Uthalion crept across the valley floor, following close behind the surefooted half-elf. He made a show of pausing and looking around every few strides, careful not to glance up too high, lest the shaedlings think his stealthy approach was anything more than an act. Their cruel fey nature demanded the illusion, drew them along like cats inspecting an injured mouse, watching and waiting until their prey was sure of escape. Brindani would stop at each flash of lightning, rush forward in the following thunder, and hold his hand out, palm up to signal a halt as he pretended to scan the path ahead.
Uthalion hid his grin at the half-elfs exaggerated show, musing that any field captain worth his command would have had them both shot down immediatelyand would have made the archers aim carefully, so as not to waste more than two arrows on such buffoons.
Despite all, it seemed that Brindani was doing well, not yet showing the more extreme signs of a silkroot addiction. But Uthalion knew it couldn’t last long. He wondered when Brindani’s other illusion, the one of health, would begin to crack and fall apart. Silkroot was not kind; he’d seen men try to tear out their own innards when the drug became too much for their meager purses to afford. It had seemed to him the worst kind of ignoble death for, what he considered, the least amount of reward.
Passing into the western valley, Brindani paused again, bringing Uthalion up short as he angled their path through the center of the deep brush on either side. Low trees and bushes waved in the wind, likely hiding dozens of bone-moth swarms waiting patiently for one lucky stroke of lightning to start the fires they thrived on each spring.
In one burst of lightning, Uthalion spied a spot of color just ahead, but darkness claimed the valley before he could identify what it had been. He kept a watch for it to appear again as he patted Brindani on the shoulder, signaling that they could abandon their show and appear comfortable, as if they’d slipped by the watch of the predators on their trail. They ignored the telltale scratch of claw on stone and buzzing whispers as they made their way further from the crevice where Ghaelya and Vaasurri waited.
As lightning arced across the sky again, Uthalion searched curiously for what he’d noticed earlier and caught sight of itjust a step away from Brindani’s boot. Cursing, he threw his shoulder into Brindani’s side, tackling the surprised half-elf to the ground in a cloud of dust. Patting Brindani’s shoulder, Uthalion sat up and crouched over a small clump of yellow flowers with wide, thick petals and stout stems. He hovered just out of reach of the blooms and held the half-elf back, shaking his head and breathing a sigh of relief.
“Wyrmwind,” he whispered, answering the quiet question in Brindani’s eye. “This time of year, it sheds pollen at the slightest contact, a deadly poison to anything that breathes it.”
Adding credence to his observation, he gestured to several thin twigs scattered around the base of the plant and the valley floor where they stood. Bleached a yellow white, the bones of dozens of animals littered the ground, an occasional skull here and there grinning in the flickering light of the storm.
“Don’t disturb the trees, don’t’look at the shaedlings, and now,” Brindani whispered back, “Don’t step on the yellow flowers. Is there anything here that can’t kill us one way or another?”
“Well,” Uthalion sighed as they stood and circled around the wyrmwinds, keeping an eye out for more of the deadly plants, “If you happen to see a chilled flask of fine wine don’t take any chances… let me deal with it first.”
“Don’t be a hero,” Brindani muttered.
Though Uthalion tried to press farther into the valley, hoping to put as much distance between themselves and the others as possible, he could no longer deny the growing mass of shadowed forms trailing behind them. He’d glanced casually a few times, appearing not to notice the white eyes and long claws in the brief flashes of lightning, prowling closer and ready to pounce. Eyeing the edge of the long valley, he cleared his throat. Brindani caught the signal quickly and kneeled to prepare for the next step.
Uthalion knelt as well, drawing a handful of long sticks from the top of his boot and a bundle of thick, sweet smelling grass from his belt. Large wings fluttered closer, landing lightly atop the curving valley walls. Claws scrabbled nearer over the rocks, scraping at insectlike hides as the dark fey fought for position. As Uthalion quickly wove grass and sticks together, Brindani carefully strung the longbow he’d used as a walking stick and swung a quiver of arrows around from beneath his cloak.
“When this starts, if you see a chance to escape,” Brindani said quietly, “Take it. Leave me.”
“Now who’s being a hero?” Uthalion said as he carefully bent his green wooded sticks together, overlapping them to create a roughly spherical shape.
“I’m serious.”
“And I am ignoring you until we both get out of here,” Uthalion replied as thunder cracked loudly overhead, causing a chorus of buzzing whispers that drew closer with each step. His fingertips tingled slightly with a burning sensation as sap and damp grass mingled in his hands. “Do you see a good spot?”
After a moment of hesitation, Brindani exhaled in frustration and scanned the area slowly, looking up to the narrowed opening at the valley’s edge. He nodded and drew a single arrow. Uthalion had gathered a handful of the small bones along the valley floor, and he placed them carefully inside the crude basket-lantern of grass and sticks. He nodded back to the half-elf with a held breath.
“Ready your bow,” he said.
Brindani stood, took aim, and loosed the shaft all in one fluid motion. As the arrow thunked solidly into the low hanging branch of a tree bent over the edge of the valley, Uthalion was briefly grateful for the influence of the silkroot still in Brindani’s system, though he knew he’d regret the feeling in a few hours. A long, thin length of twine, soaked in water, hung from the arrow, and he swiftly tied the end to the basket as the shaedlings rose into the air, sensing the end of their game.
Uthalion drew his sword and backed away, his eyes widening at the multitude of shadowy figures rising against the stormy backdrop of the sky. Lightning crashed, and thunder growled through the valleys, shaking the ground as the wind howled and whistled through the Wash. Brindani drew another arrow and sparked his flint to the cloth-wrapped end of its shaft.
Buzzing shadows droned toward them, shrieking what sounded like a feigned dismay at finding their prey unsurprised.
“Don’t look,” Uthalion warned as Brindani strung the arrow and aimed.
Shaedlings dived from the sky, spears of shadow coalescing into their hands as their white eyes glinted with the thrill of the hunt’s end. Brindani’s arrow streaked toward the lantern, and Uthalion shielded his eyes, lowering his sword and turning as the fire met the basket and flared into a brilliant, blinding white light. Pained shrieks tore at his ears as the dark fey recoiled from the radiance, their lost spears clattering to the ground and disappearing in smoky puffs.
Uthalion smiled at the pained sound of the blinded shaedlings, and clapped Brindani on the shoulder as they made for the darkness at the valley’s edge.
The lantern, a fey weapon that Vaasurri called a sugar-star, would burn for several breaths, and time was short. As Uthalion strode forward, gingerly opening his eyes, he turned toward the southern branch of valley. He stopped short for a heartbeat, his eyes widening as Brindani ran past him. His stride faltered, and he stumbled into the shadow beyond the already dying light of the blazing basket as he surveyed the horror that had lain hidden in the darkness behind them.
The floor of the north end of the valley, illuminated by the lantern, shivered and swayed. A rippling mass of yellow flowers shook ominously in the strengthening wind of the storm.
“Mystra’s bones,” he swore and turned to run. The first drops of a long-held rain splashed on his cheek and roughly disturbed the deadly yellow petals of the wyrmwinds.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
9 Mirtul, the Year of the Ageless One (1479 DR) The Akana, the Wash, Akanul
Heavy drops of rain splashed over Ghaelya’s skin, each one tingling as they ran along the glowing maze of patterns across her body. They were a soothing balm to her spirit, but only fed the tempest of rage in her heart. She pulled herself over the edge of a wide island of green, and saw the jagged valleys of the Wash, the stilled and
