Dust of Dreams: Guardians of Light, Book 4

by Renee Wildes

  If they’d just quit staring at her like she would…what?…at any moment. She stripped off her boots and breeches to a collective gasp. Then they all exhaled and slumped like they were disappointed in something and wandered off.

  Oddest thing she’d ever seen.

  The water was almost too hot and stung every scrape in her skin, but the heat soon relaxed her muscles enough to relieve some of the aches that only just now settled into her battered and bruised body. She scrubbed her skin and her hair, and the goblin female washed her back. The water turned a disgusting muddy red. Pryseis didn’t linger.

  She couldn’t stomach the thought of putting those filthy clothes back on. But they weren’t offering her anything else instead. Her one remaining chain clattered against the stone pillar and tugged at her ankle, but without the gritty mud, the chafing was almost bearable. She stared at her glowing skin, wondering how long afore it started to fade. Without sunlight, her wings no longer tingled with energy. How long until they, too, faded, turning brittle and useless like autumn leaves? The mud was gone, but she still smelled the loamy, mineral tang of it—on her skin, in her hair. No clean clothes seemed to be forthcoming. If they thought to cow her, embarrass her, she’d show them she was made of sterner material. She spread the damp, drying cloth on the sandy floor and eased down onto it. Every muscle screamed in protest. Her wing was a searing agony. Her heart ached. If she could just rest for a moment…

  Pryseis lay down on her side, head pillowed on her arm. Not the most comfortable bed, but she was so tired she hardly cared. She drifted off.

  Fear. Rage. Dark glee. Overweening ambition. Dread… Monsters with gaping maws and fangs dripping blood… It was more than the lad, more than his nightmares. The base secrets of every goblin in the room slammed into her in a chaotic chorus. Emotion and dark imagery, what a person buried deep in the back of their minds whilst awake. The intent face of the black sorcerer appeared in her mind.

  “Do you feel it too?” he demanded. “Do you sense it too?”

  Lursa, why did she just ken their words in her sleep? She thrashed, reaching for balance. Reaching for him…Benilo. Compassionate. Warm. Comforting. She felt his hands on her shoulders. Such gentle strength.

  Malicious laughter rippled through her. The dream changed. His face dark with lust. The spirit healer’s hand knotted in her hair as his mouth crashed down on hers. She tasted blood as he groped her breast, pinched her nipple. Nay! ’Twas but a nightmare. It wasn’t real.

  She bolted upright, gasping for air. How much time had passed? Pryseis pushed her hair back from her face with a shaking hand. Across the compound, the sorcerer smirked at her, his overlarge, milky-blue eye making his face look even more misshapen. The same goblin woman who’d helped her with her bath brought her a bowl of food. Pryseis took it, but then looked closer. Some sort of grubs or maggots writhed in porridge. Her stomach lurched and her hunger vanished. Lursa, she’d never eat again. Shaking her head, she thrust the wooden bowl back into the female’s hands.

  Her benefactress sniffed, a look of disdain on her sharp features, and stalked off. A couple of nearby male goblins grinned then resumed their swordplay. She watched them. There was a frantic edge to their movements. A bit too much aggression.

  Her head ached. No rest. No food. How long could she go on like this? Could her sisters sense the growing malevolence, the looming darkness? Would their nets hold it at bay? She watched the goblins hacking and slashing at each other, faster and faster. A neither-goblin barked a command from the sidelines, but it was ignored. Rising tension…apprehension… Lursa, if she didn’t ken it was just practice, she’d swear they were trying to—

  One of the combatants plunged his sword/knife into his opponent’s chest, and black blood spurted from the wound as the stricken goblin fell. The attacker howled a chilling victory cry that made the hair stand up on the back of Pryseis’ neck. Two neithers grabbed the survivor, disarming him and restraining him by force, as a female dropped to her knees aside the fallen one. She moaned and clutched the dead to her, and Pryseis’ heart ached at her obvious grief. Everyone else looked shocked at the turn of events. The attacker ranted, writhing, against his restraint as the sorcerer approached. The tip of his staff glowed blue-black as it neared the maddened goblin’s face. The sorcerer touched it to the prisoner’s head, and Pryseis watched him slump unconscious to the ground. They dragged him away as another female came to help her friend with the victim’s body.

  Since when did the goblins attack and kill their own? A couple of neither-goblins stared at her with a speculative look that chilled her. She closed her eyes, drifted off as she envisioned her net. Shards of blue black and the ominous rusted red of dried blood pulsed within, against, it. A sulfurous yellow coated the strands themselves. It stung like acid. Her heart stuttered, but she steeled herself against the dread and fear. She could fight this. That’s what she was to do.

  Keep the peace.

  The child was near, in this clan, village, whatever they called their community. His fear was a familiar sensation by now. Everything felt magnified somehow. Fear to terror, aggression to savagery, sadness to crippling grief, desire to lust. Did she sense it more because she was closer—or because whatever was causing it all strengthened? Was the sorcerer the cause or yet another victim?

  She wanted to meet the child. She wondered if the females would help her meet his mother. Surely his mother worried for her son.

  A commotion on the far edge of the encampment drew her attention. A group of outsider goblins approached, their male leader holding out a carved rune stick. The sorcerer took it, and the visitor bowed low, his people trailing along behind him. Pryseis counted a dozen neither-goblins with the male. All of them bore packages of some sort. A trading expedition. One of the neither-goblins was restrained with ropes—prisoner or slave.

  Her captors hurried over, and an odd hand-slapping greeting ritual ensued betwixt the two groups as the guests were welcomed. No one paid any attention to Pryseis as she sat watching. The packages were opened, and a variety of weapons, baskets and linens changed hands. The trading was brisk. She saw naught that resembled coinage or currency—it appeared the goblins engaged in straight trade. She saw naught artistic—everything seemed of a practical nature. Eventually the exchange finished to everyone’s satisfaction. Now the leader of the visitors pulled his restrained companion forward.

  Now the energy in the room changed. Anticipation pulsed like a living thing. Every “local” neither-goblin gathered close. Close enough to touch. Close enough to… Lursa, they were sniffing the prisoner! The beginning was so subtle, she almost missed it. The prisoner groaned and started to shake, and from one of the local neither-goblins came a victory shriek not unlike the maddened killer’s earlier. Pryseis couldn’t see through the crowd for several seconds, but it sounded like a couple of goblins were dying. She covered her ears, until a tremendous shout made her look.

  There knelt a female goblin prisoner and a newly male local, who wasted no time in claiming his prize—publically, from behind and without any shyness at all. Everyone watched, encouraging the—she gulped—vigorously mating couple on. Her cheeks scalding, she turned away and covered her ears to block out the rhythmic grunting sounds, the heavy breathing and slapping flesh. The vision of pumping hips and the avid audience refused to leave. A fresh round of cheering made her look. The visitors were greeted anew like long-lost cousins and a flurry of activity indicated a feast in the making. The new male led his prize/mate to a vacant spot in the room, and everyone started bringing linens, baskets, tools.

  That was how the genders came into being? How? What triggered one to become male and the other, female? She’d never heard of such a thing. Were all goblins “neither” until they found a compatible soul? Lursa, did she just witness a goblin wedding? How she wished she could ask someone. The level of celebration seemed to indicate such—as if the gender redefinition weren’t momentous enough. No one back home would believe it.

 
And she had no one to share it with.

  The sorcerer approached with the visiting leader. The blue-black tip of the rune staff in his hand was dull, inactive. She hoped. Pryseis wrestled down the impulse to stand, figuring they wouldn’t appreciate her towering over them. But she looked them in the face, refusing to appear cowed. The sorcerer’s thin lips pulled back in a snaggle-toothed sneer. The visitor looked astonished, and he stretched out a bony hand to trace the delicate edge of her wing. Her injured wing. A fresh stab of pain at the jostling made Pryseis grit her teeth against a whimper. The sorcerer said something in a boastful tone of voice, whacking her chain with the butt of his staff. The blow reverberated through her wings.

  Go on and boast, you old fool. Pryseis glared at him through stinging tears. The visitor asked a question, and the sorcerer answered. Then they wandered off to drink something her benefactress offered in a bowl. Pryseis sagged against the pillar. Her wing throbbed anew. She felt someone watching her and looked up. A pinched little face stared at her from a campsite along the far wall, where the sorcerer’s trappings hung. A goblin child stared at her. The child. Her heart pounded faster. He appeared a neither, yet she clearly felt his male soul. Were the neither-goblins predisposed to become either male or female if they encountered a compatible soul-mate? Why could she see his male soul, but not those of the other neither-goblins? Was he the sorcerer’s son or apprentice?

  Her benefactress brought another bowl of that revolting maggot porridge again. Wishing she could ask her the questions, Pryseis shook her head and motioned the female to give it to the child instead. The female looked startled, began to move in the other direction. Pryseis grabbed her thin arm. “Nay, feed the child.” Using her best troll-ordering tone, she pointed to the child and motioned as if offering a bowl. To her astonishment the female capitulated, scuttling over to the child and thrusting the dish into his hands afore fleeing as if in fear of getting caught.

  The child wasted no time in wolfing down the entire portion. Either it was a goblin delicacy or he was too hungry to care. He looked as if he’d missed more than one meal. The neglect chilled her. She watched him finish licking the bowl, then his fingers, afore his gaze met hers with a look of heart-wrenching gratitude.

  Her benefactress approached with another female, who bore a bowl of ground moss and herbs with a foreign scent. The familiar female pointed at the bowl, then at Pryseis’ injured wing. Pryseis bit her lip. How effective could goblin medicine be on an injured faerie? What if they poisoned her? Pryseis took a closer look at the other female, recognizing her as the slain goblin’s mourner from earlier. Her benefactress tapped the bowl, then pointed at the fed child and tapped the bowl again.

  Pryseis blushed, recalling the earlier trading. That’s all it was—a trade. One good deed for another. She sensed no treachery. So she took a deep breath, nodded—and braced herself.

  Hands on the injury itself brought a mist of tears. Pure agony at first followed by cool, numbing relief. Even if it didn’t heal, the cessation of pain lifted Pryseis’ spirits. She flushed with shame at her earlier suspicions. Why was she so quick to mistrust?

  Something was wrong here. She no longer felt herself. Something had changed in her. And she didn’t like it one bit. There had to be something causing it.

  The goblin females watched her with hopeful expressions.

  “Thank you,” she said. “’Tis better now.”

  They nodded and retreated.

  She lay back down, careful not to jar her wing. Think peaceful thoughts. Happy thoughts. Anything to combat the insidious darkness encroaching on her heart. Blinding sunlight. Gleaming pale blond hair. Cloudless blue sky. Piercing blue eyes. Why she clung to Benilo as a talisman mystified her. But even the thought of the spirit healer eased her dread. With all four elements present down here, he stood the best chance of any of helping the sorcerer’s lad…and perhaps the rest of them as well. She recalled the attack on her dream-net, and cursed her helplessness. Maeve was correct—it had been a bad idea to come alone. Well, there was no undoing it now. She had to deal with what was, not wish for what might have been.

  The goblins’ frenetic celebration carried on around her. The child did not join in, but watched from the sidelines with yearning on his thin face. His loneliness smote her heart, and amplified her own. Hang on, little one. Help’s coming…

  Chapter Six

  Benilo crept forward, following the faint trail of many mobile bodies and the distinct aura of her. Pryseis. The green light was eerie but Goddess-sent. It spared him the painful indignity of misjudging the available space. The creatures Dax warned him of were everywhere, but Benilo had no problem keeping them quiet. He reached out with what remained of his earth sense and made himself part of the rocks, the mud. Without sensing an intruder, the bats preferred to sleep.

  Echoes of Pryseis lingered at every juncture. Smart lass to mark a trail he could follow. The goblins detected it not or they would have stopped her. They thought Dax dead, after all. Unless…they wanted him to follow because they had laid a trap. For a follower in general, or had Pryseis been made to reveal it might be an elf? Everyone in Poshnari-Unai kenned what the goblins did to prisoners. Especially elven prisoners. Not a cheerful thought.

  The growing misery that was the mystery lad did not help, but at least Pryseis approached the goblin lad’s location. Working together, they should be able to set the lad right. He had banished darkness afore. This should be no different.

  The temperature rose, and mineral-tinged steam curled around from a jagged bend up ahead. He felt the other’s presence and peered out from behind his rock cover. An armed goblin drone stood guard over a smoking hole. Hot spring. It had to be an encampment for them to post a guard. Benilo wagered both the lad and Pryseis were just ahead. But how to remove the guard? He ducked back, easing farther into the rock crevasse. Rock and mud…no one here…just rock and mud. He extended his senses back to the last group of bats, stirred them up with a hissing puff of air. Danger comes.

  The bats exploded in a swirling frenzy of motion, and the guard snapped to attention. Gripping his sword, he moved to investigate…right past Benilo, around the bend and out of sight. Benilo took advantage of his temporary absence. Easing into the chimney, he crept down toward the encampment. Everyone was at the other end of the room. Some sort of celebration took place, judging by the joviality—and the drinking. Except for a draped body watched over by a mourning female, a raving goblin in chains guarded by an armed male, and a chained Pryseis guarded by no one.

  Two observations struck. She was chained to a pillar in the center of the room—no way to sneak over to her unseen—and she was naked. Luminously so. Her skin glowed pearl-white, her long hair and small, delicate wings shifting, swirling pink-to-lavender-to-pale-blue iridescence. She lay on her side, facing his direction. The tension in her body told him she did not sleep. He had clung to the image of what she looked like in his dreams. Looked like…felt like…tasted like… In the flesh, she exceeded his wildest yearnings. He tore his gaze from her lush pink lips and pert breasts to scan the room.

  Several dozen goblins, many armed, in a huge open space. Dim green and gold lighting and scattered rock formations offered limited cover. The chain around Pryseis’ ankle meant she could not escape. He studied the goblins. Beyond Pryseis, a small goblin hunched, a picture of abject misery. A child, by size. The lad looked up, his widening gaze meeting Benilo’s. Lord and Lady, the lad saw him. If anyone caught the direction of his gaze…

  A sharp hiss told him his luck had run out. He could deflect notice and avoid being seen up to a point, but once spotted could not disappear entirely. A scarred, one-eyed goblin pointed a staff of power at him. Benilo froze at the touch of icy black magic winding about him. Sticky, like the strands of a spider’s web. Searing, like demon acid. The end of the staff pulsed blue black, and Benilo stood, moving forward against his will.

  All celebration had ceased. With a small cry, Pryseis sat upright. “You!” she cri
ed. The armed goblins formed the double row of a gauntlet, through which Benilo must pass as the sorcerer dragged him forward. He held no illusion of what would transpire next. Naught gentle, civilized—or quick. The haunted expression on Pryseis’ face said she kenned it too. Did she also ken that, barring death, he would heal from any damage inflicted?

  The magical strands seared his skin. A terrific weight pressed in until he thought his head might implode from the pressure. What was that staff made of? How did the sorcerer wield it? He barely noticed the preliminary blows in his distraction. A kick to the back of his knees dropped him to the floor, where he was pummeled, kicked and stomped. No weapons came into play, but he was battered and bruised with deliberate precision…at least at first.

  About halfway through, something changed. A dark, gleeful malevolence surged, and the beating took on the frenetic edge of a mob, vicious, out of control. A hard stomp to his lower back—he’d be passing blood for days from that one. A kick to his ribs sent a bony shard into a lung, making it difficult to draw breath. Their bare feet were as hard as horn, sharp, like a cow’s. He struggled to breathe as he curled into a ball to protect the soft internal organs that, if damaged, would cause a dangerous level of bleeding. His body screamed for the healing trance. He dared not risk it yet.

  A soft song brushed his mind, a blanket of gentle fibers. Peace and Light enveloped the raging mob. Be still, rest… Pryseis, fighting the only way she kenned how. Her song curled around their subconscious minds where the rage and darkness dwelt and grew. Her hands were a blur as she wove her web of Light to counter the darkness. He sensed confusion in his attackers, a momentary loss of purpose, a wavering.