peaks in the distance. Closer, behind me, below the edge of the sloped trail where I stood (at least a good sixty feet down), was a thin strip of fresh water. I recognized the snaky, meandering banks of the waterway instantly. “The Shallows. I’m in Kael.”
I was just over the border, to be exact, at the start of the heavily-forested mountain range. I hadn’t been this way in years, but I knew the terrain well. In my bounty hunting days. I traveled the mountain paths regularly. Situated on the other side of the mountains, weeks away, was the realm’s largest city. South was the coast, dotted with fishing villages. Behind me, down the slope and across the water, was the foul, swampy terrain of the Northern Border Lands.
I’m not going that way, I thought. Not ever again.
I took a step back, away from the unwanted memories of what happened there.
The wind changed direction and brought them closer.
With an abrupt gust that felt far too purposeful, a stench wafted up from the narrow divide; thick and putrid, stinking of loss and bad decisions.
If Isuara’s plan was to shuffle through my past and drop me in the middle of one shitty memory after another, we were going to be at it a while.
Yet, if this was a recreation of one of my many trips through the Kaelish mountains, they forgot an important detail. I only ever traveled this way on horseback, and Kya was nowhere in sight. Was it a mistake? I didn’t think so. If Kya wasn’t here, it meant she wasn’t important to their version of events.
To the right, the trail sloped high and headed deeper into the woods. Left wound steeply down, hugging the edge all the way to the bottom where it continued on, following the bank of The Shallows. Without hesitation, I turned right and sprinted away from the bog.
Light came and went on the whim of the breeze, as long fingers of clouds hurried across the full moon. Trees encroached, narrowing the trail. My boots caught on random rocks and rain-slick patches of leaves, camouflaged by the intermittent dark. Wind-tossed branches shed their water like dogs. I put up my hood to keep the moisture off my face. An occasional thin crust of ice shattered underfoot, speaking of a recent frost. Rubbing my hands together, I blew off the chill and wished for a skin of wine to warm my insides. Something else Isuara forgot. I wouldn’t have made the trip without one.
The trail was more cluttered than I remembered, clogged with numerous stones and felled branches. Gnarled roots extended over the path. It was like no one had traveled this way in years. Deciding I was one wrong step away from breaking an ankle, I slowed. It was only a moment later when the odor of musk hit me like a brick to the face.
Ahead, in a patch of deep dark flanking the trail, the shadows parted. One moved out of the bushes to block my way. Tall and wide, the edges of its center lifted up and down in labored, erratic breaths.
Moonlight came around again, penetrating the boughs to reveal a set of wide, furry shoulders. I followed those to muscular limbs and a pair of unmistakable backward jointed knees—then swiftly up to the familiar, elongated, egg-shaped head of an eldring.
Reflex moved a hand to my sword. I drew it halfway and held it there, watching, waiting. Anyone else would have already been swinging. Eldring were legendary predators, vicious man-eating beasts of lore that lived in the nightmares of every Kaelish child. But I knew a different side to their story. I knew them in ways no one else could. I knew their origins, how they lived, how they felt, and how they communicated. Much of my knowledge came from a daring, risky decision to heal one of their young—which accidentally attached me to the collective, hive-like mind of the entire species.
Unlike my link to Jarryd, my connection to the eldring was a temporary bond. It faded long ago. But the experience left me with a unique sensitivity to their kind. It was an intimate level of awareness that told me this eldring meant no harm. Despite being capable of ripping me to shreds in the blink of an eye, it wasn’t malice emanating from his muscular body. It was fear.
Seems to be going around.
I eased the sword back inside its sheath and held out my empty hands. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’d appreciate it if you did the same.”
In a move I’d come to associate with an attempt at understanding, the beast’s oblong head cocked far to the side. Saliva oozed off the end of his jaw, as his barrel chest continued to heave. Leaves and broken stems stuck to his wet, matted fur. Blood streaked his hide.
Eldring were nocturnal hunters. But that didn’t explain the emotion (not much scared an eldring) or the wound to his right arm. The hole didn’t have the look of being made by an animal’s claw.
“You’re injured,” I said. “And you’ve been running for a while, by the looks of you. Is something out here chasing you?”
Twigs snapped. The musk-smell sharpened, thick enough to gag me as I inhaled. Movement disrupted the shadows again. Bushes swayed, branches were swept aside, as more and more eldring became visible all around the trail. Their brilliant sunset-colored stares glazed a moment, as their collective mind communicated. No doubt they were discussing me.
Were the islanders expecting me to fight them?
I’d faced a pack of eldring in Kael before, but that was miles from here and under far different circumstances. Those eldring were savage predators, magically resurrected from dust and bones in front of my eyes. These creatures were of a different origin. They weren’t born from mating but transformed against their will, created by my father’s magic to be slaves and fighters in his quest for control of the realms. They were failed experiments. An imperfect spell with an imperfect outcome, left them neither man nor beast, but an amalgam of the two.
Eldring in shape and strength, though somewhat smaller, they possessed the typical intimidating build and gray hide. Their dark fur was thinner. Their claws were less bulky than a pure eldring. The spell enlarged teeth and reshaped skulls, yet noticeable remnants of Shinree features remained to sharpen their hide-covered faces. Ashen hair, of varying lengths, grew on their conical heads. Not all, but many, of Jem’s subjects lost their ability to speak, as was evident in the clicks and guttural noises being sent in my direction.
After his death, the hybrid eldring
established a permanent settlement near the Langorian-Rellan border. So what are they doing this far from home? And why were they the focus of my current nightmare? Were the islanders simply using handfuls of random moments from my past to create their own version of my present?
Whatever the answer, I couldn’t stop them. I wasn’t convinced I had any control over the outcome or the duration, either. For the moment, all I could do was let it happen—and hope this scenario was less disturbing than the last.
With a show of gleaming teeth, the creatures loped closer. Rapid, hot breath fled their elongated jaws, drying the sweat on my skin. They made no sounds or gestures. Their postures intimated nothing except the distinct desire that I stay put.
I was starting to re-think my position on the sword, when a ragged, winded cry erupted from farther back in the group. The sound was urgent and husky, but noticeably feminine.
Movement stirred the herd as the speaker pushed forward. “Is it him? Is it…?” her voice turned hopeful as the crowd parted, “Father?”
My throat clamped tight as I spotted the young, eldring female in a deer skin top and skirt. Emotion softened her eyes. They were once Shinree white and damaged. Now they were a beautiful kaleidoscope of orange and red, with vision sharper than mine. “Lirih.”
Seeing my daughter, after believing I never would again, unearthed a tremendous ache in my soul greater than I could have ever thought possible.
“Oh, thank the gods.” She rushed up, pushed the hood back to see my face, then threw herself against me. “I thought you were dead.”
“I’m here.” I held her close. Lirih’s embrace was strong, as an eldring should be, and full of emotion. She smelled of the night and felt like much-needed shelter from the storm—and it was suddenly preposterous that none of this was real. I’d come back for her. I’d been traveling, looking for Lirih, for weeks. Now she was here, in my arms, her heart pounding against my chest. Too fast, I thought.
She was trembling.
Something was wrong.
The Wandering Isles Page 6
