James Davis - The Restless Shore

At length he stood up. A small stream ran along the edge of the grove, and he lowered his hands into the cool waters, careful not to lose the ring on his finger.

“Did you sleep well?” Vaasurri asked, and Uthalion closed his eyes.

“You know better,” he said as he focused on removing the blood from his hands.

“I suppose,” the killoren replied. “But I always hold out hope.”

Uthalion nodded with as much finality as the gesture could convey. Despite the magic of the ring, he was tired. It had been six years since he’d walked away from Caidris and nearly three weeks since he’d last had a night’s sleep. The dream was always the same, carrying him back to Khault’s little farmhouse and the dark basement where he and his men had ridden out the aboleth’s storm. The repetition of the dream, night after night, invading his sleep had given him splitting headaches for months-until he’d found the enchanted ring. Its silver shine was dull compared to the gold band it had replaced.

Uthalion watched as thin clouds of dirt and blood bloomed in the clear water of the stream. Maryna, his wife, would have teased him for the blood on his shirt, her skill at cleaning a kill much better than his own. He would have taken her jibes graciously, complimenting her wonderful cooking in a sneaky attempt to escape the duty himself. But she’d known his tricks quite well. He paused and held his breath, shutting out the memory of her smile, before drying his hands on his tunic. He sighed in exasperation.

Vaasurri entered the light of the campfire, bearing his strange, knowing smile that seemed almost permanent at times. With his light green skin traced with leaf-line veins and deep emerald eyes, the killoren’s features were like extensions of the forest itself. Uthalion could only barely recall a few faces that he knew as well as Vaasurri’s.

“What did he say this time?” Vaasuri asked.

“Can’t a man wash his hands in peace?” he asked.

“Apparently not,” Vaasurri answered, an edge of frustration creeping into the fey’s voice that Uthalion had not expected.

“Oh, I disagree. I’ve seen it happen you know,” he replied, turning and staring up into the trees in mock wistfulness. He took a deep cleansing breath. “A simple man washing his hands-not a care in the world and not a soul to disturb him. That’s just good living. Quiet moment. Clean water and maybe a bluebird singing nearby.”

“Point taken,” Vaasurri said with a half-smile, his eyes gleaming in the firelight.

“Apparently not,” Uthalion added and approached the fire.

Uthalion sat, his stomach grumbling in anticipation as he stared into the steaming pot over the campfire and put behind him the unexpected sleep-and the dream that came with it.

“Well, you needed the rest. It’s been almost-” Vaasurri began.

“Not now, Vaas,” Uthalion said, not taking his eyes away from the stew. “Truly. Not now.”

“As you wish,” the killoren said, and he filled two wooden bowls in silence.

Uthalion’s hand shook slightly as he took his portion of the evening’s meal. His nerves were still on edge, the dream not yet done with them. That night in Caidris had been only one of several in the Keepers’ campaign, though it had been one of the last. Unfortunately, his memory had served him better the farther they’d gotten away from Tohrepur. What little he could recall of that city was fragmented by flashes of sorcerous light and heavy fogs of limitless darkness. He’d seen little of the aboleth itself and was grateful for that. The dying captain’s face was a blur, though his sword of rank remained with Uthalion, its details carved deeply into the fabric of his mind. Beyond that only the screams remained. And something else: a haunting, half-heard sound almost like singing.

Uthalion ate slowly and in silence, the sinuous melody hiding somewhere in his thoughts and taunting him behind the dying cries of the Keepers and honest sellswords. Each time he removed the silver ring and allowed himself to succumb to slumber, the nightmare worsened. The ring’s magic maintained a sense of being well rested, though it could do little for the rigors of simply being conscious. Vaasurri had told him that dreams were necessary-in Uthalion’s case a necessary evil-for the mind to remain balanced and whole. Uthalion had pushed the limits of that balance each time, swearing he’d not remove the ring so soon the next time. The night’s rest had been an accident, and the nightmare had proved itself more than able to make up for lost time.

He shook his head and flexed his hand, willing the dream away and breathing in the fresh air of the forest. He’d told little of his tale to Vaasurri, and though his curiosity was boundless, the killoren had never pushed too hard for the details.

The bile of the nightmare crept up in his throat. He set his bowl aside and turned to the grove, the circle that he and Vaasurri had cultivated over the years as a focus for what the killoren called the energy of the Feywild. The Spur Forest had been affected as much as any part of the world by the Spellplague of years past, but it had also been infected by the Sovereignty. The aboleths’ minions and magic had descended upon the northern city of Airspur almost fifty years before, their nightmarish power spilling into the Spur before being turned away. Vaasurii claimed the circle could begin a cycle of healing for the forest, restore some of what the aboleths had turned wrong.

The spot they had chosen was greener than it had been before. Flowers bloomed, and Vaasurri’s small herb garden had begun to flourish. Uthalion sighed, thankful for such an oasis and the good work it gave him to be proud of. He buried the dream until the next dreaded moment when the ring would slip away along with the world he had carefully cultivated around him. An old notebook lay wrapped in his cloak, containing all the knowledge he’d discovered in the Spur since choosing to live away from the crowds of Akanul’s cities.

Uthalion had once promised Maryna a fine home and a beautiful garden. Having grown up on a farm in Tethyr, he knew quite a lot about chickens and potatoes, but had been lacking in the knowledge to deliver on his promise. He still meant to keep it one day, somehow.

He looked over his shoulder at Vaasuri, also staring into the Spur, and noticed the killoren’s curved bone sword leaning against a nearby tree.

“Any reason we’re joined by your dragon’s tooth, Vaas?” he asked.

The killoren’s expression changed, like a shadow crawling across the moon, and he seemed wilder than a moment ago, an animal smelling something on the wind.

“I’ve just had a feeling, is all,” Vaasurri replied, his eyes piercing the dark like a predator.

“A feeling? ” Uthalion said and sat forward, raising an eyebrow in interest and mentally cataloguing the location of his own weapons. “Sometimes I think your feelings are better than a scout’s eyewitness report. Anything specific?”

“Not just yet,” the killoren said. He reached for the bone sword, its smooth blade covered in dark images of hunting beasts and cunning prey. “Could be anything, but I do not think it natural in any sense of the word … At least, not in any sense that the world recognizes as natural anymore.”

Uthalion considered Vaasurri’s words, furrowing his brow. “No bears or dragons then.”

A piercing howl interrupted his attempt at a jest, and both of them sat bolt upright, their eyes wide. Their ears focused on the trailing edge of the unnatural sound that existed somewhere between the howl of a wolf and the cry of a man. The hair on Uthalion’s neck stood on end, and a shudder passed through his shoulders, chilling him to the core.

“That was not a bear,” he said, getting to his feet.