The Fractured Sky

by Thomas M. Reid

  Confident that she had slipped away from her pursuer, Kashada stepped out from beneath the fallen tree. She checked the surroundings once more. There was no one.

  Satisfied, the mystic turned toward where she believed the caves to be and began walking again.

  The baleful call of the horn ceased, replaced by a faint roar. Then a rumble of distant thunder reached Kashada’s ears. She suspected that Zasian, in the form of Tekthyrios, was wreaking havoc among the folk guarding the cave.

  Hopefully he’s torn that horrid ghaele into pieces with his claws, she thought.

  Kashada noticed that the land had changed around her, and she knew she must be close. The ground had become coarse and dark, more like bark than soil. The trees had thinned out a bit, too, and the air was thick with mist. She could not see more than a handful of paces in any direction.

  A blinding flash engulfed Kashada. She threw her arms up protectively, trying to shield her eyes from the blazing glow, but the damage was done. Pain wracked the mystic, searing hot agony that made her crumple over and fall to the ground. Her first instinct was to fall into a shadow, but she couldn’t clear her vision of the white afterimage in order to seek one out.

  “Very clever, shadowwalking to try to evade me,” the ghaele said. Her voice came from somewhere overhead. “But the stench of your evil fills these woods. You are too easy to find.”

  Kashada’s vision began to return. She could make out the basic shapes of tree trunks, but everything was still blurred and too bright to focus on. She fought the pain of keeping her eyes open and scanned the sky, trying to spot her adversary.

  As her sight continued to improve, the Sharan finally spied what must be the ghaele. A sphere perhaps five feet wide hovered among the tree tops. A panoply of eldritch colors shimmered across its surface, intensely hurtful to look upon.

  Why must it fight with light? she lamented. Anything but light. Where in the Hells are Myshik and Zasian?

  “Ah, friends to come to your rescue,” the ghaele said. “Thank you for letting me know.”

  Kashada gritted her teeth. Fool! She can read your mind. Flee!

  Before the mystic could rise and get away, another beam of light flashed from the sphere. Kashada pitched herself to one side to evade the attack and slammed into the bole of a tree. She grunted, feeling the blow on her ribs. The searing whiteness struck the ground where she had lain a heartbeat before.

  Not waiting to see if another attack was eminent, Kashada gestured and spoke a word of magic. Blackness enveloped her. She scrambled to her feet, using the tree for support, and moved around it, hoping misdirection would throw the ghaele off. She had not taken three steps when the blackness vanished again.

  The ghaele stood before Kashada in elf form. Those lustrous, pearlescent eyes fixed on her face, boring into her own. “If you crave the darkness so much, then allow me to send you to your grave.” She gestured and uttered a word that rang in Kashada’s ears. The mystic fell back as vibrant light surrounded her. The glow clung to her, shredding the shadows in which she cloaked herself. Her carefully crafted illusion of mysterious beauty vanished, leaving her weak and terrified.

  “No!” she croaked. She dropped to the ground, one arm raised to ward off the debilitating power of the ghaele’s magic. “Shar, help me!”

  The ghaele stepped closer, pulling her sword free. “Your deceitful goddess will not aid you, witch,” she said, raising her weapon for the killing blow. “You are finished.”

  The blade reached its apex, but the ghaele did not strike. Instead, those milky, opalescent eyes glanced away, at something behind Kashada, and widened in alarm. “No!” the ghaele screamed, putting a single hand out before herself as if to ward off an attack.

  A beam of sickly green energy struck the warrior in the chest. She threw her head back and screamed in agony, a sound that was cut short as her entire body turned to dust and scattered across the forest floor near Kashada’s feet.

  The mystic gaped for a moment at the ghaele’s disintegrated remains, then she turned to look over her shoulder as footfalls approached.

  Zasian strolled up to Kashada and offered her a hand up.

  “Sorry I’m late,” the priest said. “I was delayed by a rampaging shrub. I take it Myshik hasn’t arrived yet?”

  Kaanyr nudged the blackened body at his feet with his toe, flipping it over so that it faced upward. The unseeing eyes were still open, the face smudged with mud and blood. Whatever had hit the fellow, it had killed him quickly, and not that long before. Smoke still rose from the charred remains.

  The cambion stepped away and checked another, slumped over the boughlike trunk of one of the twisted trees in the area. That one, too, was dead, though there was no outward sign of injury. When he flipped the corpse over, he saw a look of horror upon the elf’s face. The body was still flush and warm to the touch.

  “They’re all dead,” he said, turning and striding back to where Aliisza and the other two stood gathered next to the corpse of the dragon. “Every last one of them.”

  “As I expected,” Tauran said, not looking up. He knelt next to the storm dragon’s head, his hand upon its ridged brow, as though comforting it. “The ghaeles do not leave wounded behind, if they can help it. They either carry their brethren away or stand to the last defending them.”

  Aliisza looked all around. “Zasian did this?” she said, appearing a bit awed. “Even in dragon form, this is a formidable force to confront.”

  “Yes, it is,” Tauran said, still kneeling. His eyes were closed and he kept his hand upon the dragon’s forehead. Finally, he stood up, looking around. “But I don’t understand what happened to him.”

  Kaanyr snorted. “He bit off more than he could chew, and this little army of wood elf fellows and their giant bear-plant did him in.”

  “I wish it were that simple, if tragic,” Tauran replied, “but there is no sign of the priest within the dragon’s corpse. Whatever happened here, Zasian did not die in Tekthyrios’s form.”

  “So he’s still running loose,” Kael said, whacking his blade against a nearby tree in frustration. “We’re not done, yet.”

  “It appears not,” Tauran said. “And what’s worse, he left the dragon behind, so he’s more difficult to find, and I think he’s left the House of the Triad, making that difficult job even trickier.”

  “Why did he come here?” Aliisza asked. “What is this place?”

  Tauran sighed and began walking in an ever widening circle around the dragon. As he surveyed the area, he explained. “Some of those who fought here today are eladrin, fey creatures. Those here have dedicated themselves to being champions of good across the cosmos. They are a bit more free-spirited than most of us who dwell here within the House, flaunting our laws when such strictures do not suit them, but Tyr abides them because they are dedicated to defending this place.”

  The angel stopped and knelt down next to a patch of earth, tracing his finger through something there. “It would seem that whatever happened to Zasian, here is where he got up and walked away.”

  Kaanyr moved next to the angel and peered down where he indicated. A set of bootprints wandered off through the underbrush. They would be easy to follow.

  Tauran stood again. “It doesn’t appear that he’s injured, so he’s moving rapidly. But these kills are very fresh. He can’t be far ahead.”

  “Then we should not tarry,” Kaanyr said, sensing that the end of his servitude might be near. He loosened Burnblood in its scabbard and gestured for the angel to lead the way. “Let’s go.”

  “You!” Myshik snarled as Zasian walked into view. The draconic hobgoblin scrambled to his feet and reached for the war axe strapped to his back. “Where is Tekthyrios?” he demanded, drawing the axe back as if to strike at the priest.

  Beside the half-dragon, Kashada shifted her gaze back and forth between the two. Her eyes, peering out from behind that shimmering veil of black cloth and shadow, glittered in amusement.

  The shadow-mysti
c had been genuinely grateful to Zasian for rescuing her, but afterward, he noted something dangerous in her demeanor. She had appeared flustered at first, at least until she managed to redeploy her shadow-illusions. Even afterward, she became aloof, and he caught her staring at him more than once. She would bear watching, he decided.

  “The storm dragon is no more,” Zasian answered, stopping a few steps out of Myshik’s reach. “And if you don’t put that down, the same will hold true for you.”

  “How then will I cleave you in twain to avenge his death?” Myshik asked, a taunting smile appearing on his lips. He took a single stride forward, and Zasian finished the spell he had begun before he and Kashada had joined the half-dragon.

  Myshik’s eyes bulged when he realized he could not move.

  Zasian watched, smirking, as the hobgoblin strained to break free of the repulsive magic. You truly are a simpleton, whelp of Morueme. Always two steps behind the rest of us. As bad as the half-fiends and their fool angel. “Are you done, yet?” he asked, folding his arms across his chest.

  “I could heave this blade such that it would lop off your head, Banite,” Myshik growled. He continued to struggle and did not notice Kashada step behind him.

  “Yes, but you don’t know what other little tricks I might have up my sleeve,” Zasian replied and nodded to the shadow-cloaked woman. She nodded back and stepped closer, planting what Zasian assumed was a dagger against the small of the hobgoblin’s back.

  Myshik froze, and his eyes rolled as he tried to peer back over his shoulder at the woman. Her free hand snaked up and took hold of the axe. He resisted for a moment then arched up straighter. Zasian chuckled, imagining how she was pressing her point home. Myshik released the axe and Kashada tossed it to the side. She did not move away from the half-dragon.

  “Have you heard the saying, ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend,’ Myshik?” Zasian asked. “I believe the nomadic tribesmen who roam the desert near your home use it often, as do the genies in various parts of the cosmos.”

  Myshik glowered, but he did not say anything.

  “Yes, I killed the storm dragon, but you never served him. It was me in control of his flesh and blood, me to whom you swore fealty.”

  The half-dragon’s eyes widened the slightest bit as that realization sunk in.

  “I shouldn’t think that it would matter too much to you what happened to Tekthyrios,” Zasian continued. “I don’t believe your father or uncle would be too keen to hear that you were in the service of a storm dragon. The storms and the blues never have gotten along too well, have they? Always squabbling over territory, domains, or some such, right?”

  Myshik frowned, but eventually he nodded. “But why?” he asked. “Why the disguise, the trickery?”

  “In due time, whelp of Morueme, in due time,” Zasian answered. “For now, just know that I am no friend of Vhok’s. He was a tool to me, nothing more. In fact, he still serves me in that fashion, though he does not yet realize it. Also know that I do not serve Bane. That lie was a necessary part of my deception with Vhok.” Zasian paused and studied the half-dragon, gauging his reaction. Myshik had stopped glowering. So far so good, the priest decided. He continued. “You have two choices to consider now. One is to take a stand, try to fight against me, and die as a result. That is no threat, it is a certainty. It isn’t, however, a particularly appealing result to me, because despite your stubbornness and rather simple outlook, I find you useful.

  “Which brings me to the other choice. Serve me, as you had been serving me when you believed I was a storm dragon. The terms will be the same. Do as I ask, willingly, eagerly, and I will make certain you receive generous compensation for your efforts. Plus, you get the opportunity to thwart Vhok, make him one miserable demonspawn. That ought to convince you right there.”

  “I accept,” Myshik said.

  “What?” Zasian said, taken aback. “No need to think about it? No deliberations over which choice is the lesser betrayal to your conscience?”

  Myshik smiled. “As you said, ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend.’ What is there to think about? My uncle gave me very clear instructions.”

  Zasian’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. Perhaps he is more cunning than I gave him credit for. I will have to watch him, he decided. He nodded to Kashada, who stepped back from the half-dragon and slipped her dagger back into her belt.

  Myshik relaxed and moved to pick up his axe. He stopped before he actually took hold of it and glanced back at Kashada. “You’re not going to use me for target practice when I scoop this up, are you?” he asked.

  “Does she have a reason to?” Zasian asked.

  “No,” Myshik replied, “but I wasn’t sure if she knew that.”

  “I don’t think we need fear a reprisal from you,” the priest said.

  Myshik gave him an even stare for just a little longer than Zasian thought appropriate, then he lifted the axe from the ground. He slipped it back into its spot upon his back and turned to face the other two. “So, what is your intention?” he asked.

  “Kashada and I have business elsewhere,” Zasian answered. “We must take a journey, one that is likely to be a bit treacherous.”

  “Yes, this cave you have brought us to,” Myshik said. “But where does it lead? Where are we going?”

  “Follow me,” Zasian replied. He turned and began to walk through the mist-filled forest, pushing past the foliage that sprouted up from every direction. The dampness clung to everything, and the sounds of its dripping echoed softly through the woods. The priest could see a faint path winding among the odd, rolling ridges of ground. Zasian picked his way along it, listening for sounds of pursuit or ambush.

  “This ground is odd,” Myshik commented from behind Zasian. “What is this place?”

  Zasian smiled. “It’s not really ground at all,” he said. “We are passing from the House of the Triad into the World Tree. This is the veil between those two places.”

  Myshik was silent for a moment, then he exclaimed, “It’s bark! This is a branch!”

  Zasian grimaced. “Yes, but lower your voice, Morueme. There are a few enemies still around—and new ones on our trail—that will not take kindly to our passing through here.”

  The priest grinned as he imagined Vhok and the others pursuing him, trying to catch up before he slipped away. Stay close, cambion, he thought. I am not finished with you yet.

  They walked on in silence for some time longer, Zasian keeping a watch ahead as he followed the path. It wound between the rounded, rolling ridges of the rich, brown, woody substance and the twisted, angled trees.

  Not trees, Zasian reminded himself. Branches. Twigs, perhaps.

  The surrounding terrain grew higher and steeper on either side of the path, forming a narrow defile. As the trio descended into the canyon, it began to rain. The patter of drops from the gentle downpour caused little more than a whisper on the spongy ground.

  Zasian pulled the hood of his cloak up and around his head, shielding him from the moisture. “Keep an eye out, now,” he cautioned the other two in a soft voice. “Other things live on the World Tree, and some of them are not friendly. Sometimes, even the tree itself becomes your enemy.”

  The defile grew narrower and narrower, until Zasian felt his shoulders brushing against the sides as he walked. Just when it seemed that the walls had closed together too much for them to continue, the canyon ended in the entrance to a cave. The path vanished into the darkness beyond.

  “Here we go,” Zasian muttered, half to himself. “A bit of light, and …” He muttered a quick prayer, waved his hand over the head of his mace, and the weapon glowed with the light of day, illuminating the passage. “Kashada, Myshik, wish this unhappy place a fond farewell. We’re beyond its reach, now.” And with that, he ducked into the narrow opening and entered the blackness.

  Chapter Nine

  Where are we going?” Kaanyr asked as he trailed after the angel. “You seem to know what this place is and why Zasian would come h
ere.”

  “It is a doorway between worlds,” Tauran replied, his gaze still turned toward the ground. “This part of the House borders on the World Tree. I think Zasian is going to try to travel along it to reach another plane.”

  Kaanyr caught sight of a second set of booted prints in the soil, smaller and more delicate than the first. “It doesn’t look like he is alone,” the cambion said, pointing.

  Tauran stopped and knelt down, again running his finger through the depression. “I think you’re right.”

  “Look,” Aliisza said, pointing a bit farther down the path. “There’s more over here. It appears someone engaged in a scuffle.”

  The angel rocked back on his heels, gazing into the distance, deep in thought. “This makes things quite a bit more interesting,” he said, pulling on his chin. “Where did he get an ally?”

  “From the same place as before,” Micus said from above them.

  Kaanyr flinched and darted to the side, ripping Burnblood free. He peered upward and spotted the angel standing upon a thick branch in one of the odd, sloping trees. The cambion’s companions reacted just as quickly, jumping into defensive postures and freeing their weapons.

  “From among the conniving fiends he calls friends,” Micus continued, “like the ones you’re wandering around with, Tauran.”

  The sound of footsteps behind Kaanyr drew his attention away from the deva in the tree. He spun and saw three hound archons fanning out to surround him. Two more materialized just behind them.

  “It’s a trap!” the cambion shouted. “They’re surrounding us!” He backed away, considering his options. He risked a quick glimpse in other directions. Perhaps a dozen more dog-headed warriors stood on guard; a handful more instantly appeared as Kaanyr watched.

  The enemy had position; the group was encircled.

  “Time to surrender,” Micus said. “You cannot keep running, Tauran.”

  “Micus, look around you,” Tauran said, his frustration evident in his tone. “Look what has happened here! Isn’t it obvious now that we have to find this priest? We have to stop him.”