The Restless Shore: The Wilds

by James P. Davis

  She stood quickly and angrily retrieved her sword from the dreamer’s body, holding her breath to keep from gagging in her close proximity to the creature. Its dead black eyes haunted her as she fell back imagining the beast holding her down and its eerie voice singing in her mind. A strange and unwanted sense of pity filled her at the thought of its death, and she closed her eyes, shaking the thought from her head. She spat again, the smell of the beast’s blood pungent and nauseating.

  Before she could utter the slightest curse, howls erupted from the forest.

  As if answering the roar of their fallen pack mate, the dreamers had picked up the trail and were closing in on the grove.

  6 Mirtul, the Year of the Ageless One

  (1479 DR)

  The Spur Forest,

  South of Airspur, Akanûl

  They’ll be here soon,” Uthalion muttered as he knelt to inspect the beast. He turned it over with a grunt and fingered the broken shafts of two arrows in the right side of its neck. He stood and turned to Ghaelya. “It’s the same one that attacked you earlier. It likely left a blood trail all the way here.”

  She nodded, barely hearing his words as she stared at the dreamer’s remaining eye. Her own death seemed to gleam in the glassy eye, and she wondered why she’d been spared. She cursed herself for being complacent for even a moment in the grove. The beast’s strange singing stuck in her mind like a planted seed which she would have to uproot and forget, lest it grow and dominate her will despite the dreamer’s death.

  Brindani touched her shoulder, and she jumped, thankful that she’d sheathed her sword. He handed her the light pack she’d carried since Airspur, and she suddenly regretted her shortsighted preparedness and the meager weight of her remaining provisions.

  “We’ll find more food and water on the Akana,” Brindani said as if reading her thoughts.

  The half-elf kept his own pack close, clutching the full bundle as though it might grow legs and run away if he left it unattended.

  “No time to wait until morning I’m afraid,” Uthalion said and began kicking dirt over the smoldering remains of the campfire. Ghaelya looked from the human to Vaasurri curiously, but the killoren only raised an eyebrow in response.

  “You’re coming?” she asked in disbelief.

  Uthalion didn’t answer, only stamped the dirt until the smoking ashes were completely snuffed out.

  “We’ll be traveling through the deep Spur, in the dark,” Uthalion continued, turning with a grave look in his eyes. “There will be little time to rest and no incentive to do so … There are worse things in the dark than those dreamers.”

  “What things?” Brindani asked. But the human kept moving, checking his pack as Vaasurri prepared a small lantern filled with glowing green moss. The light barely lit the grove but was bright enough to be spotted and, she assumed, followed through the dark. Uthalion approached and handed them short shafts of wood, the tightly bound rags at their ends stinging her nose with an acrid, chemical smell.

  “Keep these dry no matter what,” Uthalion said, drawing forth his own torch. “Be ready to stop when I stop or run when I—”

  “What things?” Ghaelya interrupted, repeating Brindani’s question. She respected the human’s urgency, but did not like being kept in the dark. He paused a moment, long enough to match her stare.

  “One thing actually, the one we heard earlier when you left the grove.” He sighed and turned away as Ghaelya recalled the ground-shaking roar, the memory helping to blot out the sound of the dreamer’s alien singing. She stared into the darkness as Vaasurri approached the grove’s edge, his little lantern swinging in his hand. The heavy blade at her side seemed suddenly very tiny compared to the beast she’d imagined in the aftermath of that roar. Uthalion fell in step behind the killoren and turned sidelong to her, a caution in his voice that would have rooted her feet to the ground if not for the distant howls of the dreamers to the north. “We’ll be descending into its territory, passing through as quick as we can, hopefully before it senses our presence. We call it the kaia.”

  They kept a steady pace in the dark. Ghaelya’s eyes fixed on the faint glow of Vaasurri’s lantern, afraid that if she blinked or turned away for a moment it would disappear and she would be left to fend for herself. The land sloped downward, so steeply at times that the trees were all that kept them from tumbling down into a boundless maw of shadows. The night closed in around them like a shroud, their footsteps echoing off the close trees and the canopy overhead as if the killoren led them underground instead of through a forest. Briefly, in the twinkling light of the stars, Ghaelya caught sight of the Akanapeaks to the west, before the trees obscured their slopes once again.

  She fought to rein in her sense of claustrophobia, feeling buried in the vast interior of the Spur, lost and dependent on the dim light in Vaasurri’s hand. Focusing on the lantern and keeping her feet moving helped keep her mind from Uthalion’s mention of the kaia, but childhood memories came racing through to fill the gaps in her imagination. Once, when she and Tessaeril were young, their mother had told them tales of the legendary kaia, the Mother of Nightmares.

  Shivering at the idea, Ghaelya gripped the foul-smelling torch tighter. She hoped that Tessaeril had been taken this way during the day. Her sister had always been afraid of the dark.

  Her mind drew shapes upon the darkness where she expected to see things prowling or lying in wait for hapless passersby. The shapes moved and shifted, seemingly of their own accord, and she ignored them as much as she could. But they always returned: silent silhouettes dancing to some mad tune, the bogeymen of frightened children.

  Uthalion slowed ahead of her, and she shook her head, watching the lantern as Vaasurri moved on, scouting the path ahead. Brindani stood close, his back to hers, watching the path behind. Catching her breath, Ghaelya leaned against a nearby tree and whispered an old rhyme.

  “Little nightmare let me be; leave my name from off your tree.”

  “What was that?” Uthalion whispered, and she felt foolish for being heard playing at a child’s game.

  “Nothing, just an old story my mother used to tell us,” she replied, smiling nervously at the memory and eager to purge herself of its childish nature. “She said the kaia was an old beast, from the other plane, once a mere serpent, charged by foul gods to devour the children of the genasi. But a clever child, unafraid of the serpent, had fought back, tricking the kaia into the burning light of day. Frightened, it had retreated into the deep forest to hide. But when the Blue Breath of Change came, the hungry kaia followed us. It hid in the dark and gave birth to nightmares that were sent to spy upon the genasi children.

  “Those they could not frighten were left alone, safe in their beds. But those that cried out and hid beneath their blankets until dawn … those children had their names carved into the trees of the kaia’s forest, so that it could read them and know which ones were safe to eat.”

  Ghaelya thought back, having never cried out when the nightmares had come to test her. But she had scolded Tessaeril many times for being scared. Ghaelya had been the brave one, fond of teasing her sister about the kaia-trees, but in reality she had only been better at hiding her fear. Though she’d grown out of the tales quickly, she never forgot the Mother of Nightmares. Watching intently for Vaasurri’s return, she whispered to Uthalion again.

  “Have you ever seen it?” she asked.

  “Gods no, and I thank whatever gods that have pity on me for that,” he answered swiftly. “But I’ve been chased, had a close call or two….”

  Vaasurri rejoined them, holding the swinging lantern close to his face. His return interrupted Ghaelya’s thoughts of being pursued by the kaia. The howls of the dreamers had ceased quite some time ago, and she’d nearly forgotten the danger that had driven them into the night in the first place.

  “There’s a spur up ahead,” the killoren reported. “We can rest there a moment and get our bearings, then we’ll see if we can slip through the thick of it before mo
rning.”

  The forest floor sloped up slightly as they made their careful way onward. The rock spurs were the namesake of the forest, massive uprisings of smooth stone, curled into figures like sharp claws that gouged at the sky. Rock, flowing like water, had made the strange formations, twisted from beneath the soil in the foothills of the Akanapeaks and surrounded by floating islands of trees. The spur they approached was small in comparison to the others, standing only twice as high as the tallest trees in the forest.

  Climbing the base of the towering rock, Ghaelya kept an eye over her shoulder, expecting the shiny gleam of the dreamers’ eyes to come bounding from the forest’s edge at any moment. She sat watching the clump of shadows the trees had become, her eyes nigh useless in the deeper dark of the wild, far from the constant lights of the city. She’d taken that light for granted, confident in her ability to take on anything and anyone that threatened her even in the lower districts of Airspur. Blades shining in lamplight were little threat compared to teeth in the dark.

  She resisted the urge to light her torch, hungering for light as they waited for Vaasurri in the dark. Uthalion paced behind her, staring south into the smooth blanket of velvety blackness beneath a ceiling of stars. Brindani crouched nearby, his vision only slightly better than her own.

  Her readiness to move on competed with the tired ache in her legs and the weary shaking of her hands. She closed her eyes once, drifting off for a heartbeat, just long enough to hear the faint edge of the constant song in her dreams. Her eyes fluttered open, a sharp edge of guilt twisting in her stomach at the sound of the ethereal singing. It swam to her, Tessaeril’s voice inexorably sliding through her thoughts as if her sister were lost underwater, far from the surface and drowning.

  Brindani touched her shoulder, and she gasped, not realizing she’d held her breath.

  “We’re ready,” he said quietly. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” she lied, the ache in her limbs forgotten amid the weariness of her heart. She refused to let the others see her weakness. “Let’s go.”

  Descending from the spur, she glanced again over her shoulder, fresh guilt now joining the dreamers in their pursuit of her.

  24 Tarsakh, the Year of the Ageless One (1479 DR)

  Airspur, Lower Districts

  Ghaelya’s eyes fluttered open. Sitting up slowly in the dark, she found herself alone in the Jinn’s Favor, a favorite tavern in the lower districts of Airspur. Her stomach turned, and the night’s drinking made her neck feel boneless, her head unimaginably heavy. A faint singing floated through the air. She pushed herself away from the bar and stumbled through the empty common room to the door. She leaned on the jamb and peered out into the dimly lit streets.

  A group of hooded monks passed by, humming and chanting their strange songs. She shook her head in disgust, immediately regretting the movement, then fixed a glaring eye upon the backs of the monks as they continued on their mysterious rounds. They called themselves the Choir, and were servants of some unknown goddess— she’d heard them reference ‘the Lady’ on occasion during the sermons they’d read in the squares and streets.. She cared little what they did or who they worshipped, but their singing bored into her skull like a knife.

  Their presence disturbed the powers high above in lofty towers however, and for that she’d raised at least one glass to the monks’ health, even though she tired of the haunting songs and wished they would move on. If not for the peace of fewer headaches, then to loose the Choir’s powerful hold over her sister.

  Not yet fully trusting her balance, Ghaelya fell to her knees in the alley and crawled toward the glow of the street lamps. Ascending the various layers and levels of the city, she regained—unfortunately—a measure of her sobriety back and found no friend or acquaintance that might allow her an uncomfortable stretch of floor until morning.

  Turned out on the street by every so-called friend she had, Ghaelya made her slow way, leaning on walls and high railings, to her family’s home. Their small tower in the middle-airs of the city was modest compared to the suspended mansions and estates high above, but their family’s status was cemented due to her mother’s distant relation to the Steward of Fire. Their coat-of-arms bore the mark of a candle’s flame for all to see, on every wall, door, and window.

  Ghaelya had relished the look on her mother’s face when she’d turned to the guiding element of water to shape her destiny. Though she’d been born into the spirit of fire—she occasionally felt the heat of flames burning in her blood—she resisted the urge to manifest the “family flames” as she called them, leaving that duty to the more complacent Tessaeril. An annoyance to her family, Ghaelya had never been forced into a fine dress or made to attend the boring gatherings of the wealthy and delusional.

  Placing her hand on the flat metal panel above the doorhandle, tiny runes flared blue in recognition, and the lock clicked open. Falling inside, she slammed the door with a wince and leaned against the wall, waiting for the yelling to start. It never came, and she raised an azure eyebrow in surprise. A slow intake of breath made her peer blurrily to the end of the hall where her sister stood with arms crossed.

  “Almost made it,” she said under her breath.

  Shifting her weight forward, Ghaelya made a clumsy salute with her left hand, a mockery of the city watch.

  “No trouble here, my lady,” she said, smiling as she wobbled on rubbery legs.

  “Drunk again are we?” Tessaeril said, and though her sister stood still, Ghaelya imagined a single foot tapping disapprovingly and stifled a drunken laugh. A flicker of flames danced in Tessaeril’s eyes, but Ghaelya was accustomed to her glare of disapproval.

  “It’s been a long night,” Ghaelya said, planting her hands on her hips with a too-sudden motion.. “I’d have to remember when I wasn’t drunk before to be drunk again.”

  Her gestures shook loose one of the pouches she wore, spilling its contents. Coins clattered to the floor. Tessaeril knelt and picked up several coins bearing stamps of different cities and nations. Ghaelya rolled her eyes, cursing herself for not securing her purse more tightly.

  “Stealing as well,” Tessaeril said. “For fun? Or are you trying to get arrested just to mortify mother?”

  “Come now, Tess,” Ghaelya began and pushed past her sister. She flopped down in an overstuffed chair of the greeting room. “If I stood still in a boring room and spoke not a single word, I could mortify mother.”

  Tessaeril dropped the coins and stood over Ghaelya. She pulled a blanket over her drunken sister’s shoulders and knelt down to catch her half-lidded gaze. Ghaelya stared back into eyes that mirrored her own; the face, framed by tongues of dancing flame, was her twin, though the person behind the stare was a far away day to her deep night.

  At one time they’d shared everything; often it seemed even their thoughts and dreams were mirrored in one another.

  “I worry about you,” Tessaeril said. “I worry that some night you won’t come home, and I’ll be left here alone.”

  “Well, I worry every night that I’ll end up back home and become stuck here,” Ghaelya replied more angrily than she’d intended. She noticed the thin chain of blue silver around Tessaeril’s neck, a present Ghaelya had bought from a Branestrian merchant. But dangling from the end was a small metal seashell, the symbol of the Choir. Ghaelya reached out, tapping the shell clumsily. “And if you had any sense at all you’d worry the same thing. By the gods Tess! Leave me be or sing me to sleep! No, wait, don’t sing … Please don’t sing….”

  Her vision faded. The last things she saw were her sister’s eyes, filling with tears and turning away. As darkness claimed her, Ghaelya weakly promised that she’d apologize in the morning—a promise broken before the sun rose.

  7 Mirtul, the Year of the Ageless One (1479 DR)

  The Spur Forest, South of Airspur, Akanûl

  Ghaelya cursed as they pressed into the thicker trees, feeling like an ogre among her more sure-footed companions. Thorns gripp
ed her leather armor; bushes snapped loudly as she pulled free. Her footfalls were so loud, the whole valley might have heard them. Several times, lit by the glow of Vaasurri’s lantern, Uthalion cast an annoyed glance her way. Though he said nothing out loud, he truly didn’t have to.

  She breathed a sigh of relief when they crossed a swift stream, following its current. The cool water flowed soundlessly around her calves, carrying her along as though she were a part of its course. Soon back in the forest, with long vines brushing her face and spiderwebs glowing in Vaasurri’s light, she shivered and watched expectantly for the Spur to end. Trees shivered in a sudden breeze, bringing the forest to brief life. Stars glinted through the leafy canopy and danced in a multitude of sparkling reflections.

  Uthalion stopped, holding up a cautious hand as Vaasurri turned in a slow circle and lowered his lantern to the ground. Brindani joined them, kneeling around the edge of a circle of freshly churned soil. Roots jutted from the edges, saplings had been torn from the ground, and pale worms squirmed through the soft earth. The look on the killoren’s face was not encouraging when he stood away from the sunken area.

  “We need to move faster—” he began, then his emerald gaze shot forward, widening in alarm.

  A splash echoed through the night, a deep, heavy splash as if a boulder had been dropped from the sky. Ghaelya whipped around, trying to remember just how far back the stream they had crossed was. Her hand drifted to her sword, and she felt foolish even considering the tiny weapon against whatever had caused the sound.

  Something rumbled and cracked from the direction of the stream, growing deeper. Another splash thundered the water, the same vibration shaking the trees. It was followed by a heavy breathing like the bellows of a hellish forge. The ground shook again, and Uthalion stood, breaking his stunned silence.

  “Run.”