silent tide, laid out at her feet. Whiplike trees stood as sentinels to the darkness beyond the Wash, their sharp thorns twisting and swaying at the end of long tentacle branches.
Lightning rippled through the sky, spreading far to the south. It was a storm beyond any she’d ever witnessed in Airspur, dark waters drifting like an airborne ocean through the night.- Water and lightning mingled, calling to the element in her spirit and summoning her to join them in the unstoppable flood of nature’s wrath.
Vaasurri knelt nearby, stringing his bow as Ghaelya paced along the border of the cliff, staring daggers into the dark depths they’d crawled from in silence.
“I do not enjoy being sheltered like this,” she said through clenched teeth.
“You would risk your life needlessly?” the killoren asked.
“It’s what I’m best at… Well, according to my family at least,” she replied.
“And what of your sister?” Vaasurri pressed, standing. A touch of anger in his voice gave her pause. “I was led to believe that she was the reason for this little journey. How will she fare if you are dead, I wonder?”
“II didn’t…” she stammered, taken aback by the killoren’s sudden anger.
“You didn’t think,” he said simply, though his black eyes seemed to say much more as they bored into her. “Yes, I understand lack of thought. It seems to be a common curse of late.”
His eyes shifted to the skies over the Wash as he adjusted the quiver on his shoulder, nodding as dark shapes rose against the backdrop of the storm and the buzz of their dragonfly wings drew closer. A flash of brilliant light, a brief and dying sunrise, flared to life in the distance, scattering dozens of the dark fey across the valleys, their shrieks echoing through the wind and the thunder.
“Now perhaps you’ll get the fight you desire,” Vaasurri said, his words stabbing at her even as her bloodlust returned to a quick boil. “I would say fight for your life, but perhaps you should concentrate more on your sister’s life.”
” “Tess,” she whispered, the name escaping her lips on a held breath as the shaedlings drew near. A shaft of pure shadow, long and sharp, streaked toward her, silhouetted against the flash of yellow-white cloud lightning. She — loosened her legs, letting the fluid motion roll through her body, bending like grass in the wind as she rolled out of the spear’s path But it was not the inexorable crawl of the tide that gave motion to her instincts. Deep waters did not surge to draw the dagger from her boot or take aim on the black figure diving toward her.
Something older took her spirit in its warm embrace.
Her sister’s soft red eyes rose to the forefront of her mind’s eye, heating her soul with a flickering tongue of flame. Her arm hurled the blade burning through the air to blaze into the shaedling’s chest. Its shriek of pain and shock fueled a hot spark within her that she hadn’t felt since childhood, bringing a phantom scent of smoke that seemed to steam beneath her skin.
The spark cooled slightly as the rain grew heavy, as the twitching body of the dark fey plummeted back into the Wash, but the familiar flame warmed her hands. It throbbed as a living thing in her heart, her element twin waiting and ready to direct her, an unsheathed sword to cut down the descending black wings and reduce her foes to ash.
“Tess,” she whispered again, and she assumed. a fighting stance as the shaedlings came for her from the shadows of her singing dreams.
Uthalion’s boots skidded as he ran, loose rocks bouncing loudly down the valley slope. Bushes shook as he passed, and small thorns scratched at his leather armor. His heartbeat pounded in his ears. Rain, pattering through the underbrush, streamed into his eyes, blurring the dark form of Brindani, limping quickly ahead of him. He dared not look back, knowing without a doubt the danger that crept up behind them, slow and swirling on the wind.
Shaedlings buzzed overhead. The bolder ones were still in pursuit, swooping low and spinning their shadowy veils in an attempt to separate the pair. Half-blind already, Uthalion easily weathered the cold darkness the creatures spun, unhindered by them. He was focused on reaching higher ground where he could place steel between himself and deathrather than a brief moment of held breath in the drowning wave of the wyrmwinds’ deadly pollen.
Shadowy spears cracked into the ground around him, shivering in the dirt only a moment before dissolving, filling the valley with a stagnant, sour smell that burned in his throat. With the edge of the Wash in sight, a stone wave crested with green, he drew his sword and cursed the flicker of hope that sprang forth in his thoughts.
“No time for that just yet,” he muttered and dived through a wall of clinging shadow, the smoky black mist enveloping him for a single, chilling heartbeatenough time for a well-aimed javelin of darkness to cut deeply into his injured shoulder.
He winced in pain and lost his footing, one leg slipping out from beneath him as he tumbled forward into the dirt and rolled onto his back. Blood pulsed from the wound as he raised his blade blindly, struggling to find his bearings and push himself up on one arm. Pain flared through his shoulder, and a thundering buzz filled his ears as a dark figure bore down on him.
Rain crashed into Uthalion’s eyes as he swung his sword, its edge catching on something he could not determine. Lightning sizzled through the clouds, and thunder matched the pulse pounding in his ears as he imagined himself, prone and helpless before his enemies. There would be no funeral, no missive sent to his estranged family, only a little death in the mud, a body never found nor cared about save by the flies and flowers.
“Blood and bloom,” he muttered.
Shrieks broke through the storm, and a strong arm lifted him from behind. Regaining his footing and favoring his injured shoulder, he stepped back as Brindani loosed two more arrows. A shaedling lay twitching on the ground with an arrow in its chest, its broken wings fluttering madly to a sudden stop. Its companions backed off, seeking refuge from the half-elfs range and shrieking unintelligible curses.
Brindani turned without a word and continued on, the cliff and a dangling rope in sight. The shaedlings gave chase, closing again, but the quick release of a snapping bowstring from above scattered the dark fey back into hiding.
“Go!” Uthalion yelled over the thunder, clapping Brindani on the shoulder and swinging the rope into the half-elfs hands.
“No, I’ll stay!”
“You’ll do me more good up there!” Uthalion yelled, cutting him off and gesturing to his shoulder.
Brindani nodded reluctantly and pulled himself up, hand over hand toward the others.
Uthalion ignored the hidden shaedlings as he waited, leaning against the rocks and watching. In between arcing crackles of light, the undulating cloud of sickly vapor that flooded the valley rolled inexorably toward him. The misty river of the wyrmwinds crashed in slow motion against the walls, breaking like waves through the silent tide. Uthalion raised an eye to the cloudy heavens, considering all the gods to which he had once prayed.
“If any of you give a damn,” he muttered, “Here’s your chance to give me a sign.” j
He took the slack rope and gritted his teeth, pulling the first measure of his weight with his wounded shoulder. He pressed on, the pain numbing only slightly, pushing with his legs when he could and quietly swearing with each gained length of rope. With every breath he expected the” shaedlings te attack again, ready for the crude javelins that would pierce his back, wounds full of shadow-stuff one moment, then spilling blood the next. The two bows covering his ascent meant they never came. Near the top he could smell the grass, hear the swift whoosh of arrows leaving Vaasurri’s bow, though the beating of shaedling wings was distant.
Then, in a sudden hush, his vision blurred again, and what little he could see turned a sickly shade of yellow, like old bones drying in the sun. The misty river of wyrmwind broke against the wall, surrounding him. His lungs burned with a last held breath, and his shoulder ached anew as he pulled himself up another length. His eyes watered and felt as if they were on fire; he clenched them shut, focusing on the rough rope and the numbness in his hands. Four times his hands passed one another before the pressure in his chest grew too great, and in a panic, he gasped for air.
Thick, chalky pollen coated his throat, filling his mouth with the bittersweet taste of flowers as burning tears streamed from his eyes. One of his hands slipped on the rope, and somewhere he could hear distant voices calling his name as his vision narrowed to fine points of flashing light surrounded by inky darkness.
Ghaelya pulled at Uthalion’s arm, yelling with the effort as the human became a dead weight in her grip. Brindani reached down, securing a hand on the man’s bleeding shoulder, and the pair dragged him into the grass and away from the edge of the Wash. Turning him over, Ghaelya paled at the sight of his face covered in pollen,
