Curse Of The Dark Wind (Book 6)

by Charles E Yallowitz

  The drite scratches his head with his tail, thoughtfully puffing out rings of rainbow smoke from his nostrils. “Why Luke so big?”

  “Please don’t tell him this, but the Callindor is the most vulnerable of the champions,” the fireskin replies, making quick gestures in the air. A curtain of mist falls over the area, creating an illusion of lush forest to hide the rapidly rotting Weapon Dragon. “The Baron’s agents will target the weakest champion to break the union. At first it was Sari and they used her to learn more about what makes their enemies function on the aural level. She is much stronger now, which puts Luke at the bottom of the power ladder. It is his recklessness and limited true form that make him the perfect target. Through his destruction, they can fracture the prophecy and pick the others off at their leisure. Imagine the pain Nyx and Sari would feel at Luke’s demise. They would do something foolish to avenge him and that would be the end of the champions.”

  “Fizzle guard friends. Gods make Fizzle strong. What dragon man think will happen?”

  “Nothing good,” Isaiah mutters as he reaches into his robes. He pulls out a green apple, the stem briefly glowing in the emerging sunlight. “This is from my private orchard and I always keep one on me. I fear that you may need this in the near future, so hold onto it for a true emergency. Once eaten, it can increase the power of your next spell. All of it must be consumed for it to work.”

  Isaiah tosses the magic fruit to Fizzle, who catches it with his tail and rolls it up his back to his snout. With a small pop, the apple vanishes and the drite darts back to Sprildon. The fireskin watches the tiny dragon while spinning his staff over his head. He smiles when he sees Luke and Nyx helping Delvin and Sari out of the tavern. Isaiah’s body fades into a swarm of moths and heads south, their white color blending into the snowy landscape.

  *****

  Stephen licks his lips as he crouches behind a chimney on the far side of Sprildon, his view of the departing champions clear of obstacles. He fights the temptation to get closer, which gets more difficult when he catches Nyx’s scent. The hungry man is stepping into the open when a hand tugs him back into the shadows. Whirling around with bastard sword in hand, he lets the weapon drop to his side at the sight of General Vile’s ghost-like form.

  “Your appetite will get us in trouble,” the halfling whispers as his body becomes solid. “I thought Trinity was keeping you occupied.”

  “She has gone to prepare some areas for our next phase,” Stephen says, sheathing his blade. He fixes his ebony hair with an ivory comb that vanishes when he is done. “My appetite is under control for now. I simply wanted to get a better look.”

  “The drite is looking for you and the barbarian is on edge,” Vile mentions while he pulls out a spyglass. It telescopes out and he connects it to his eye-patch, the item’s magic letting him track the champions by their heat. “I know it’s not my place, but I urge you to be patient. Your plan is moving ahead and now the biggest threat has been sent elsewhere. All we need to do is escalate the situation.”

  The young nobleman steps off the roof and appears on the ground where he waits for his companion to navigate the icy window ledges. “I did expect this to move quicker. The Dark Wind is spreading in a strange crescent and they’re skirting the edge. We need to remedy that and soon. Luke Callindor has already been prepared for the curse, but that means nothing if he reaches Fyric without infection.”

  “Is there Dark Wind in that storm? The clouds are darker than those of a regular snowstorm and I see signs of lightning.”

  “I have the perfect plan.”

  Stephen disappears for a few seconds, returning with a pinky finger-sized cylinder of hollowed oak and a jade pendulum. He gingerly hands the items to Vile, who opens the wooden case to see a thin needle of silver glass. Examining the holder, he finds that it turns into a miniature blowgun that he can use to fire the projectile. The halfling returns the needle to its case and spins the pendulum over his head, slowing down as a loud rumble of thunder rolls from the south. He stops when he notices the storm is moving unnaturally fast toward Sprildon.

  “Both of these items require that you get closer than before,” the immortal noble warns. He pats his ally on the head, casually sighing and looking out to the clouds. “This is the risk you must take for the cause. The pendulum is a toy I designed long ago to control malicious weather, so use that to bring the storm to the champions. That is the easy part. Strike Luke Callindor with the attraction needle, which will dissolve into his skin without his notice. This will cause the lightning to strike at him, forcing his transformation into the griffin. The Dark Wind will take care of the rest and you can go back to stalking. I have faith in you, dear General.”

  “Are you trying to inspire people like your father does?” Vile curiously asks, tucking the items into a cloak pocket.

  “I was trying it out.”

  “It was terrible.”

  “Inspiring through compliments is not as much fun as using fear and pain.”

  “I’m surprised you made it through the sentence.”

  “To be honest, I used my magic to hold back my nausea,” Stephen admits, taking a deep breath. He covers his mouth before a foul burp erupts from his gut, the taste making him cringe in disgust. “Being friendly does not go well with my innards. Go after those champions and report to me when they are free of the storm. I will be with Trinity, so don’t expect me to help if you get in trouble.”

  “I can handle this,” the halfling says with an insulted scowl. Vile turns on his heel and steps into the street, his cloak shimmering as it camouflages him with the scenery.

  His companion walks toward the tavern, stopping when he sees a brief motion on a nearby rooftop. Stephen is unsure if he really saw something, which unnerves him since the movement never reappears. Shrugging off the uncomfortable feeling, he cracks his knuckles and disappears in the blink of an eye.

  5

  The shrieking wind tears at the leafless branches, driving biting snow onto the struggling travelers. Even Timoran is wearing a wool shirt and a white tiger cloak, their musky scent reminding him of home. A purple snout is poking out from the back of the barbarian’s sweaty clothes, the only sign that Fizzle is with the group. Sari curls against Zander, who sits behind the gypsy and keeps a thick blanket around her. The horses whiney and rear back whenever a burst of lightning brings the desolate forest into clarity. Relying on Nyx’s magic to stay warm and shrink the rising drifts, the adventurers travel in a tight pack. Delvin keeps a tight hold on her as she focuses on retaining a dome of heat that eats at the snow. The caster’s eyes are barely able to stay open due to the deep trance and a side-effect of her body absorbing the chill from the cutting winds.

  High above the shivering adventurers, a form darts and spins through the sky. The griffin rushes to defend the others from the streaks of lightning, absorbing the electricity with her wings. Buffering gales make it difficult to fly straight, so she constantly spirals and drifts to stay near her friends. There have been several times when she has lost them because a thick curtain of black mist envelopes her. She screams and coughs as she battles through the wispy clouds, each time feeling briefly lightheaded from the exertion.

  “This storm is insane! Do you think it’s magical?” Delvin asks, edging his horse close to Sari and Zander. “I’ve never seen so much lightning with snow!”

  “I can barely hear you!” the gypsy shouts, gesturing to cast a spell. A silver strand winds around everyone’s head, nearly snapping in the storm. “This storm is insane and I can’t control any of the snow. It isn’t magical, but it’s too strong for me to do anything.”

  “It’s the region,” Zander explains, pulling further into his bearskin cloak. “Winter storms like this happen two or three times during this season. This one seems to be especially brutal and picked up some lightning from the south. We need to find cover, but there are very few places for the horses. The only place I know of is in the hills to the east. I’m not sure how close we ar
e to them.”

  “I can see them in the distance,” Timoran announces, pointing into the storm. Squinting into the whipping powder, the others barely make out the rolling forms on the horizon. “It will not be easy to get there. Maybe Sari can do something about the snow already on the ground.”

  “Fizzle no like!” the drite cries, shivering against the barbarian’s back. “Miss hide holes and warm pools. Sari make better?”

  “I’ll try, but I won’t make any promises,” she whispers, handing the reins to Zander and pulling the blanket around her.

  Sari puts her hands on her chest, feeling the faint warmth of her heart flow into her fingertips and down her arms. The sensation mixes with the cold churning in her stomach, a fresh layer of frost spiraling from her bellybutton. Fighting the temptation to discard the blanket, the gypsy pushes the sparring temperatures from her body. With a gentle hiss, a balmy steam seeps from her pores and gathers around the horses’ legs. The warm mist eats at the snow as the animals walk, eventually drifting ahead to make the drifts easier for Nyx’s continuous spell to devour them completely.

  “Is it wise to have both of our casters in trances?” Zander asks, nervously scanning the sides of their path. He sweats and curses when the horse stumbles on a tree root. “We’re in trouble if we’re attacked. I guess we have the drite, but he’s too cold to be of use. His kind aren’t winter weather creatures, so I’m surprised he’s staying with you.”

  “Fizzle is a loyal friend,” Delvin replies with a crooked smile. “As for being attacked, I’m pretty sure we’re the only creatures stupid enough to be out in this.”

  “We should have stayed in Sprildon and waited for this to pass.”

  “I agree, but we don’t always have the luxury of time.”

  The monster hunter eyes Delvin suspiciously. “The Widowhorn isn’t going anywhere.”

  “The Baron’s agents are ahead of us,” the warrior says, glancing up to watch the griffin deflect a thick bolt of lightning. Biting his lower lip, the brown-haired swordsman tries to shake the nagging worry from his mind. “The longer we take, the more time they have to set obstacles for us. I’m sure they know we’re coming, so we don’t have the element of surprise. Besides, there’s no telling how long we have before the Baron breaks free. This is stuff that you shouldn’t concern yourself with. Once you pay your debt to Nyx, I suggest you go in the opposite direction of us.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve no intention of fighting some ancient darkness.”

  A burst of freezing wind strikes the group from the north and knocks all of the snow from the branches, the shock making Nyx’s spell falter. Timoran sniffs the air and turns back to stare at the sky, but he cannot see beyond his allies. Another violent gale hits them from the south, causing the barbarian to swiftly glance at the clouds. The horses slow down, sensing something is wrong, but unsure of the direction of the danger. From above, they can hear another hacking cough from the griffin as the beast emerges from a dark cloud.

  “I smell something, but I cannot hold it long enough to identify,” Timoran says, backing up to ride between the other two horses. “I believe we are being hunted.”

  “Fizzle agree,” the drite states, his voice shaking from the cold.

  “That’s impossible,” Zander declares, refusing to shy away when the barbarian glares at him. “I know this area better than you and most of the predators that could threaten us are ground hunters. They’re not going to be out in this weather unless they’re starving, which means they wouldn’t be as cautious as you’re making it sound.”

  “It is on the breeze,” Timoran politely argues, catching another whiff of the mysterious hunter. “I am concerned that I cannot see this predator. It is possible that our enemies unleashed something that can use the storm to its advantage.”

  “In that case, we have no idea what’s coming,” Delvin groans, tightening his grip on the reins and Nyx. The half-elf snores gently as her enchanting warmth switches from the snow to pouring into her friends. “This isn’t good. Two of us are defenseless and the rest of us are practically blind. We might have to depend on the griffin entirely.”

  A bellowing shriek drowns out the sounds of the storm as a large shadow passes over the travelers. An enormous form moves through the clouds, its mottled wings briefly fringed by the lightning. Dwarfed by the mysterious predator, the griffin growls and flies low enough to graze the taller trees with her tail. She remains on edge and moves higher only to absorb a bolt that is heading for the adventurers below. The howling wind mixes with the sound of slowly flapping wings, the noise seeming to come from every direction.

  “It’s circling us,” Zander whispers. His mouth goes dry when a man-sized feather floats across their path. “I know what this is, but it shouldn’t be here. We need to find cover quickly.”

  “What is it?” Delvin asks, urging his horse to move faster.

  “A roc!”

  Several trees are torn from the ground as the enormous eagle swoops out of the storm and narrowly misses the adventurers with its talons. The horses panic and race ahead, desperately wanting to get away from the aerial predator. It makes another clumsy dive and slashes deep furrows into the cold earth, forcing the mounts to slow down. They awkwardly move over the damaged earth and break into a sprint once they are clear of the obstacle. A shriek can be heard as the gigantic bird goes back to circling until the sound of its wings suddenly vanish.

  The roc breaks through the billowing snow ahead of them, the beast screeching as its sharp beak nears Delvin and Nyx. A roar erupts from above and the griffin slams the bigger predator into the ground. They roll out of the horses’ path and launch back into the sky, separating to avoid a bolt of lightning. With wheezing coughs, the roc beats the griffin with its wings and bites at her head. Feathers molt off both creatures, mixing with the whirling black clouds that envelope them.

  Lightning crackling throughout the sky, the battling beasts slam into the earth behind the adventurers. The griffin is on her back, her front paws batting at the roc’s face. Bracing her hind legs against the large bird’s feathery chest, she shoves it away. The roc awkwardly hops toward the griffin as she rolls to her feet and backs away. She cringes when a bolt of lightning strikes a nearby oak and knocks the burning tree onto the path. Listening to the reckless half-elf in her head, the griffin tears off a flaming branch with her beak. The roc unleashes powerful gusts of wind from its wings, blowing the fire out and sending cinders into its enemy’s eyes. Barely able to see, the griffin escapes into the sky and leads the giant eagle back into the raging storm.

  “Griffin in trouble,” Fizzle says, poking his head out of Timoran’s collar. The drite watches the sky, his eyes turning a dark red as he searches for body heat among the clouds. “Roc very weak, but still stronger. Luke on defen . . . def . . . blocking.”

  “A griffin would normally have the speed and agility advantage, but the storm must be getting in the way,” Zander mentions, pulling out a pair of glasses. The blue-tinted lenses shimmer as he watches ghostly images of the battle above. “There’s something wrong with the roc too. It’s rapidly molting and I see patches of bare skin.”

  “The bird is sick, which is why it has wandered so far from its home,” Timoran states, slowing his horse down to a trot. “It must be confused and disoriented. My concern is that it will infect Luke.”

  The monster hunter chuckles as he comes alongside the barbarian, his voice managing to hide his concern. “Griffins are immune to most diseases and poisons, so you don’t have to worry. Still it looks like our friend is tired from blocking all the lightning and flying against the winds. It’s only a matter of time before he messes up and gets his head torn off.”

  “You sound far too casual about that,” Delvin says, glaring at the yawning monster hunter. “I’ll wake Nyx and let her take care of it. Unless Fizzle can get up there.”

  “Wind too strong. Wings too cold. Luke too close for poof spell.”

  Delvin swears and turns h
is shuddering horse around, his eyes uselessly scanning the chaotic sky for signs of the fight. He shakes Nyx by the shoulder, receiving only a few muttered words of defiance and a lackluster shove to his face. The warrior tries harder to wake the half-elf, but she is too deep in her trance to be easily stirred. Taking a calming breath, Delvin scoops some snow from a nearby branch and puts it down the back of Nyx’s shirt. Still in her trance, she swings her fist back and punches him in the face.

  “I believe I warned you that she reacts in her sleep,” Timoran says, reaching over to shake Sari. He pulls his hand back when the frost on her body creeps onto his fingers. “We are without casters or any form of long range attacks. I believe we should remedy this when we reach the next village. One of us should buy a bow of some kind.”

  Delvin massages his jaw and curses his lack of foresight. “Some strategist I am. I let all of our casters and distance fighters get neutralized.”

  “Hold these,” Zander states, jamming his horse’s reins into the warrior’s hand. “This isn’t me paying a debt since I’m in trouble too.”

  Pulling his hood back to tie his blonde hair into a simple braid, the monster hunter dismounts and trudges a few yards away. Watching the battle through his magic glasses, he reaches into his cloak and draws an ebony rod. Zander runs his thumb along the smooth wood and the limbs of a longbow sprout from the ends. A string runs from one side to the other as he draws a heavy arrow from a quiver on his back.

  “I call upon The Nameless Mistress of the Hunt,” he whispers into the wind. Nocking the arrow and drawing it back, he takes aim into the storm. “Guide my shot to the heart of the great bird. I promise to honor you with the blood of the beast. If I fail then I accept the penalty of feeling the pain of those I have killed.”

  Letting a sudden calm wash over him, Zander raises his longbow higher and to the left of the shrieking roc. When he feels that the time is right, he releases the silver-tipped arrow and watches it streak into the storm. Guided by an invisible hand, the projectile weaves through the chaotic winds and lurches toward the roc. The griffin screeches in surprise when the arrow burrows through the giant eagle’s back and the barbed head erupts from its chest.