windmill. With a flash of the bone-blade and a puff of disturbed dust the killoren was gone, disappearing into the night outside and leaving Brindani alone to stare in horror at the leather bundle in his fist even as the familiar, needling pangs worked their way through his gut.
In the notebook laid limply across Uthalion’s lap, a half-drawn bloom of lavender had been neatly sketched out in thin lines of charcoal. Tiny notations on the page detailed the region’s conditions, the season and current weather, the consistency of the soil, and the sweet scent of the blooma smell that somehow, at some point during the drawing, had become important to him, almost familiar.
The tight handwriting scrawled away into meaningless lines near the bottom of the page, forgotten as he stared out the window, peering into the southern darkness. His eyelids felt heavy, but would not close, fluttering as the whispering trickle of song of the last few nights became a steady stream. The corners of his mouth curved into a smile as the familiar tune was made clearer, and the memoryone of his wedding daymore distinct.
Maryna’s oldest niece had sung before the ceremony, an old rhyme that spoke of destiny and promise, of a warrior lost and lonely, a love taken away, and a promise of peace at the end of the road. Paralyzed by the tune, part of his mind squirmed at the memory, like the lucid moment of a dream before waking up, when the terrors of a nightmare are drawn clear and escape is but a gasping breath away.
Drawn sword in the morning light,
A shield upon his arm;
The long road into the night,
And still the bride’s faint call,
“Come here to me.
Come here to me.” The girl’s voice changed, growing deeper as the lyrics slurred and shifted, digging rhythmic claws into his waking mind, dragging him back from the edge of escape. Though he struggled not to hear, he was powerless as the rhyme overtook his senses in a soothing grip of thundering chant.
Sword falls to the endless tide,
A shield lies ‘on the shore.
In the deep shall wait the bride,
For bloom, for blood, she sings,
“Bring her to me. Bring her to me.” Uthalion blinked’ at the last words, flailing his arms as he pushed away from the window. He sat heaving deep breaths as the voice faded away. A damp chill passed through him, and he ran shaking hands through his hair, furious at having been caught unawares again. Calming himself, he lowered his arms and stared hard at the sorcerous silver ring on his right hand, somehow certain that he’d been betrayed by his own lack of sleep. Endlessly awake by his own design, he hesitantly gripped the ring, wondering if he might be able to trade beguiling song for recurring nightmare.
As one held breath led to another, the decision was made for him as the howling voices of the dreamers reached him, close to cresting the top of the long slope into the Wash. A hand fell on his shoulder, and his frayed nerves reacted swiftly, gripping the slender arm in a tight grip as his free hand drew a handspan of blade from its sheath.
Ghaelya looked down at him in surprise, wrenching her arm free as he recognized her and loosed his grip. He made no comment, staring at her, troubled, as the eerie lyrics of the song repeated themselves in his mind.
Bring her to me, bring her tome…
He shook his head and stood, stretching his legs as he joined her by the window and studied the edge of the tall hill, searching for movement.
“They’re here,” he whispered solemnly.
“Hmph,” Ghaelya replied, glancing at him with a wry smile. “Keep up the good work.”
He ignored her derision, though he’d earned it well enough.
“How soon do you think?” she asked quietly.
The trailing edge of the last dreamer’s howl echoed once from the southern valleys as Uthalion listened. A shadow prowled silently into sight, slowly rising int. o the silhouette of Vaasurri, his sword in hand at the foot of the porch-steps.
“Soon enough,” Uthalion answered grimly, drawing his own sword and quickly shouldering his pack. “Be ready for a fight.”
“Not sure I know how to be otherwise anymore,” she replied with a sigh and stepped outside.
CHAPTER NINE
9 Mirtul, the Year of the Ageless One (1479DR) The Akana, Edge of the Wash, Akanul
The weight of the heavy blade was comfortable in her hand. The thought of resistance on the honed edge, skin and muscle giving way, perhaps the grating of bone on steel, was easier to contemplate, simpler than the chaos of the dream. Sleek forms, pale shadows in the moonlight, prowled down the slope slowly, cautiously, as if they were waiting for something. Uthalion’s boots clomped through the farmhouse as he created a racket, throwing things against the walls, muttering to himself all the while.
“What’s he doing?” Vaasurri asked as he joined her on the porch.
“Not sure,” she answered as a handful of the dreamers quickened their loping strides. “Doesn’t matter, not now.”
“Get inside,” Uthalion said from the doorway, breathing heavy and brushing dust from his hands. “We’ll wait for them in the front room.”
As Vaasurri nodded and stepped to the door, Ghaelya caught his arm, scanning the darkness at the side of the house curiously.
“What about Brindani?” she asked.
“He’s… He’ll be fine,” Vaasurri said, avoiding her gaze. “He’s involved in another fight.”
“Another what?” she asked. But Vaasurri slipped into the house without another word.
Though she was worried for the half-elf, the dreamers were getting closer. She could already hear them growling in anticipation. Frowning, she followed the others and found the front room piled with furniture. Every scrap of wood or cloth Uthalion could find had been thrown against the walls. A strong scent of potent spirits hung heavy on the air like the breath of a dwarf drunkard with a story of battle to tell.
Uthalion knelt close to the window, his bow in hand and squinting into the night.
“Going to burn us to the ground, or are we opening a tavern?” she asked, anticipation for the fight to come lightening her mood somewhat.
“Something like that,” he replied dryly.
“They only hunt at night,” Vaasurri added, “Avoiding the day. They do not seem to like the light too much.”
“That seems to be true,” Ghaelya said, eyeing the kindling-to-be nervously while at the same time wishing there were a spot of the spirits left over for quick drink. She turned to face the hallway behind them. “But there’s no back door here…”
“Eyes forward,” Uthalion commanded, putting arrow to bowstring as Vaasurri crouched near the north window. “They’re coming… And they are not alone.”
Brindani stepped outside and inhaled, smelling the night air as it filled it lungs. Exhaling, he shook his arms out and stretched his neck. A feral sense of exhilaration carried him through the tall weeds, a ready bounce in his step as he drew his sword. Bounding down the slope came the first of the horrid beasts, Ghaelya’s dreamers, its glassy eyes flashing, its fangs bared. With a nimble hop, Brindani was on the porch, swaggering across the steps calmly. A cruel grin played on his lips as the dreamer dug its claws deep in the dirt, leaping at him with a vicious growl.
With a twirling flourish, the half-elf slashed his blade lightning-quick across the dreamer’s throat as he sidestepped the beast’s deadly charge. It crashed onto the porch, thrashing and gurgling in a foul-smelling sprawl of claws and teeth scraping on the old wood. Brindani stabbed it again, piercing the barrel chest deep and stilling its frantic heartbeat.
