The Fractured Sky (16 page)

As she hit the ground beneath the debris, the servant of Shar saw the world change around her, becoming faint and faded. At the same time, the shadows deepened, firmed, became more substantial. Of the elf woman and her wicked sword, there was no sign.

Kashada lay for several moments where she had landed, catching her breath. Then she rose to her knees and peered out. In almost every way, the shadow-forest mirrored its material counterpart, with the exception that everything sat absolutely still. No branches swayed in the breeze, no birds flitted from limb to limb, no rain fell. All was dim, unearthly silence.

The mystic smiled and crawled out from beneath the dead branch. She climbed to her feet and scanned her surroundings, seeking some sign that her adversary had found a way to follow her. Satisfied that she was alone, Kashada turned and followed her original path, making her way toward the cave.

Zasian did not mention there would be ghaeles in the woods, the shadow-mystic thought. Just as he failed to mention in Sundabar that I would remain imprisoned within that Shar-forsaken sphere for twelve years, she added sourly. Such oversights will come back to haunt him, she vowed. Blessed Shar will make certain he has his day of reckoning. Cyric cannot protect him from that.

As Kashada neared the point where she suspected she was to meet the others, she sought another place of deeper shadow. She spied a felled tree ahead. The massive trunk had snapped from its stump perhaps five feet up from the forest floor and still rested against the rotting base, forming an angular, offset arch. Beneath that span, welcome darkness invited Kashada. She quickened her pace and stepped beneath it. She slipped one of her daggers free and flipped it around to grasp the blade end. She took a slow, calming breath and shifted.

The forest came alive again. Green replaced faded silvery gray. Leaves danced and whispered as breezes ran through them. The smell of earth and decaying wood filled Kashada’s nostrils. Somewhere, a bird chirped.

The Sharan held still and peered around. She saw no sign of the ghaele. Somewhere in the distance, a horn wailed, a distressed call for help. Perhaps the ghaele had heard it too and had gone to assist whoever was sounding it.

Confident that she had slipped away from her pursuer, Kashada stepped out from beneath the fallen tree. She checked the surroundings once more. There was no one.

Satisfied, the mystic turned toward where she believed the caves to be and began walking again.

The baleful call of the horn ceased, replaced by a faint roar. Then a rumble of distant thunder reached Kashada’s ears. She suspected that Zasian, in the form of Tekthyrios, was wreaking havoc among the folk guarding the cave.

Hopefully he’s torn that horrid ghaele into pieces with his claws, she thought.

Kashada noticed that the land had changed around her, and she knew she must be close. The ground had become coarse and dark, more like bark than soil. The trees had thinned out a bit, too, and the air was thick with mist. She could not see more than a handful of paces in any direction.

A blinding flash engulfed Kashada. She threw her arms up protectively, trying to shield her eyes from the blazing glow, but the damage was done. Pain wracked the mystic, searing hot agony that made her crumple over and fall to the ground. Her first instinct was to fall into a shadow, but she couldn’t clear her vision of the white afterimage in order to seek one out.

“Very clever, shadowwalking to try to evade me,” the ghaele said. Her voice came from somewhere overhead. “But the stench of your evil fills these woods. You are too easy to find.”

Kashada’s vision began to return. She could make out the basic shapes of tree trunks, but everything was still blurred and too bright to focus on. She fought the pain of keeping her eyes open and scanned the sky, trying to spot her adversary.

As her sight continued to improve, the Sharan finally spied what must be the ghaele. A sphere perhaps five feet wide hovered among the tree tops. A panoply of eldritch colors shimmered across its surface, intensely hurtful to look upon.

Why must it fight with light? she lamented. Anything but light. Where in the Hells are Myshik and Zasian?

“Ah, friends to come to your rescue,” the ghaele said. “Thank you for letting me know.”

Kashada gritted her teeth. Fool! She can read your mind. Flee!

Before the mystic could rise and get away, another beam of light flashed from the sphere. Kashada pitched herself to one side to evade the attack and slammed into the bole of a tree. She grunted, feeling the blow on her ribs. The searing whiteness struck the ground where she had lain a heartbeat before.

Not waiting to see if another attack was eminent, Kashada gestured and spoke a word of magic. Blackness enveloped her. She scrambled to her feet, using the tree for support, and moved around it, hoping misdirection would throw the ghaele off. She had not taken three steps when the blackness vanished again.

The ghaele stood before Kashada in elf form. Those lustrous, pearlescent eyes fixed on her face, boring into her own. “If you crave the darkness so much, then allow me to send you To your grave.” She gestured and uttered a word that rang in Kashada’s ears. The mystic fell back as vibrant light surrounded her. The glow clung to her, shredding the shadows in which she cloaked herself. Her carefully crafted illusion of mysterious beauty vanished, leaving her weak and terrified.

“No!” she croaked. She dropped to the ground, one arm raised to ward off the debilitating power of the ghaele’s magic. “Shar, help me!”

The ghaele stepped closer, pulling her sword free. “Your deceitful goddess will not aid you, witch,” she said, raising her weapon for the killing blow. “You are finished.”

The blade reached its apex, but the ghaele did not strike. Instead, those milky, opalescent eyes glanced away, at something behind Kashada, and widened in alarm. “No!” the ghaele screamed, putting a single hand out before herself as if to ward off an attack.

A beam of sickly green energy struck the warrior in the

chest. She threw her head back and screamed in agony, a sound that was cut short as her entire body turned to dust and scattered across the forest floor near Kashada’s feet.

The mystic gaped for a moment at the ghaele’s disintegrated remains, then she turned to look over her shoulder as footfalls approached.

Zasian strolled up to Kashada and offered her a hand up.

“Sorry I’m late,” the priest said. “I was delayed by a rampaging shrub. I take it Myshik hasn’t arrived yet?”

Kaanyr nudged the blackened body at his feet with his toe, flipping it over so that it faced upward. The unseeing eyes were still open, the face smudged with mud and blood. Whatever had hit the fellow, it had killed him quickly, and not that long before. Smoke still rose from the charred remains.

The cambion stepped away and checked another, slumped over the boughlike trunk of one of the twisted trees in the area. That one, too, was dead, though there was no outward sign of injury. When he flipped the corpse over, he saw a look of horror upon the elf’s face. The body was still flush and warm to the touch.

“They’re all dead,” he said, turning and striding back to where Aliisza and the other two stood gathered next to the corpse of the dragon. “Every last one of them.”

“As I expected,” Tauran said, not looking up. He knelt next to the storm dragon’s head, his hand upon its ridged brow, as though comforting it. “The ghaeles do not leave wounded behind, if they can help it. They either carry their brethren away or stand to the last defending them.”

Aliisza looked all around. “Zasian did this?” she said,

appearing a bit awed. “Even in dragon form, this is a formidable force to confront.”

“Yes, it is,” Tauran said, still kneeling. His eyes were closed and he kept his hand upon the dragon’s forehead. Finally, he stood up, looking around. “But I don’t understand what happened to him.”

Kaanyr snorted. “He bit off more than he could chew, and this little army of wood elf fellows and their giant bear-plant did him in.”

“I wish it were that simple, if tragic,” Tauran replied, “but there is no sign of the priest within the dragon’s corpse. Whatever happened here, Zasian did not die in Tekthyrios’s form.”

“So he’s still running loose,” Kael said, whacking his blade against a nearby tree in frustration. “We’re not done, yet.”

“It appears not,” Tauran said. “And what’s worse, he left the dragon behind, so he’s more difficult to find, and I think he’s left the House of the Triad, making that difficult job even trickier.”

“Why did he come here?” Aliisza asked. “What is this place?”

Tauran sighed and began walking in an ever widening circle around the dragon. As he surveyed the area, he explained. “Some of those who fought here today are eladrin, fey creatures. Those here have dedicated themselves to being champions of good across the cosmos. They ate a bit more free-spirited than most of us who dwell here within the House, flaunting our laws when such strictures do not suit them, but Tyr abides them because they are dedicated to defending this place.”

The angel stopped and knelt down next to a patch of earth, tracing his finger through something there. “It would

seem that whatever happened to Zasian, here is where he got up and walked away.”

Kaanyr moved next to the angel and peered down where he indicated. A set of bootprints wandered off through the underbrush. They would be easy to follow.

Tauran stood again. “It doesn’t appear that he’s injured, so he’s moving rapidly. But these kills are very fresh. He can’t be far ahead.”

“Then we should not tarry,” Kaanyr said, sensing that the end of his servitude might be neat. He loosened Burnblood in its scabbard and gestured for the angel to lead the way. “Let’s go.”

“You!” Myshik snarled as Zasian walked into view. The draconic hobgoblin scrambled to his feet and reached for the war axe strapped to his back. “Where is Tekthyrios?” he demanded, drawing the axe back as if to strike at the priest.

Beside the half-dragon, Kashada shifted her gaze back and forth between the two. Her eyes, peering out from behind that shimmering veil of black cloth and shadow, glittered in amusement.

The shadow-mystic had been genuinely grateful to Zasian for rescuing her, but afterward, he noted something dangerous in her demeanor. She had appeared flustered at first, at least until she managed to redeploy her shadow-illusions. Even afterward, she became aloof, and he caught her staring at him more than once. She would bear watching, he decided.

“The storm dragon is no more,” Zasian answered, stopping

a few steps out of Myshik’s reach. “And if you don’t put that down, the same will hold true for you.”

“How then will I cleave you in twain to avenge his death?” Myshik asked, a taunting smile appearing on his lips. He took a single stride forward, and Zasian finished the spell he had begun before he and Kashada had joined the half-dragon.

Myshik’s eyes bulged when he realized he could not move.

Zasian watched, smirking, as the hobgoblin strained to break free of the repulsive magic. You truly are a simpleton, whelp of Morueme. Always two steps behind the rest of us. As bad as the half-fiends and their fool angel. “Are you done, yet?” he asked, folding his arms across his chest.

“I could heave this blade such that it would lop off your head, Banite,” Myshik growled. He continued to struggle and did not notice Kashada step behind him.

“Yes, but you don’t know what other little tricks I might have up my sleeve,” Zasian replied and nodded to the shadow-cloaked woman. She nodded back and stepped closer, planting what Zasian assumed was a dagger against the small of the hobgoblin’s back.

Myshik froze, and his eyes rolled as he tried to peer back over his shoulder at the woman. Her free hand snaked up and took hold of the axe. He resisted for a moment then arched up straighter. Zasian chuckled, imagining how she was pressing her point home. Myshik released the axe and Kashada tossed it to the side. She did not move away from the half-dragon.

“Have you heard the saying, ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend,’ Myshik?” Zasian asked. “I believe the nomadic tribesmen who roam the desert near your home use it often, as do the genies in various parts of the cosmos.”

Myshik glowered, but he did not say anything.

“Yes, I killed the storm dragon, but you never served him. It was me in control of his flesh and blood, me to whom you swore fealty.”

The half-dragon’s eyes widened the slightest bit as that realization sunk in.

“I shouldn’t think that it would matter too much to you what happened to Tekthyrios,” Zasian continued. “I don’t believe your father or uncle would be too keen to hear that you were in the service of a storm dragon. The storms and the blues never have gotten along too well, have they? Always squabbling over territory, domains, or some such, right?”

Myshik frowned, but eventually he nodded. “But why?” he asked. “Why the disguise, the trickery?”

“In due time, whelp of Motueme, in due time,” Zasian answered. “For now, just know that I am no friend of Vhok’s. He was a tool to me, nothing more. In fact, he still serves me in that fashion, though he does not yet realize it. Also know that I do not serve Bane. That lie was a necessary part of my deception with Vhok.” Zasian paused and studied the half-dragon, gauging his reaction. Myshik had stopped glowering. So far so good, the priest decided. He continued. “You have two choices to consider now. One is to take a stand, try to fight against me, and die as a result. That is no threat, it is a certainty. It isn’t, however, a particularly appealing result to me, because despite your stubbornness and rather simple outlook, I find you useful.

“Which brings me to the other choice. Serve me, as you had been serving me when you believed I was a storm dragon. The terms will be the same. Do as I ask, willingly, eagerly, and I will make certain you receive generous compensation for your efforts. Plus, you get the opportunity to thwart

Vhok, make him one miserable demonspawn. That ought to convince you right there.” “I accept,” Myshik said.

“What?” Zasian said, taken aback. “No need to think about it? No deliberations over which choice is the lesser betrayal to your conscience?”