peace, all the things mortals could do to ease the hurt of losing someone they loved. An image of a gravesite flashed through her mind, herself standing nearby; she tried to imagine what it must be like, as if it were someone else.
“We can find a way,” she blurted out, grasping hold of the fleeting, ragged edges of hope that threatened to leave her altogether. Denial crept selfishly into her thoughts; and she welcomed it for the brief respite, the faint thought that everything could be made better if only she had more time. “There must be something… The Choir”
7s too powerful… Should you fail they will force your hand… They will use the bond we share… I will sing forever, and you will walk, singing ruin with the sirine’s voice… and we will both become their slaves… You must finish this.
Sounds of battle echoed distantly from above. Ghaelya turned to the open mouth of the cavern, and the stars glittered in the soft blanket of night, winking ai her as if from another world. Khault’s words could not reach her, but the effect of his voice on the song was unmistakable, breaking the melody slightly and causing the steady stream to waver. Tessaeril winced, flinching at the sound and straining to keep it at bay. It was then that Ghaelya felt hope slip beyond her reach and sensed the heavy presence of the sword at — her side.
Her sister’s pleading eyes glanced at the blade.
The dreamers paced nervously along the edge of the crystal spires, growling as they gathered east and west of the sirine’s cavern, their glassy eyes fixed on the shambling thing that approached. Uthalion watched the beasts warily, though they made no move to enter the clearing and simply acted as curious witnesses to what was to come. Vaasurri crouched in the mist-grass, shaking his dark, grasslike mane and stretching his lithe body. The fine edge of his bone-sword still glinted dangerously in the moonlight.
Sweat and blood beaded like pink jewels and dripped in streams across the puckered edges of a scarred visage that leered at them from among the spires, prowling into the edges of the mist-grass. Uthalion fought the brief sense of relief he felt as Khault approached, knowing that Brindani must have fallen and using that knowledge to hone the cool fury within him that patiently awaited the first cut into Khault’s flesh. The old farmer’s shoulders were hunched and misplaced, bent at strange angles that exposed knobs of spiny bone. Gill-slits along his throat hissed with bubbles of crimson foam. UthaUon shook his head, pitying the nightmare a good man had become.
“Look well, Captain,” Khault uttered hideously. “I was remade in her dreams, blessed by her singing… A far cry from my nightmares in Caidris.”.
“You defended your home; gave food, water, and shelter to strangers,” Uthalion replied angrily. “You took a stand and lost your wife. The nightmares of Caidris were earned honorable scars that many men might envy, that I envied. What I do now honors that memory.”
Khault chuckled, a disquieting rumble edged with high-pitched echoes. He stood taller, growths writhing behind his back as he slid forward, his ruined face arching low on a distended neck. His tattered robes writhed with movement, as if he were unfolding, remaking himself into new shapes. Uthalion noted the fresh blood dripping from the torn, bone white robes and felt his pulse quicken.
“Did you know that I prayed for death, Captain? An honorable man weeping and begging to die?” Khault said. His features twisted in a snarl of contempt, exposing rows of sharp, triangular teeth. “Is this the answer to an honorable prayer? Is this what you envy?”
“No,” Uthalion growled, his lip quivering in anger. “You’re just a body. Just the remains of the man I knew.”
“Shall you bury me, Captain?” Khault said, crawling closer, his thin legs followed by a mane of tentacles growing from his back. Uthalion could see where scabrous, toughened skin grew in patches on his arms and neck. Long spines, nearly translucent and needle-sharp, protruded in rows from his jawline, giving him the look of something. dredged from the darkest depths of a forgotten ocean where there was no need for the eyes he had scratched from his skull. “Would you drag me to Caidris and lay me down beside my wife?”
“You don’t understand,” Uthalion said, taking a step forward and motioning for Vaasurri to flank. “I don’t care what happens to you now… as long as it hurts.”.
Uthalion charged, slashing at Khault’s arms. The twisted man rolled backward, rearing high as whiplike tentacles grabbed at Uthalion’s legs. Thev laced around his boots. tugging him off balance and laying him flat on his back. He hit the ground with a grunt as Khault bent low, his claws reaching for Uthalion’s face. But he kept his sword moving, slicing into the hands that sought to smother him. Khault howled in pain and skittered backward, releasing Uthalion’s legs as Vaasurri joined the struggle.
The killoren was quick, but his blade cut only ragged wounds that seemed to have no effect. Uthalion rolled to his feet just as Vaasurri was batted away, sliding through the mist-grass. Khault towered over him, hissing through his teeth and spreading his arms wide as if welcoming the steel that sought to pierce him. Uthalion took the opening and thrust at Khault’s stomach, too angry to worry about himself or draw the fight on any longer. The tip of the blade slid on the tough, slick skin, scraping a gouge that bled a thick, clear fluid.
Tentacles shot forward beneath Uthalion’s blade, punching him in the gut and staggering him backward as Khault knelt low and unleashed his terrible voice. Pure sound slammed into Uthalion like an invisible wall, hurling him to the edge of the sirine’s cavern. The back of his head pounded with pain, and stars filled his eyes as he gasped for breath.
“You pained my Choir, Captain, and have spurned our blessings,” Khault purred at the end of his thunderous attack. He slid sinuously through the mist-grass. “Again you bring suffering to those I cherish.”
“You left me little choice,” Uthalion spat, tasting blood from his lip as his hand fumbled through the mist- grass, searching for his dropped sword and trying to stall for time. “Besides, you still don’t seem to understand… I don’t care.”
Vaasurri’s curving bone-blade bit deep into Khault’s shoulder, producing yet another howl of pain. The killoren grasped at the lashing tentacles, and the pair fell away in a blur, tumbling through the mist-grass as Uthalion rolled to his knees. Darkness clouded his vision for a moment. His hand closed on the cool metal of his sword, and he tried not to let relief and dizziness lay him back down.
Twin voices whispered from the pit before him, echoing through the rock, one nearly indistinguishable from the other. The words were lost, and he tried not to hear, leaving Ghaelya to her task, her decision. He hoped she would make the right one. And if not, he hoped he would live long enough to make the decision for her.
He stumbled on his feet, finding his balance and feeling a warm, steady drip of wetness on the back of his neck. Lost for a moment and staring at the ground in confusion, he fought the urge to shake his head. Breathing deeply, he faced the blurred forms of Khault and Vaasurri, just as the killoren’s body was hurled past him. Uthalion slashed into the first tentacle that reached for him, but could not move fast enough to stop the next.
Tiny teeth bit into his armor as the tentacles bore him down, holding him in a vicelike grip that brought stars to his eyes. The crystal spires reached for the moon overhead as he groaned and tried to sit up, to fight the pressure that held him down. Khault crawled closer, leaning over him and staring at the cavern mouth.
“You struggle in vain, Captain,” Khault said. Long streams of wildflower-smelling spittle and blood dribbled between his teeth. “The twins embrace even now.”
Uthalion fought the nauseating dark that trembled at the edges of his sight. His arms felt like leaden weights, his sword just an immovable length of steel. He kicked and pushed against the ground to no avail. And as he turned his face away from Khault’s hot breath, he caught sight of irregular ripples flowing through the mist-grass, and beyond, the dreamers’ glassy eyes had turned to the north.
“The flesh is weak, Captain,” Khault muttered. “It bends to the will of the Song and cannot stand when the Lady calls.”
A droning growl emanated from the spires, and Khault turned, hissing as the dreamers prowled to the south, their flashing stares fixed upon him. The immense weight of Khault lifted from Uthalion’s chest, and he coughed, fighting for air as the tentacles slid away. He staggered to his feet as Khault snarled at the seemingly defiant beasts among the spires. Behind him, lurching quietly from the north, a shadow fell upon the mist-grass.
“I’m still standing,” Uthalion grumbled hoarsely, spitting up blood and wavering on his feet. His sword dragged weakly through the grass, the smoky tendrils lapping at the blade. “I suppose you’ve forgotten just how strong flesh can be.”
Khault stalked forward, his clawed hands twitching and the tentacles sliding through the mist-grass like a low tide. The dreamers stilled their growling and anxious pacing, lowering their heads as a piercing note keened loudly
