On the fourth day of their journey, as he laughed at Zandar’s latest quip, he wondered how and when he had become so weak.
Six days outside of Greenheart, the trees thinned, and ferns and shrubs crowded into the patches of sunlight in the spaces between. Sevren pointed out scattered blocks of stone-the crumbled ruin of an ancient wall-mostly covered with lichen and creeping vines.
“That explains the thinning trees,” the shifter said. “There’s probably a paved area not far ahead. The trees will grow through it eventually, but it takes time.”
“We should skirt the ruin,” Kauth said.
“Are you serious?” Zandar said. “This is our specialty.”
Sevren nodded. “We can afford a brief diversion from our journey. Vor?”
“This is how we make our living,” the orc said. “If there’s nothing of value in the ruins, it won’t take long for us to determine that, and we won’t have delayed our journey. If there are treasures to be found, it’s worth a small delay.”
Zandar clapped Kauth on the shoulder. “I’m afraid you’re outvoted, friend.”
Kauth thought briefly of pulling rank, asserting his role as leader of the expedition. Then he remembered that the others had stripped him of that authority back on the caravan, after they caught him in his lies. He shrugged in resignation, and Sevren altered their course slightly to take them into the heart of the ruins.
Twenty paces past the ruined wall, shattered cobblestones paved the forest floor. Plants sprouted up between the ancient stones, and a few trees-smaller than elsewhere in the forest-pushed the stones apart and buckled them with their spreading roots. Sevren slowed his pace, stooping every few paces to examine a fern or vine. Each time he bent down, his face showed more concern.
Soon the shifter stopped entirely, kneeling on the cobblestones and examining the underside of a pale, almost white fern. “What is it?” Kauth asked.
Sevren yanked the fern from the ground and stood up. He held the plant out to Kauth, pointing at the leaves. Strange nodules covered them, purplish white and pulsing faintly with life that struck him as distinctly not plantlike.
“We call it the Depravation,” the shifter said. “It’s the influence of the Realm of Madness. There’s probably a portal somewhere in the ruins. Maybe still sealed-or mostly sealed. Possibly broken.”
“You think there’s a daelkyr here?” Kauth carefully kept the alarm from his voice, though it was written plain on the others’ faces. Thousands of years ago, the alien world of Xoriat, called the Realm of Madness, had come close to the natural world-close in some abstract, metaphysical sense that, fundamentally, meant it was easier to cross from one world to the other. What had crossed from Xoriat into the world had given the Realm of Madness its name: tentacled horrors and deformed monstrosities much like the beings that had spilled out of the Soul Reaver’s domain in the Starcrag Plain. But the rulers and makers of these monstrous aberrations were the daelkyr, deceptively humanlike beings of incredible power whose greatest skill lay in warping flesh according to their insane designs. With their gibbering hordes, they had devastated the goblin empire of Dhakaan before the druids known as the Gatekeepers had pushed Xoriat away from the world and sealed the portals the daelkyr had used. Even so, their influence still lingered, particularly in the western parts of Khorvaire.
“I suppose there could be, but I don’t think it’s likely. The Depravation would be stronger, more noticeable.”
“What, then?” Zandar asked. He maintained his cocky smile, but Kauth could see the effort it required.
“Some weaker spawn of the daelkyr, I expect,” Sevren said.
Kauth pointed at the fern. “So what are those nodules?”
“Eggs.” Sevren used the sharp nail of one finger to pry one of the objects loose from the leaf. Tiny tendrils trailed behind it, sliding out of the fern. They seemed to writhe in the air before curling up close to the body of the egg.
Holding the tiny object gingerly between two fingernails, Sevren stooped to pick up a small piece of cobblestone. He laid the egg on the flat stone and pressed his nail into it. There was a barely audible squelch and a violet fluid oozed out. He picked at the shell, revealing a tiny maggot-thing, the same pale purple as the nodule. It was about as large as the husk that held it, suggesting that it had been almost ready to hatch. Indeed, it pulsed with life and began to writhe as soon as the air touched its slimy skin, lifting one end toward Sevren’s finger. With a snarl of revulsion, the shifter cut the larva in two. The halves continued squirming for a moment before falling still. Sevren stooped again and used the stone to grind the maggot against another cobblestone.
“What will those grow into?” Zandar asked.
“No idea. Probably some warped form of fly or beetle. A blood drinker or flesh eater.”
“So are we continuing into the ruins?” Kauth asked. “Or circling around?” He glanced at his three companions.
Zandar’s revulsion was clear on his face-ironic, Kauth thought, considering the dark and twisted forces the warlock dealt with in practicing his magic. Vor’s face was impassive, while Sevren looked grim.
The shifter set his jaw and spoke through clenched teeth. “Continuing.”
Vor nodded, and Zandar looked off in the direction they had been walking.
“Until discretion trumps greed, we forge ahead,” Zandar said. “I’m not letting flesh-eating flies dissuade me. At least, not before they’ve hatched.”
Kauth smiled. These were, indeed, the kind of men he’d been looking for-rootless, experienced, and tough. Expendable, he reminded himself-but not until they reached the Demon Wastes.
“Let me see your weapons,” Kauth said. “What?” Vor asked. “Why?”
“If we’re going to fight the spawn of the daelkyr, I want us to be ready. I’ll enchant your weapons to strike truer and harder against them.”
“I can’t argue with that,” Sevren said, sliding his knives from their sheaths and handing them to Kauth. Vor followed his example.
Zandar shrugged and gestured toward the dagger at his belt. “If I end up drawing this thing in battle, we’ve already lost,” he said.
As they pressed farther toward the heart of the ruins, scattered heaps of crumbling stone marked the locations of ancient buildings. The vines that covered them were acid green or lurid yellow, studded with spiny thorns, and they bore sharp-edged leaves. Clouds of flies swarmed around the party, tormenting them with painful bites, some even drawing blood.
Sevren held a hand up, bringing them to a stop. Kauth saw what had caught his attention-the foliage was tramped down ahead of them, woody stems snapped and leaves ground into the fractured cobblestones. The shifter dropped to one knee beside the most obvious marks, then followed them a short way to the right. He stood and rejoined them, his brow furrowed.
“It’s big,” he said. “Walks on two feet, but dragging its arms as it goes. Except where it picks up a chunk of rubble and tosses it aside. A gray render, if I’m not mistaken.”
“You can tell it’s gray from its tracks?” Zandar asked with a sardonic smile.
“I don’t know that for sure, but I’ve never seen a gray render that wasn’t gray.”
“How many have you seen?” Kauth asked. “Just one.”
“So what can we expect,” the warlock said, “based on your extensive past experience?”
Sevren shot him a glare. “They’re big, and strong as a giant. Their name comes from their color, obviously, and from the way they grab and tear. Stay out of its claws.”