The Shattered Land: The Dreaming Dark - Book 2 (35 page)

“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.

A moment later, the elf knelt down again, but now he was holding something in his hand. At first Daine thought it was just another piece of white chitin—until it
moved
. It was a scorpion—a pale scorpion, which must have been hiding in the man’s armor.

“Xan’tora aids and inspires,” the elf said. “She shows the hunter’s path, silent motion and deadly strike.”

“Charming,” Daine said. “When I was growing up, I had a lallis hound, myself.”

The elf set his hand down, and the scorpion scurried off onto the ground. A moment later Daine felt the tiny creature climb up his shoulder and onto his back, its footsteps faint drops of rain through his clothing. He shivered, remembering the swarms of insects beneath Sharn.

“Xan’tora listens as I ask my question. You do not answer, you feel her blade. One touch brings pain. Twice is far worse. You should not survive a third—though some time passes before the pain ends.” The elf paused to let this sink in. “Why are you here?”

“I told you, we’re just trying to find our friends and
leave.”
Daine waited for the scorpion’s sting, but apparently the answer was sufficient.

“Then what have you done already? You do not belong in our land. You come only to steal, to desecrate. If you are to leave, you must have already taken.”

“I’m sick. We thought we could find a cure … somewhere around here. Then our thrice-damned guide touched the wrong stone and we found ourselves here.”

“Sickness?” The elf took a step back, speaking in Elvish, and a dagger appeared in his hand—Daine’s dagger. “What is this sickness? You seem to be in health.”

“It’s a disease of the mind. It doesn’t spread.” He sighed. “Look. We haven’t taken anything of yours. All we want to do is leave. Just undo these ropes and you’ll never see us again.”

“Because you go to the city of glass?”

“Yes! Do you want to search our belongings?” He glanced at the point of his own dagger, in the hand of the elf. “Assuming you haven’t already? From where I’m lying, we don’t seem to be the thieves here.”

The elf’s eyes narrowed, and Daine felt a needle in the small of his back—the jab of the tiny stinger, pressing through the links of his chainmail and piercing his shirt. Where the last dose of poison had a chilling, numbing effect, this venom felt like acid; Daine could swear that his flesh was melting around the wound, and fire spread through his blood.

“We aren’t here to STEAL!” he growled.

The elf watched him closely, as if he could read his pain. “It may be as you say, but you are friend to the firebinders. Tell me what they plan.”

“I don’t know any firebinders!” Daine cried. His back was in agony, and he could feel his heart pounding.

“You
travel
with their child!” The elf hissed, and for the first time he truly seemed angry. “They are fools and foul, blind to the wisdom of the wilds, but to sell their blood to the outlands—I had thought it untrue, until it was seen.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His inquisitor raised a hand, and Daine braced himself for another jolt of poison, but the elf paused.

“No? You are not the servant of the firebinders? Speak truly, or Xan’tora strikes again.”

“I don’t … know … what you are talking about!”

The tattooed elf tapped the fingers of his left hand against the blade of the dagger. “You have spirit. More than the last of your kind I killed. Perhaps you are not a thief, but only a fool.”

“Those are my only choices?”

“Prove to me that you are no servant of the firebinders, and I may release you and your mate. Are you willing of this?”

Mate?
“Of course I am, and what’s that going to involve? Eating hot coals?”

The elf held out his hand, and the scorpion crawled off of Daine’s back, returning to its master’s wrist. “I am Shen’kar, Vulk N’tash of the Qaltiar.” He rose to his feet. “If you have been misled, I offer you this chance to return to the righteous path and leave our land. Lie to me, and I will hunt you in this life and the next.”

He called out in Elvish, and Daine heard his comrades answering the call. A moment later someone cut the cord binding Daine’s wrists and ankles together, but even as he stretched, he felt a new rope being tied around his left foot.

“What’s this?”

“You promise the proof,” Shen’kar said. “He wakes and is ready. Now is the time to show.” He exchanged a few more words with his companions, and the hilt of some sort of weapon was pressed into Daine’s hand. “Your mate still sleeps; we stand with her and watch. Prove your words. Flee and she dies.”

Now the cords binding his ankles together were cut, but there was a separate tether around his left shin. He tested it—the knots were tight, but there was no pressure on the rope. Two of the dark elves pulled him to his feet; glancing sideways, he saw that one was the woman he had fought earlier. Her black skin was tattooed with a series of white streaks that reminded him of tears, and he could see the cuts and contusions on the side of her head where he’d bludgeoned her. She stared at him, her large eyes blank and impossible to read.

“Little time,” Shen’kar said. “Prove swiftly. Then we decide your fate.”

His two guards stepped away. Shen’kar darted forward, Daine’s dagger in his hand, and Daine felt the cords binding his wrists fall apart. He flexed his arms, wincing at the stiffness, feeling the weight of the weapon he’d been given—a heavy wooden baton with a carved hilt.

“Act,” Shen’kar sang. “Kill the firebinder.”

Daine turned around. He saw that he’d been bound with vines, not ropes. The vine still wrapped around his left ankle ran a short distance across the clearing, to the leg of another man. The captive’s arms were bound behind his back, and he was gagged with a thick vine, like a horse with a bridle. Daine took a step back and the cord between them snapped taut, pulling the victim into the moonlight.

It was Gerrion.

L
ei was exhausted.

The tireless warforged were marching through the night, heading deeper south through the jungle. Lei’s hands weren’t bound, but there was no question that she was a prisoner. Hydra was shadowing her, following to either side, arm blades set and ready to strike. The little warforged was hungry for vengeance, but so far Pierce and Harmattan were holding him in check. Harmattan had agreed to spare Lei’s life—but only so long as she could keep up with the others. To her surprise, Pierce had agreed to this.

There were six warforged in the band that had captured them, but as it turned out, there were really only three. The four scouts weren’t just identical in appearance—they were controlled by one mind, a force that called itself Hydra. Lei had never heard of such a thing, but the evidence was incontrovertible. The scouts often moved in perfect unison, and when they didn’t speak at the same time, they would finish one another’s sentences. They even had the same ghulra—the mark of life on the forehead, a symbol that was supposed to be unique to each warforged. The consciousness of Hydra stretched across all of his bodies, and he had fought them on the icy beach. He’d felt the pain when Lei had destroyed that body—and given the opportunity, Lei was sure he’d take vengeance. Hydra rarely spoke, but he was always watching Lei with at least one set of eyes.

Harmattan was a greater mystery, a ghost of metal and wind. His body was formed from bits of broken armor, shattered blades, arrowheads, and splinters of steel too small to be identified. He had no skeleton, no frame—he was just a mass of metal pulled together by magic. What had first appeared to be a cloak was simply an extension of his body, a curtain of metal shards held aloft by invisible force. His head was surrounded by a cloud of powdered steel, his eyes glowing within this darkness. This halo had reformed soon after the attack, but the brief glimpse of his floating head was still fixed in Lei’s mind. It was blackened and worn, but it touched a chord within her. She couldn’t place it yet, but she was certain she’d seen that face before.

The third warforged was called Indigo, due to the dark blue enamel covering her body. Lei had grown up among warforged, and she’d seen a few “female” constructs, but it was still slightly unnerving; the male voice was far more common. Like all warforged, her body had no indications of gender, but she was lean, wiry, and remarkably graceful. Compared to the armored bulk of the typical warforged soldier, she did have a feminine appearance, and Lei could see why her creator might have given her a woman’s voice. She was swift and silent, and she and Pierce had quickly taken point and disappeared in the jungle. It was clear that she’d spoken with Pierce before. Lei had always thought of Pierce as a brother, and she’d never considered that he might have secrets; deception and treachery were human traits. Now she wondered what else he had been hiding and whether she’d been a fool to trust anyone.

You are weary
. Harmattan’s words emerged from his body, ground metal carried on the wind.
Why fight with your flesh? Your death is inevitable. Ask, and I will end your suffering
.

“I’m fine.”

Harmattan rustled.
You struggle with every step. How long until blood and bone collapse beneath you?

“I can stay on my feet as long as I have to.”

You know that’s not true. You walk toward your grave. Every step is more difficult than the last, and even if you survive this day, how many more do you have? In a century, your Pierce will still walk the earth, while you will be the dust beneath his feet
.

Lei gritted her teeth and said nothing. Her stomach was knotted with hunger, and her knees and ankles ached—but she’d be damned before she admitted her weakness to this
thing
.

There is no shame in it
, he said, as if reading her thoughts. Perhaps he was.
It is not your fault you were forged of flesh instead of steel. You did not choose your design, and you are not to blame for your flaws. Why struggle against them? Death lurks within you, waiting to overtake your beating heart. Submit. Surrender. I can end it swiftly
.

“Why do you care so much?” she snapped. “Or do you have this conversation with every human?”

Is that what you are?
He rustled again.
I suppose that it’s Pierce I am thinking of. He cares about you, that much is clear, and it holds him back. If I kill you—he’s not ready for that, but if you ask for death, if you choose to end your pointless struggle … it will be best for both of you
.

“Well, thanks so much for looking out for us. I’ll make sure to let you know if I want to take you up on your generous offer.”

Do you remember Blacklion, Lei? The broken forge?

Lei stopped in her tracks. Blacklion was the forgehold where she’d spent most of her childhood—the Cannith workshop where she’d first manifested the Mark of Making. “How do you know about that?”

I was born in Blacklion, Lei, just as you were. I’m sure you saw thousands of warforged while you were there—It’s hardly surprising that you don’t remember
.

She stared at him, trying to see the face hidden in the shadow. There was something gnawing at the back of her mind, but she couldn’t quite grasp it. “Somehow I think I’d remember you.”

It took time for me to reach my full potential … though Pierce is taking even longer
.

“You—you’re saying that Pierce is like you?”

Keep moving, child of flesh. We still have far to go and no time for your weakness
. He pressed a massive hand against her back and pushed her forward.
Pierce has his own destiny, but we have been shaped by the same hands, and there is much he has yet to discover
. He raised his voice, continuing over her question.
The broken forge of Blacklion. Surely you remember the abominations it produced?

She nodded, slowly. The creation forges were built during the Last War, and few members of the house understood the enchantments involved. One of the forges at Blacklion was
unreliable, but with the demands of the war, it was often used anyway. Most of the time the warforged it produced were satisfactory, but she still remembered the failures—cripples and creatures with deformities that could never be shaped from flesh. She remembered a torso with a half dozen arms flailing about, crushing the skull of an attending magewright, and her father, stepping in and shattering the horror with a touch.