Her sword struck the dreamer just below its gnashing teeth, splitting the flesh of its jowls wide as she rolled in the opposite direction to her gruesome slash. The beast clawed at her nimble legs clumsily as it yelped; its stinking blood splashed on the floor of the narrow kitchen. She huffed like an animal, feeling as though the walls were closing in on her, trapping her and teasing her with scents of fresh air wafting through the window.
She sidestepped as the dreamer pounced, pulling her offered blade deeply through its throat. She turned to leave it writhing and gurgling on the kitchen floor. An unnerving sliding sound arose from the dark basement stairway, accompanied by light footsteps and creaking wood. A massive roar from the front room shook the floorboards, and she flattened herself against the wall as a large object was hurled into the kitchen.
It slammed beneath the window, groaning and untangling leather-armored limbs, a glowing blade of bone rising defensively as the killoren regained his footing.
“Vaasurri!” she cried in surprise and relief.
He faced her, his eyes widening in horror.
Instinctively she turned, her arms feeling sluggish as a dark mass rushed inside the angle of her strike. Sefir pressed himself against her, and cold, wet lengths of flesh grasped her legs and arms in an iron grip. She struggled and screamed in rage, fighting to free her blade. Bloody hands grasped the sides of her head, though she remained trapped in an unceasing grip. Long fingers squeezed across her smooth scalp, their clawed tips meeting at the back of her head, ceasing her struggles.
Forcefully Sefir turned her face close to his as rivers of bitter-sweet scented crimson poured from the vertical gash through his face.
“Be still, child,” he said, flecks of blood spattering on her lips as he smiled and shook his head disapprovingly. “Your sister squirmed less.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
10 Mirtul, the Year of the Ageless One
(1479 DR)
Caidris, Akanul
Uthalion rolled as the dreamer’s weight bore down on him, tumbling and crashing into a row of empty barrels against the wall. Wood slats cracked and split beneath them, digging into his back as he struggled to keep the beast’s jaws from his throat. Long claws scored his armor, digging deep and drawing long marks in his skin at the end of each slash. He roared in pain, using the rush of anger to kick one leg free, slamming his knee into the dreamer’s ribs.
The beast merely grunted and ignored the attack, pushing down with its fangs. But the effort gave Uthalion the space to gather his legs beneath its stomach. He kicked out, sending the dreamer rolling into the far wall. In a moment of bitter humor, Uthalion spotted his sword just out of reach, and scrambled to his feet. He made for the blade, half running and half crawling, but a thunderous roar intercepted his bid to become better armed.
Waves of sound pummeled his side and threw him, sliding in the thin layer of damp mud. Pain spread through his chest, and he feared a possibly cracked rib, along with the lingering ache of the wyrmwind pollen, might slow him down more than he already had been. Fighting to catch his breath, he caught a glimpse of the onrushing beast’s gnashing teeth in the dancing candlelight and instinctively reached for the wall to steady himself. His hand brushed against an object, and he grasped it, pulling it from the wall to defend himself.
He barely noticed the weight of the old hammer as he swung it blindly at the charging dreamer. It connected solidly with the thing’s jaw, jarring his arm and breaking the old wooden handle, but it did its job well. Bits of tooth spattered into the mud, and foul blood sprayed his chest and face.
The dreamer loosed a piercing whine as it shuddered and fell sideways, wavering on its front claws. Uthalion cried out in pain, clutching his ears. His pulse pounded in his ears, and he was sure they would bleed, leaving him in an endless silence. As he used the wall to stand, teeth clamped down on his leg and pulled, hurling him across the room.
The quiet in his head shifted like molasses, and he felt as if he were underwater. He crashed against the bottom of the basement stairs, and the small candle fell, rolling in the mud, its wick just above the surface. Pain flared in his left leg, and he gathered his right one beneath him to dive for his sword. His knee buckled, but he caught himself on the banister and turned to face the beast as it rounded on him. Its jaws yawned wide, and he felt a swift wind brush his cheeks before the force of the unheard roar crushed into his chest. His boots left the ground, and he sprawled onto the stairs, their old wood breaking as he crashed through them.
Splinters bit into his skin, and dust blinded him as he fell. He managed a single breath before finding the ground, gagging on a mouthful of dust even as he clattered to the floor. The fall shoved the air from his lungs. His arms fell out to his sides, brushing against cold metal and cobwebs. Even in his daze of pain he wondered if blood still stained the abandoned sword he pulled free. Opening his eyes, he squinted through the dust at the flashing, glassy eyes overhead, the outstretched claws, and descending fangs of the dreamer.
Metal and rust scraped as he weakly raised the old blade, braced the pommel, and cursed as the dreamer fell on him. The impact twisted his arm, but the sword held strong, driven through the dreamer’s chest under the beast’s weight. Uthalion gasped for air and lay still as the thing trembled and coughed, its breath strangely sweet, like flowers, in contrast to its stinking blood. Though its long, mewling whine barely registered in his ears, it tore painfully through his skull, a melodic dirge of death in a single, suffering note. A limp claw scratched feebly at his armor a moment before falling still, its pitiful cry of death finished.
Groaning, Uthalion rolled out from under the beast and heaved for breath. The handle of the old sword fell from his hand, its blade broken off at the hilt. He tapped a fingernail on the metal, resting while he listened for the sound and hoping his hearing might return to something approaching normal. When the tiny click of the sound became a more recognizable ping, he sat up slowly and surveyed his would-be tomb before turning his dazed attention to the fallen dreamer.
In the pale light of the dying candle its face almost appeared human-or perhaps even elven-save for the glassy, fishlike eyes and massive fangs. He shivered at the sight of it and tried to stand, gingerly placing weight on his injured leg and grunting in pained relief. It wasn’t broken and could wait for more thorough inspection until he could free himself of the basement. Taking up his sword and fishing a short-handled axe from beneath the dreamer, he considered the climb to the door and, for the second time in six years, focused on escaping the basement.
After the last time he’d made a promise to return.
He had no intention of doing so again.
Ghaelya’s lungs burned for air as Sefir held her tight in smooth, blue-tinged tentacles. Her vision had blurred, reducing the chaos of the fight around her to dim, quick shapes that crashed throughout the house amid the occasional flare of lightning and ensuing thunder. All she could deduce was that Vaasurri was still alive, though he had no way of reaching her or Sefir. In one flickering moment of helplessness she screamed in anger, flexing every muscle, straining every thought to drown out the constant soothing whisper of Sefir’s powerful voice.