Keith Baker - The Shattered Land

Satisfied?

“No.”

Lei released a second bolt. This one struck the stranger in the head. No creature of flesh and blood could survive such a blow, but when the flash had faded, Harmattan was still standing. The mystical energy had evaporated the cloud of mist hiding his features, and now Pierce could see the stranger’s head-the head of a warforged soldier. It was blackened, but intact, and Pierce guessed that it was forged from nearly indestructible adamantine, but it was far too small for Harmattan’s massive body; it was about the same size as Pierce’s own head. It was floating above his torso, hovering at least three inches in the air.

Lei’s wand only held enough energy for two blasts, and now that charge was drained. She slipped it back into her belt and gripped her staff in both hands. Pierce had an arrow drawn, and he kept his eyes on Harmattan, wondering if a simple arrow would have any effect on the strange creature.

Neither of them saw the slender figure slip out of the shadows behind Lei until it was too late. A metal elbow slammed into the base of Lei’s skull, followed by a powerful fist. Lei staggered forward, nearly dropping her staff, and turned to face the new foe.

“So you are his lady.”

The warforged had abandoned the robe and cloak she’d used as a disguise in Sharn and Stormreach, and Pierce had to admire her design. The blue enamel on her plating seemed to shift with the shadows, blending into the darkness. Her frame was light and willowy, built for deadly speed instead of brute force. As she spoke, adamantine blades slid into place.

“You should have killed me when you had the chance,” Lei said.

The air rippled around her fingers, and Pierce remembered the scout she had destroyed earlier that day, aand he remembered another battle-a struggle beneath Sharn, when she had turned that same power against him.

“STOP!” He cried, his voice rising to its maximum volume. He unleashed his arrow, striking the ground between the warforged and the artificer. “Lei. Do not fight, and you-if you harm her, I swear that I will destroy you.”

There was a moment of silence. Then the dry voice washed across the clearing. Indigo .

The assassin took a step back, her blades disappearing into her arms. “As you wish.”

Pierce felt a strange fascination as he watched her. The bladed scouts, this Harmattan-they seemed so alien that it was hard to think of them as being members of his own race, but the blue woman-there was something about her, a feeling he couldn’t explain.

“Lei,” he said. “Daine has abandoned us. It seems we will be traveling with these people.”

Harmattan rustled again, and Pierce realized that it was what he did instead of laughing.

Daine was surrounded by darkness.

He couldn’t feel anything. He couldn’t see or hear. He was stranded in endless gloom.

Just a month ago, his first thought would have been am I dead? Dolurrh was said to be an empty void, a net that pulled in the souls of the fallen and held them until all memory and thought had faded away. A few weeks ago, Daine might have felt traces of panic, fear that this was the end.

Instead, his first thought was darkness again?

His second thought was to evaluate the qualities of the void, with the attention a connoisseur might give to a fine Aundairian vintage. When he was attacked by Tashana, the shadows were cold and viscous. That darkness was like tar-he could struggle against it, but there was so much pressure he could barely move.

Here, there was no pressure at all. He seemed to have no body. Trying to move an arm-there was no struggle. It wasn’t cold, because he couldn’t feel any sort of temperature. There was nothing at all. All he had were his thoughts.

His next thought was am I dead?

Before confusion could turn fully to fear, he heard a sound. A distant voice, raised in song. At first, it was pure music. Slowly Daine began to make out individual words, though he could not understand the language. As he concentrated on the song, he began to feel sensation returning, as if his spirit was flowing back into his body. There was no strength in his limbs, but at least he could feel his arms and legs again, his heart beating in his chest. The song continued, but now he realized that it wasn’t a song at all-it was a conversation. There were two voices, alternating and pausing. The language was fluid and lyrical, but the patterns weren’t those of music, and though the accent was strange, the cadence too quick, he recognized the language.

Elvish.

Daine had never learned the Elvish tongue, but he’d fought Valenar soldiers on the southern front, and he’d learned to fear the sound of an Elvish battlecry. The shadows that attacked them-slender, swift, and now he thought about it, shorter than most humans-elves. He was certain of it.

Feeling had returned to his arms and legs-enough that he could sense what an uncomfortable position he was in. He was lying flat on his stomach, with his face pressed against moist earth. His arms were stretched behind his back, his legs pulled up, and his wrists and ankles bound together. He tried pulling at the bonds, to no avail; the cord was strong, the knots tight. As slight as this motion was, he apparently attracted some attention; the singing voices broke off, and he heard someone kneel down next to him. Taking a deep breath, Daine lifted his head and opened his eyes to look at his captor.

He’d expected to see an elf: pale skin, pointed ears, fine features, large eyes with green or violet irises.

He was half right.

It was still deep night, but there was a clear path to the sky above, and the moons cast their light on the man kneeling over him. The figure staring down at him looked like an elf-at least, in silhouette, but his eyes were blank white, with no trace of veins, pupil, or iris. Half his face was missing. No, his skin was jet black, darker than any man Daine had seen, and almost invisible in the shadows, but it was covered with corpse-white patches, patterns that were too regular to be natural. The left half of the man’s face was a white mask, a stylized skull that covered much of his skin. As Daine’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw that the stranger had markings on the right side as well-fine white traceries running under his right eye and out to his long, black ear, than dropping down the side of his neck. Words, perhaps, or some sort of mystical inscription.

From his vantage point with his chin in the dirt, Daine could see little beyond the stranger’s head. The man had pale, silver-blond hair drawn into thick braids, and he wore an odd cap over his forehead, apparently made from the iridescent shell of a white lobster.

“You’d better let me go. Now.”

“Why do I do this?” It was the voice from the previous battle; this was the man who had thrown the curving stick at him. As before, his words seemed to flow together, and Daine had to struggle to make sense of it: whydu’Iduthis .

Daine tested his bonds again. “When I get mad, I … bite people.”

A smile flickered across the lips of the strange elf. He sang a phrase in his liquid tongue, and Daine heard hisses around him-apparently the laughter of the other elves.

“Tell me of yourself,” the man said. “What you come to steal, your oath to the firebinders. Tell me and your death will be swift.”

“Tempting offer.”

“No offer,” said the elf, pale eyes gleaming. “Promise.”

He stepped back, allowing Daine to get a better look at his enemy. The elf was dressed for the jungle heat. Much of his skin was exposed, inky black marred by intricate white designs. He wore a few pieces of armor, pale white shell attached to straps of leather. In addition to his cap, he wore long vambraces over each forearm, shinguards, a plate covering his upper torso, and an armored loincloth. He wore a belt of dark leather, with a wooden throwing wheel hanging down along each hip. Daine could see the hilts of some sort of swords or knives, but the weapons were slung behind the elf’s back, and Daine couldn’t get a good look at them.