Michael Stackpole: Chartomancy

Is it possible they thought I’d secure my eastern flank with the sea? And since I expected them to come from the south, they chose to come in from the sea? While the coastline was not very hospitable, little smuggler coves would allow a dozen students to bring in a small boat. Scaling the thirty-foot cliff would be no problem for them.

She slowly slid her scabbarded blade from her sash. Her black robes blended with the night, and her cowl only had holes for her eyes and ears. She’d blackened her exposed flesh with charcoal. Down by the shore she’d found bits of torn fishing nets from which she made an overshirt. Into it she stuffed branches ripped from trees. If she went to ground, she looked like a small shrub.

Moving with the silence her intimate knowledge of the area permitted, she headed east. The most obvious trail-a smuggler’s trail-wandered through small depressions, beaten flat by the tread of thousands. She hurried to a point where she could ambush the group, going to ground in the hole at the base of an uprooted tree.

Yet the silence continued, which surprised her. Tillid, the smallest of her students, had never remained quiet for so long. Still she heard nothing, save the wind’s whisper through the trees and the creaking clack of branches as they swayed.

Then, from above, came an awkward and surprised squawk, followed by a crunch. Something dropped onto the wet leaves beside her. A seahawk looked up at her with a golden eye, its mouth opened wide in a silent scream. The head, however, had been severed; the bird did not realize it was dead.

Even before she was consciously aware of danger to herself, Ranai bared her blade. The seahawk’s killer dove from the branches above and her sword arced up and around in a backhand slash. The blade bisected it. The lower body, legs pumping, fell into the wet leaves. Tree roots snared the upper torso, having already punched through the thing’s batlike wings.

She peered closely at it. It strongly resembled the tree frogs native to the area. Save for the wings. The moon’s dim light revealed hints of color in the stripes streaking its wet flesh.

The dying thing opened its mouth, revealing rows of triangular shark’s teeth. She pulled back at the sight, but not quickly enough. Its tongue flicked out and lashed her face. It cut through her cowl, and a barb sank into her flesh. Fire poured into the wound and she stumbled back. The creature died before its tongue could completely retreat, so it just dangled there, bright with her blood.

She raised a hand to her face. The barb had gone in over her cheekbone. Half an inch higher and she’d have been blinded. As it was she could feel the swelling start and already tears poured from her eye.

Ranai fought the first instinct to run. She wanted to credit it to courage, but it was nothing more than logic. Whatever the creature was, it could fly, so she couldn’t outrun it. If that had been the only one, she was safe. If there were more, they’d eventually find her and kill her. She was too far from Derros to give anyone warning and, as silent and nasty as that thing had been, only a handful of the students and staff had the skill to fight them.

And if they come in hundreds or thousands…

She shivered and pushed forward toward the sea. This thing-or it and companions-had been what had silenced the forest. She made her way along cautiously. Her right eye had already swollen shut, so she had to repeatedly turn her head to scan for danger. It took her half an hour to cross the thousand yards to the cliffs, but she arrived without further incident and crouched there.

The moon splashed silver over the water, which allowed her an easy view of the coastline all the way down to Derros Bay. Things wallowed there like huge barrels, but they were too long and slender. The length and breadth of a moderately sized open-ocean trader, they bobbed innocently in the dark water. As she watched, some sank out of sight and others rose like some sort of marine crocodile.

One that had just risen opened its mouth, revealing puff-adder-white flesh. Then black dots speckled it, hiding the white in shadow. The next moment the blackness rose vaporously. It twisted and curled in the sky, then turned and dove toward the sleeping town of Derros.

That is a cloud of the frog-things. In her mind’s eye she could see them clinging to rooftops and walls, squirming under doors and between shutters. They’d slip into barns, dive into cisterns, and crawl up under the eaves of every building. The city would be covered with a wet pulsating blanket that would consume everything in its path.

She did not ask herself why Derros was under assault because the answer was immaterial. That it was under attack was enough. She realized she could do little to stem the tide but, if she was careful, she might be able to help those who would have to deal with it. The frog-beasts, as vicious as they might be, would hardly allow an invader to hold the territory.

Ranai Ameryne looked out toward the deep ocean. Something else was going to come, and something yet again after that. She could feel the things lurking out there. She didn’t know what they were, but if she was careful, she’d be able to survive long enough to find out.

And once she had that information, she could help others figure out what to do.

She glanced toward Derros and saw the first sign of a building in flames. Beyond it, somewhere, Master Istor waited. She nodded silently in his direction. I think you intended I have more years of training before becoming xidantzu. It’s not to be. I just hope what I have learned is enough.

8th day, Month of the Wolf, Year of the Rat

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th year since the Cataclysm

Ixyll

Ciras Dejote awoke in a world that had become unrecognizable. His head throbbed, though not as painfully as before. Memories of how he had gotten to the dark cavern-where he lay next to his unconscious master-came only in fragments. They’d been traveling in Ixyll and there had been a storm of wild magic. He remembered nothing substantive after that, save for the pounding of horses’ hooves and a strong hand keeping him in the saddle.

His master, Moraven Tolo, twitched and groaned beside him. What little light there was glowed from his sweaty face. Ciras sat up and turned to get Moraven some water, but a wave of dizziness washed over him and he sagged back, groaning. Then, moving more slowly, he got a waterskin and crawled over to Moraven.

His master’s jerks and moans made it seem as if the man were having a fit. Still, no foam flecked his lips; no blood ran from his nose. In the dim light, Ciras saw nothing to indicate what his master’s injuries might be.

“Master, you must drink.” Ciras slowly pulled himself into a kneeling position and slid a hand beneath Moraven’s head. Sweat soaked the man’s long black hair. Ciras raised his head and prepared to give him water. Then Moraven’s body stiffened.

His eyes opened.

Moraven Tolo’s eyes ran from the deepest sea blue, to a pale, icy color which missed white by a hair and back, cycling both fast and slow. Color flowed fluidly like the undulations of a silk scarf dancing in a mild breeze. Sometimes a lightning pattern shot through his eyes in dark, jagged lines.

When the lightning played, Ciras felt a tingle in his hand. A painful tingle that grew as the lightning flashed more intensely.

Torn between duty to his master and the increasing pain, Ciras did not know what to do. He wanted to comfort and care for Moraven, both because that was his duty and because Moraven had cared for him on their journey. To leave him alone would be wrong-but the tingle swiftly became a shooting agony that numbed his arm.