by David Gross
“Just do it,” she said.
Cale had witnessed this mood before, and he knew there was no point to further discussion.
“Throw down your bows,” he called to the elves. “And show yourselves.”
Two arrows buzzed through the air and sprouted in the ground less than foot before Cale and Shamur.
Shamur drew an inch-long slice upon her captive’s skin.
“No!” screamed Shamur’s captive. “Great mother!”
“She does not wish to kill him!” shouted Cale. The cold shock of his wound was beginning to give way to a red-hot pain, but he tried to keep anger out of his voice. “But she will do it if you don’t throw down your bows.”
“Do it!” wailed the hostage.
Cale could smell the elf’s fear. Somehow he’d retained the childhood fancy that elves were far finer creatures than humans, but they stank just as badly when frightened.
Without the faintest rustling of foliage, a pair of elves dropped lightly from the trees and emerged from the forest shadows. They set their bows carefully on the grass and stepped away from them.
“And the other one,” Cale said with a nod toward the trees.
One of the newly revealed elves puffed his cheeks with a resigned sigh and said, “Come, Kayin.”
The third elf emerged from behind a tree and set his bow gently against the trunk.
“All of you,” said Cale. “Come here and sit with us so that we may talk.”
Reluctantly, the elves complied. Cale knelt painfully on his right knee, holding his injured leg out to the side.
“Ready?” he asked Shamur.
She nodded and said, “Tell him to stay close to me. I still don’t trust them.”
Cale relayed the message to the captive, who nodded dumbly. Shamur removed the blade from his throat, and the elf sat cross-legged on the ground.
“Let us talk,” Cale said to the elves, “but first, will someone please help me get this damned arrow out of my leg?”
Cale and Shamur briefly exchanged their stories. As he’d guessed, Shamur had fallen victim to the enchanted painting shortly before he found her shawl. Since they arrived in the strange land so near to each other, he assumed Thamalon couldn’t be far away.
Cale explained their story to the elves in the simplest terms: An enemy wizard had transported them away from their home, and they wished only to return. First, they had to find Thamalon.
The elves reacted with skepticism, then growing curiosity. Cale’s command of their language, albeit with a strange accent, was a matter of great interest to them. While they’d learned the common tongue long ago, they’d never encountered a human who spoke their language.
Moreover, the elves seemed impressed by the restraint Cale had shown when injured, as well as the stoicism with which he bore the wound and the painful process of removing the arrow.
An hour later, Cale felt they’d established enough of a rapport that he could leave Shamur with the elves for a few moments. Pleading a need to relieve himself, he limped into the woods and found privacy amid the trees.
Shamur had torn strips from her skirt to make a bandage for his wound. Cale stripped off and discarded the sodden fabric nearest the wound. Briefly he worried that he looked ridiculous with one leg of his black trousers cut away to reveal his long, pale leg. Contrary to gossip among the Uskevren servants, Cale didn’t actively cultivate his fearsome image. He did, however, appreciate the added authority his forbidding appearance lent him when dealing with incompetent or lazy house staff.
With a last glance ensure that Shamur and the elves remained in the clearing, Cale tied the mask to his face. It felt comfortable, even natural to have it there.
“Mask,” he intoned, pressing a palm to both the entry and exit wounds, “Lord of Shadows, heal your servant.”
A cool rush of power filled his body, surging through his veins to culminate at his hands. There, the coolness turned to tingly warmth and suffused his damaged flesh. He felt the divine energy travel through the ragged length of the wound, rebinding sinew and skin until they were whole. When he took away his hands, he saw a round pink scar where the arrow had struck him.
Cale removed the mask and put it back in his pocket. He stood, testing the strength of his leg. Despite a slight weakness from blood loss, he felt hale as ever.
He paused before returning. If the relationship with the elves soured, it would be an advantage for them to think he was still injured. Also, Cale didn’t care to invite inquiry about his powers, even from those who knew him.
Perhaps especially from those who knew him.
He replaced the bloodied bandage on his leg and returned to the others, affecting a slight limp.
“How is your leg?” asked Shamur.
“Better than it looks.”
“Do you have any idea where we are?”
“Far from Faerûn,” said Cale.
“Everything looks so peculiar here,” Shamur added. “Those trees, the flowers, the birds … even the grass seems an odd color. On the other hand, our new acquaintances seem quite similar to the elves of the Tangled Trees.”
Cale nodded and said, “And the sun looks the same, as do the sky and the clouds.”
The elves watched as the humans conversed in their own tongue.
Cale said to them in Elvish, “We wish to leave you in peace. Can you tell us the way to a human habitation?”
“Human territory lies many days to the south,” said the leader of the elf scouts.
His name was Muenda, and his companions were Amari and Kayin, the latter of whom still seemed awed by Shamur’s ability to surprise him.
Cale didn’t like the prospect of traveling for days through unknown wilderness, especially through a forest of elves hostile to humans.
“Are there human traders among your people?”
“We have had no peace with the humans for more than ten summers,” declared Muenda.
Cale considered the diplomacy of the situation before asking his next question. “Would the humans to the south welcome strangers like us?”
Muenda sighed as if he had expected the question. “Yes,” he said, “but you will win no friends among the elves if you go there.”
“We would prefer to remain on friendly terms with your people,” said Cale. “Will you help us search for my master?”
Muenda nodded and said, “If he is within our domain, we will find him. However, it is possible he will be mistaken for an enemy scout or spy.”
“As were we,” said Cale.
Muenda agreed, and a flick of his eyes showed that he still didn’t trust the humans—especially Shamur.
“Very well,” said the elf. “We will take you before the elders of my tribe. Can you walk?”
“Yes,” said Cale.
“Can you climb?”
“With help.”
“And she?” Muenda asked, nodding at Shamur.
“Like you would not believe,” said Cale.
He suspected Lady Shamur was as nimble as Jak Fleet, though she appeared ill prepared for athletics in her current attire.
“What?” asked Shamur, noticing Cale’s uncharacteristic smile.
“I realize it might seem improper,” said Cale, “but you might want to slit those skirts.”
Shamur didn’t hesitate. With curt efficiency, she cut a line from just above her knees to the hem of her skirt, then shifted her dress and did the same in back. The mutilated garment gave her a wild look that reminded Cale of Tazi. The resemblance between mother and daughter was usually not so obvious, with their contrasting hair and eyes. Still, the two women shared an attitude of strength with a hint of mischief. Cale had rarely before seen the latter quality in Shamur. When she was done, Shamur offered the knife hilt-first to Kayin.
“I am sorry to have cut you,” she said.
As Cale translated her words, the elf’s face slackened with surprise. He replaced the knife in its sheath and removed the sheath from his belt. Hesitantly, Kayin bowed to Shamur and offer
ed her the knife and sheath together, along with a few words in his mellifluous language.
“What did he say?”
Cale translated: “ ‘Thanks for not cutting deeper.’ ”
Shamur made a gracious curtsy and accepted the gift. Kayin shook his head in wonderment and bowed again, this time more deeply.
“Come with us,” said Muenda.
The elves rose to retrieve their bows, but their relaxed gait reassured Cale of their armistice.
The elves led them a few hundred yards into the woods. With virtually every step, Cale noted another strange variety of flora. Tough gray vines stretched from trunk to trunk, and some mossy growth spread in patches on the ground. Giant yellow blossoms hung like bells from branches that sprung from two or three different types of tree, only to creep among the boughs and mingle with others of their kind.
“Here,” said Muenda, indicating a gnarly trunk with many slender branches.
Cale and Shamur followed the elf up the woody path. As they entered the canopy, Cale wondered what sort of city the elves must have wrought among the trees. He was surprised when they emerged from the thickest foliage to see nothing but treetops in all directions.
“Where are your people?” he asked Muenda.
“They are almost here,” replied the elf. “I summoned them when we first saw you.”
He tapped the bone whistle that he wore on a thong around his neck.
Cale tensed as he felt a warm breeze and saw a shadow fall over the hilltop. He looked up, expecting to see the sun muted by a cloud. Instead, he saw a gigantic creature floating in the sky.
It was longer than three trade ships docked prow-to-stern, and its shape was similar to that of the porpoises Cale had seen during his voyage across the Sea of Fallen Stars. Instead of fins, thousands—perhaps millions—of transparent flagella rippled in regular stripes along its flanks. The rest of its blue-green body was striped with narrow furrows that converged in a thick, hairlike mass near the center of its belly.
The gargantuan creature’s slow descent gave Cale the impression that he was falling upward, toward a ploughed field with a thicket in its center.
Despite the animal’s great size, Cale could see daylight refracted here and there through its skin. In some of those lighted spaces, the shadows of smaller bodies moved within the great creature. In other spots, chaotic patches of green moss dangled from its hide, and flocks of flower-birds nested in the crannies of its vast belly.
“Do not be afraid,” said Muenda. “I am telling them we are at peace.”
He put the whistle to his lips and blew, but Cale heard no sound.
The elves cocked their heads to listen to the reply, which was still undetectable to Cale’s ears.
A moment later, Muenda piped again. He nodded as he listened to the reply.
“You are welcome in the village.”
“Up there?” asked Cale.
Muenda smiled and nodded.
“You are the first humans to climb upon a skwalos in many years,” he said. “You might find the experience startling.”
Cale looked up and saw that the creature—the skwalos—had stopped its decent about fifty yards above the tree canopy. From the tangled mass on its belly fell what looked like half a dozen thick, black ropes. As they struck the branches nearby, Cale saw that they were as thick as his arms, and flat like noodles. Twigs and leaves stuck to the surface of the tendrils.
Nimbly navigating the slender branches, Muenda went to one of the tendrils and wrapped it around his body. The tendril contracted snugly around his chest, waist, and thighs.
“See?” said Muenda. “It is easy. When you are ready, stroke its tongue, like this.”
Tongue? thought Cale.
Muenda reached up and tickled the tendril with his hand. The elf began to rise toward the skwalos. The other elves watched him expectantly, as did Shamur.
“What did he say?” she asked.
Cale decided against a literal translation. Instead, he led by example, grasping one of the remaining tendrils.
“Like this, my lady.”
The tongue—and Cale still wished Muenda had found another word for it—felt slightly warm and tacky, but not so sticky as he’d imagined. He wrapped it around his body three times and reached up to tickle it. When it squeezed him, Cale tried not to think of a constrictor snake.
Within moments, the tongue lifted him nearly all the way to the surface of the great beast’s belly. He looked for Muenda but saw only hundreds of other tendrils. Some of them had withered to lumps, while others were kinked and curled close to the skwalos’s translucent hide. He wondered how he would get from the belly of the beast to its back.
“Uh, oh,” said Cale, as he realized the full implications of the term Muenda had used for the tendril in which he’d willingly placed himself.
He looked up to see the huge mouth of the skwalos open to receive him. Before he could call out to Shamur, the creature’s great lips closed.
An instant later, the skwalos swallowed him whole.
CHAPTER 9
REVELATIONS
Twice more, Tamlin feigned sleep while his captives entered the prison to remove his bowl and replace it with another. The guards dared not approach the cage with the darkenbeast crouched atop it. Instead they snagged the old bowl with a fishing gaff and pushed the new one back from a safe distance. All the while, they whispered their fears over the botched kidnapping and argued about which of them would have to dispose of the transformed rodent when the order came to kill their captive.
The former rat was the size of a wolfhound.
Tamlin could hear the hunger gurgling up from its belly, but the creature obeyed its master’s command and never left the top of the cage. Still, its jaws yearned down toward Tamlin, and hot drool dripped onto his face.
“Stupid rat creature,” muttered Tamlin, grateful for the bars.
Feigning slumber was easier than actually sleeping. Naturally, Tamlin didn’t trust his captor, but he couldn’t imagine a sound reason for the man to lie about the death of his parents.
As the third or fourth wealthiest House in Selgaunt, and with political influence exceeding even that high station, the Uskevren were frequently the targets of scandal, intrigue, kidnapping, and recently even assassination. Because the Uskevren had so far, individually and on one glorious occasion as a group, defeated even the most powerful assaults, Tamlin had begun to think of himself as invulnerable.
Only last year he’d single-handedly defeated a troll. He’d every reason to feel confident that he would survive this trial and revenge himself on his captors. All he had to do was turn the tables on the villains, perhaps by luring a guard close enough to knock him senseless against the bars and take his keys and weapon.
That cheerful illusion dissolved in a stream of hot piss from the darkenbeast above. Tamlin barely moved to avoid the noxious stuff. After six days in this wretched captivity, he was beyond humiliation.
There was precious room to spare in the center of the cage, befouled with the darkenbeast’s urine. He dared not lie too close to the bars for fear that the creature could reach him with its razor-sharp claws. Instead, he turned away from the filth as much as possible and hugged his knees to his chest.
When at last his aching body could relax enough to surrender to sleep, he escaped mercifully into his old dreams.
In a great castle filled with music and spring perfumes, Tamlin dances among his guests. The fairest ladies approach him one by one, and he favors each with a jeweled scarf. The price: a long, melting kiss. If their consorts object, the men are too polite to show it. They smile and bow to their lord.
A commotion at the entrance, and the guests part. The Vermilion Guard drag a dirty elf into the hall. His rags are an offense to the fine attire of the nobles around him.
A disobedient slave, reports the captain.
You know my will, says Tamlin.
The captain draws his sword. The guards grasp the elf’s hair and pull
back his head.
An elven lady, the most beautiful woman ever to grace Tamlin’s dreams, runs forward. She falls to the gleaming marble floor and throws her arms around Tamlin’s knees.
Mercy!
Tamlin sneers at the word. He kicks away the pleading woman.
(Tamlin gasps at his own cruelty. He wants to apologize. He wants to take it back. He wants—)
The vanes! Commands Tamlin. He notices the approving nods among his guests. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees the cruel, anticipatory smiles as his noble subjects hurry for a good vantage in the towers above.
The elf woman begs again, My lord, please. Remember—
Tamlin slaps her face hard enough to turn it away. He follows his guests, pausing briefly by his trio of elf concubines. They sit placidly in their tiny carriage, the fine chains that join their silver collars tinkling as they raise their faces to accept the strokes of his hand. With one hard glance back at the weeping woman, Tamlin raises his palms to the sky and rises up, up, and up.…
Tamlin awoke breathless. The ugly turn of his dreams shocked him, but he knew that some real sound had shaken him from the nightmare.
He thought he heard, from near the door, the scrape of leather on stone. At first it seemed to come from inside the prison, but he could see no one in the feeble light of the magic circle. He heard a familiar voice call from outside, at least two chambers away.
It was his father’s voice.
“We have the ransom,” called Thamalon. “Now send out my boy …”
Tamlin couldn’t make out the rest of his words over the babble of his captors’ panic.
“Impossible!” one of them shouted.
The rest was a clamor of slammed doors and heavy furniture shoved against them.
Tamlin strained to overhear more of their conversation, but he caught only phrases and curses.
“… thought he was dead …”
“… supposed to send anyone here, anyway!”
“Somebody had better tell …”
The door to his prison opened, and three men stepped in.
“Kill him if they get through,” one ordered the others.
One of the remaining guards shut and barred the door, while the other watched the darkenbeast.
