The Restless Shore: The Wilds

by James P. Davis

  Uthalion watched as thin clouds of dirt and blood bloomed in the clear water of the stream. Maryna, his wife, would have teased him for the blood on his shirt, her skill at cleaning a kill much better than his own. He would have taken her jibes graciously, complimenting her wonderful cooking in a sneaky attempt to escape the duty himself. But she’d known his tricks quite well. He paused and held his breath, shutting out the memory of her smile, before drying his hands on his tunic. He sighed in exasperation.

  Vaasurri entered the light of the campfire, bearing his strange, knowing smile that seemed almost permanent at times. With his light green skin traced with leaf-line veins and deep emerald eyes, the killoren’s features were like extensions of the forest itself. Uthalion could only barely recall a few faces that he knew as well as Vaasurri’s.

  “What did he say this time?” Vaasuri asked.

  “Can’t a man wash his hands in peace?” he asked.

  “Apparently not,” Vaasurri answered, an edge of frustration creeping into the fey’s voice that Uthalion had not expected.

  “Oh, I disagree. I’ve seen it happen you know,” he replied, turning and staring up into the trees in mock wistfulness. He took a deep cleansing breath. “A simple man washing his hands—not a care in the world and not a soul to disturb him. That’s just good living. Quiet moment. Clean water and maybe a bluebird singing nearby.”

  “Point taken,” Vaasurri said with a half-smile, his eyes gleaming in the firelight.

  “Apparently not,” Uthalion added and approached the fire.

  Uthalion sat, his stomach grumbling in anticipation as he stared into the steaming pot over the campfire and put behind him the unexpected sleep—and the dream that came with it.

  “Well, you needed the rest. It’s been almost—” Vaasurri began.

  “Not now, Vaas,” Uthalion said, not taking his eyes away from the stew. “Truly. Not now.”

  “As you wish,” the killoren said, and he filled two wooden bowls in silence.

  Uthalion’s hand shook slightly as he took his portion of the evening’s meal. His nerves were still on edge, the dream not yet done with them. That night in Caidris had been only one of several in the Keepers’ campaign, though it had been one of the last. Unfortunately, his memory had served him better the farther they’d gotten away from Tohrepur. What little he could recall of that city was fragmented by flashes of sorcerous light and heavy fogs of limitless darkness. He’d seen little of the aboleth itself and was grateful for that. The dying captain’s face was a blur, though his sword of rank remained with Uthalion, its details carved deeply into the fabric of his mind. Beyond that only the screams remained. And something else: a haunting, half-heard sound almost like singing.

  Uthalion ate slowly and in silence, the sinuous melody hiding somewhere in his thoughts and taunting him behind the dying cries of the Keepers and honest sellswords. Each time he removed the silver ring and allowed himself to succumb to slumber, the nightmare worsened. The ring’s magic maintained a sense of being well rested, though it could do little for the rigors of simply being conscious. Vaasurri had told him that dreams were necessary—in Uthalion’s case a necessary evil—for the mind to remain balanced and whole. Uthalion had pushed the limits of that balance each time, swearing he’d not remove the ring so soon the next time. The night’s rest had been an accident, and the nightmare had proved itself more than able to make up for lost time.

  He shook his head and flexed his hand, willing the dream away and breathing in the fresh air of the forest. He’d told little of his tale to Vaasurri, and though his curiosity was boundless, the killoren had never pushed too hard for the details.

  The bile of the nightmare crept up in his throat. He set his bowl aside and turned to the grove, the circle that he and Vaasurri had cultivated over the years as a focus for what the killoren called the energy of the Feywild. The Spur Forest had been affected as much as any part of the world by the Spellplague of years past, but it had also been infected by the Sovereignty. The aboleths’ minions and magic had descended upon the northern city of Airspur almost fifty years before, their nightmarish power spilling into the Spur before being turned away. Vaasurii claimed the circle could begin a cycle of healing for the forest, restore some of what the aboleths had turned wrong.

  The spot they had chosen was greener than it had been before. Flowers bloomed, and Vaasurri’s small herb garden had begun to flourish. Uthalion sighed, thankful for such an oasis and the good work it gave him to be proud of. He buried the dream until the next dreaded moment when the ring would slip away along with the world he had carefully cultivated around him. An old notebook lay wrapped in his cloak, containing all the knowledge he’d discovered in the Spur since choosing to live away from the crowds of Akanûl’s cities.

  Uthalion had once promised Maryna a fine home and a beautiful garden. Having grown up on a farm in Tethyr, he knew quite a lot about chickens and potatoes, but had been lacking in the knowledge to deliver on his promise. He still meant to keep it one day, somehow.

  He looked over his shoulder at Vaasuri, also staring into the Spur, and noticed the killoren’s curved bone sword leaning against a nearby tree.

  “Any reason we’re joined by your dragon’s tooth, Vaas?” he asked.

  The killoren’s expression changed, like a shadow crawling across the moon, and he seemed wilder than a moment ago, an animal smelling something on the wind.

  “I’ve just had a feeling, is all,” Vaasurri replied, his eyes piercing the dark like a predator.

  “A feeling?” Uthalion said and sat forward, raising an eyebrow in interest and mentally cataloguing the location of his own weapons. “Sometimes I think your feelings are better than a scout’s eyewitness report. Anything specific?”

  “Not just yet,” the killoren said. He reached for the bone sword, its smooth blade covered in dark images of hunting beasts and cunning prey. “Could be anything, but I do not think it natural in any sense of the word … At least, not in any sense that the world recognizes as natural anymore.”

  Uthalion considered Vaasurri’s words, furrowing his brow. “No bears or dragons then.”

  A piercing howl interrupted his attempt at a jest, and both of them sat bolt upright, their eyes wide. Their ears focused on the trailing edge of the unnatural sound that existed somewhere between the howl of a wolf and the cry of a man. The hair on Uthalion’s neck stood on end, and a shudder passed through his shoulders, chilling him to the core.

  “That was not a bear,” he said, getting to his feet.

  “Nor a dragon,” the killoren replied and stood as well. His sword was at the ready though the howl had come from some distance away to the north.

  “Small favors,” Uthalion muttered quietly as he went to uncover his sword and bow. He took up his light leather armor and listened for the howl to return, almost longing for it. Something strangely beautiful—and horrifyingly familiar—existed in the sound. That hint of beauty gave him more cause to be alarmed than any fang or claw he might have imagined a heartbeat ago.

  The howl came again, joined by others. The sounds of the forest ceased as the unseen predators called to one another, marking their positions. A dull ache pressed against Uthalion’s temples as the howls faded away. Large predators were not entirely uncommon in the Spur, but newcomers warranted investigation.

  Uthalion nodded to Vaasurri, who returned the gesture and disappeared into the forest. A well-practiced strategy had begun, and despite the disturbance of the peaceful night, Uthalion was eager to leave behind thoughts of the dream—and his dear Maryna. He ran into the forest, following paths by memory rather than cleared ground or landmark, until the unearthly green of the forest surrounded him.

  Between the twisted roots of trees and the reaching thorns of low bushes, Ghaelya flowed through the forest like a mountain stream, graceful and powerful despite being well outside the city streets she called home. Tired of running and annoyed at keeping an eye over her shoulder for pursuit, she kept
a steady hand on the broadsword at her belt. Though every instinct told her to turn and fight, she could not let hot emotion threaten what little chance she’d been given to make things right.

  Ahead of her, Brindani quietly led the way through the Spur, his boots barely a whisper in the murky depths of the forest. Crouching low in a shallow ravine, he turned and motioned for her to remain still as he listened and scanned the area. Brindani’s half-elf eyes pierced the night far better than her own, and he knew the forest paths almost as well as she knew the streets and towers of Airspur. But he’d taken them in one small circle already, and she was beginning to doubt his confidence.

  “Are we close?” she asked.

  He turned to her and ran a hand through his shoulder-length black hair, his hazel eyes sparkling pinpoints in the dark.

  “Hard to say,” he answered. “As well as I know the forest, Uthalion knows it far better. He could have concealed the grove where I spoke with him last … Or perhaps he’s moved on.”

  “Moved on?” she replied with not a little anger, fighting to keep her voice low.

  “It is possible, though I very much doubt it.”

  Ghaelya sighed and bit back a useless retort. She sat on her haunches and ran a hand over the smooth skin of her scalp, wiping away tiny beads of sweat before they dripped into her eyes. Much as she regretted taking on a companion in her quest, she needed a guide to help speed her journey across the wilds of Akanûl. She had no time to waste. Brindani seemed capable enough, but he claimed his friend Uthalion knew more than he about the lands beyond the Spur.

  She used the moment’s rest to adjust her armor. In the gaps between the straps and armored protection, her sea foam green skin was cooled by the night air. Faint blue lines of energy traced the surface of her flesh in unique, serpentine patterns.

  She traced the blue pattern on the back of her hand absently, proud of the watery element that marked her soul and her skin, though acutely aware as always of being an outsider, even among her own kind. In Airspur, elements of wind and storm took dominance among the majority of the genasi. She smiled slightly. She enjoyed being different—rebellious in her own way—though it had proven a hindrance, the night her sister, Tessaeril, had been taken.

  Brindani waved to her, and they continued into the ravine, alert for signs of movement on either side. Strange beasts had been trailing them for days, always one step behind and gaining. Thankfully, they had seen no sign of the hounds’ masters, a group of strange monks calling themselves the Choir. Along with her sister, the Choir had disappeared from Airspur a tenday before, but had returned as mysteriously as they’d first appeared.

  Howls sounded in the distance, and she tensed, a painful ache erupting in her temples at the sound of the hunting beasts. They were getting nearer, closing their circles and gaining momentum in the Spur rather than losing it. The pain subsided, but she feared its return. The beasts’ baying voices burrowed into her thoughts and clawed at memories that seemed both false and familiar all at once, like an old dream or forgotten tune fighting to break free of her deeper mind.

  Brindani stopped, frozen in place, and cocked his head to listen. Angry at her own distraction, Ghaelya drew her broadsword and eyed the edges of the ravine. Glancing at the half-elf, she found him staring at her intently, Though he didn’t say a word, his quiet nod spoke volumes—after all the miles they’d run and the difficult terrain they’d crossed, the beasts had finally caught up.

  6 Mirtul, the Year of the Ageless One

  (1479 DR)

  The Spur Forest,

  South of Airspur, Akanûl

  The creature stalked along the top of the ravine, sniffing loudly and whining as if frustrated. Ghaelya knelt low, careful not to shift and draw the creature’s attention. Brindani followed suit and gestured to a curved hollow in the side of the long path, just hidden enough to keep them from sight. Ghaelya cursed the half-elf inwardly. She wanted to face the creature, indeed had hoped to be forced into doing so. She had no desire to hide in a ditch and wait it out.

  But she had heard their howls—there were too many for her to dispatch without the half-elf’s help. She ran after him.

  Before she crossed even half the distance, she heard the whisper of Brindani drawing his blade, and she smiled grimly. No more running.

  Up ahead the ravine turned south, and it was there Ghaelya caught her first sight of the strange hound, pushing through the thick bushes and sending clods of dirt rolling into the ravine. Glittering eyes swiveled lidless in their sockets, shining in the dark. The shape of broad shoulders rose above a thickly muscled neck. It turned toward them and raised its head; moonlight trailed across its pale gray fur. It’s face, illuminated in the light of Selunê, looked strangely human, as if someone’s face had been stretched over the creature’s blunt skull.

  Ghaelya crouched low, poised to spring as the creature stalked forward, sniffing at the air and emitting a series of soft whimpers.

  Brindani’s hand rested softly on hers. He was tense and ready to run or fight at a moment’s notice. She kept her other hand firmly on the hilt of her sword. Steel had been far more protective of her best interests than half-elves with good intentions.

  The creature howled, the oddly melodious sound causing her to gasp in pain. She closed her eyes, fearing the pressure in her head might force them from their sockets before the beast’s voice trailed off. It was answered from far away by the rest of its pack. She’d heard the longing and anger that hid behind its black eyes before, but the memory of it was slippery and lost in a haze of pain …

  Or was it? In between the sharp spikes of agony, she could almost hear a wonderful singing, weaving in and out of her mind like a forgotten rhyme from childhood. It began to slip away, and she tried to grasp at it, to claim the song as her own—an irrational impulse that stunned her with its power.

  The beast turned and loped off, disappearing into the woods.

  The fading pain on Brindani’s face was obvious, as was the horrified wonder in his eyes. He turned to her and sheathed his blade.

  “What in the Hells was that?” he whispered.

  She shook her head, but the slight movement jarred loose the evasive memory, freeing it and the image of her sister to her conscious mind. Its appearance shocked her with its suddenness, and she spoke quickly, lest it slip away from her again.

  “They are called the oenath, the Dreamers …”

  The words felt alien on her tongue, but she could not deny them. She knew the truth in them as surely as she knew her own name.

  Brindani narrowed his eyes in curiosity. “You dreamed this?” he asked solemnly. He knew of her recent nightmares and placed more stock in them then she was yet ready to accept.

  Sighing, she nodded, uncomfortable in his gaze and finding the idea of herself as some kind of oracle distasteful. There had been no place in her life for prophetic dreams or voices or even gods, and in the past she’d ridiculed those who claimed to be the sources of such things. Though Brindani had shown her nothing but the utmost respect, she found it hard to accept his assessment of her recent dreams as genuine.

  “So we know what to call them! It does us no good now does it?” she said coldly.

  “No, I suppose not,” he agreed, joining her on the path, “Let’s get out of this ravine and onto some higher ground so I can get my bearings.”

  He took the lead, and she fell into step, grateful not to have his eyes on her back, as if watching her every move and gesture for signs or portents. She would have torn the dreams from her head were it possible, but they had proven honest, placing words and images in her mind of which she had no previous knowledge. Two nights before she’d spoken in her sleep, and Brindani had shaken her awake, agitated and fearful. She had no memory of the dream itself, but knew the word he had recognized. The following morning they had set out to find a guide to a place she’d dreamed but never heard of—a place called Tohrepur.

  The Spur grew suddenly quiet as they neared the sloping rise
out of the ravine, and moonlight guided them into a small clearing surrounded by tall, twisted trees. Broad leaves, semi-translucent and reflecting light, gave the forest a haunting quality that dazed her eyes momentarily. But the snapping of a single twig set her nerves on edge. Squinting through the half-light of the trees, she raised her blade. At her side, Brindani froze.

  The beast, the dreamer, paused as their eyes met, its legs pulled under its barrel chest, ready to pounce. Slivers of moonlight illuminated the beast’s thin gray fur and the white skin beneath. Its face was short—angular and expressive, and utterly unlike a wolf’s. There was an intelligence there that made her reassess the danger the creature represented. A low humming growl churned and rumbled through its thick neck as Ghaelya slowly circled to the left.

  A night wind shook the leaves overhead, dappling the ground with disorienting moonlight. The creature’s growl rose and thundered in her head like a living thing, crawling through her thoughts and rooting in her fears. She blinked once, wincing at the pain of the noise, and found the beast already in the air, its teeth bared as it bore down on Brindani.

  The half-elf sidestepped and slashed, barely scoring the dreamer’s thick skin before the beast landed and pursued its quick-footed prey. Ghaelya charged its back, slicing downward with her broadsword, eager to draw blood after so many days of running. But the dreamer was quicker still. It dodged her attack and caught her leg in a powerful grip, throwing her to the ground like a rag doll. She rolled away, clenching her teeth in anger as the dreamer accepted a close cut from Brindani, only to pounce as the half-elf’s blade was drawn back, taking him off guard. His sword bounced from his grip as the pair slammed into the dirt.

  Ghaelya charged again as Brindani was taken down under the beast’s weight. She slashed at the exposed back of the creature, drawing a thin line of dark fluid. The smell of the beast’s blood hit her nose. She drew back to slash again, sidestepping as it swiped at her with its claw. Brindani strained to keep the dreamer’s jaws at bay, groaning with the effort and slowly losing. The creature’s clawed fingers scraped against the half-elf’s old armor as it whined pitiably with a sickening hunger, its jaws gaping wide to reveal tusklike fangs.