“See? They’re still alive,” his grandmother had said. “Still serving Karrnath, still fighting to protect our borders and keep us safe.”
But Rhedyn hadn’t been reassured by the sight of his undead parents. Instead he’d been horrified. And on that day he’d come to understand a profound truth about the world. It was a place where awful things happened sometimes, unspeakable things, and once they happened, there wasn’t a damned thing anyone could do about them.
But then he’d been granted the gift of his symbiont, and he heard the song of Xoriat singing through his mind. Xoriat … a realm where the laws of nature held no meaning, where time meant nothing, where reality itself could be molded and shaped, provided one’s will was strong enough. That was what Ysgithyrwyn and the other daelkyr promised for Eberron. Freedom from suffering and sorrow, freedom from the oppression of the real. The daelkyr wished to transform Eberron into a paradise, and Rhedyn intended to do everything he could to help them. To this end, he’d sought out Sinnoch and offered his services to the dolgaunt. He’d already sensed Sinnoch had ulterior motives for assisting with the symbiont project, and he’d been delighted when the dolgaunt had confirmed his suspicions. Things hadn’t quite gone according to plan so far, Rhedyn had to admit, but all was far from lost. If the Overmantle could be repaired, the portal could be reopened and Ysgithyrwyn could be set free-the first of many daelkyr who would stride across the face of the material world and remake it in their own wondrous image.
“I don’t know how she’ll react,” Rhedyn admitted.
“Then perhaps you’d best hope she’s not quite as strong-willed as she seems,” the dolgaunt offered.
That, Rhedyn thought wryly, is one hope that would definitely be in vain.
Osten sat perched on a large rock not far from the main camp, honing the edge of his sword with a sharpening stone, one slow stroke after another. As he worked, he kept an eye on the camp. He saw Ksana approach General Vaddon and sit with him, saw Rhedyn go to Sinnoch’s tent and chat with the warforged guards a moment before entering. Osten was glad that the general had someone like Ksana to talk to. Even a strong, experienced leader like Vaddon Brochann needed someone to simply listen to him from time to time, and the cleric knew many ways to heal-and not all of them required drawing on divine power.
Though he’d certainly benefited from the latter. Twice now, in fact. If it hadn’t been for Ksana, he would’ve been a dead man by now, and both times it would’ve been due to that damned symbiont. Yes, technically the second time he would’ve died because of the blow Lirra had given him to the throat, but he didn’t blame her for that. She’d just been doing her duty. Once again, he’d lost control of his mind to the tentacle whip, and the creature had taken command of his body. Lirra had known that, and she’d struck quickly and efficiently in order to cause Osten the least amount of pain possible. Even though the symbiont had been holding the reins of his body, Osten had still been aware at the time, and he’d recognized what Lirra had done and why. No, it had been the symbiont’s doing-that, and his own weakness that had twice allowed the aberration to take control of him.
And now Lirra had become cursed with the burden of the tentacle whip, and she was out there somewhere, doing what-and to whom-only the gods knew. Osten prayed that she was safe, and that whomever she came in contact with survived the encounter. Lirra Brochann was stronger than him, that he was certain of, and he doubted the tentacle whip would have an easy time controlling her. Even so, he knew better than anyone, save Lirra, how strong the whip’s influence could be, how insidious, and he hoped her strength would prove sufficient to allow her to resist the symbiont’s corruption.
Yesterday, when Osten had fully recovered from his latest wounds-the physical ones, that is; the emotional ones would take a bit more time to heal-he’d vowed that he’d do whatever it took to help Lirra. Since then, he’d followed the general’s orders and traveled with the rest of the Outguard to the outskirts of Geirrid to make camp and await news of Lirra or Elidyr. He’d helped pitch the tents, take care of the horses, and gather firewood and water. Outwardly, he was still the good little soldier that had first joined the symbiont project. But inwardly, he no longer considered himself a member of the Outguard. He was Lirra’s servant now, even if she didn’t know it yet, and he was only biding his time until he could be reunited with his mistress once more. And once that occurred, he intended to stand by her side and aid her in any way he could, regardless of the cost to himself. And if he was called upon to kill Lirra in order to free her from the tentacle whip’s influence, then he would do so, though with a heavy heart.
His thoughts were interrupted as Vaddon jumped to his feet.
“We’ve found Elidyr!” the general bellowed. “He’s in Geirrid right now! Mount up!”
Osten smiled grimly as he put his sharpening stone away and quickly tested the edge of his blade with his thumb. A tiny sliver of flesh peeled away bloodless, and he nodded, satisfied. Perhaps they hadn’t found Lirra yet, but Elidyr was the next best thing. He was looking forward to trying out his newly sharpened sword on the artificer.
He stood, sheathed his weapon, and started running toward the horses.
Inside the tent, Sinnoch and Rhedyn heard Vaddon’s command, and the dolgaunt smiled.
“See?” Sinnoch said as he began gathering up the pieces of the Overmantle. “I told you we had only to wait.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Nothing personal, Lirra,” Ranja said, “but I’m not sure Lord Bergerron has enough silver to get me to go up against those things! I’m not sure even Kaius has enough!”
Elidyr’s white-eyed servants walked stiffly toward them, like puppets manipulated by unseen strings, and their vacant, slack-jawed expressions never changed, whether they were simply walking down the street or slaughtering someone who’d gotten in their way.
“Go then,” Lirra said. “I won’t think any the less of you for it.”
Ranja grinned as she reached into one of her tunic pockets. “What, and miss all the fun?”
From her pocket, she withdrew a handful of what looked like iridescent pearls. The shifter pulled back her arm and hurled the tiny spheres toward the oncoming white-eyes with all her considerable strength. The pearl-like objects soared through the air and struck a number of white-eyes, exploding with bright, soundless flashes of light. Lirra had witnessed any number of magical weapons used during the Last War, but she’d never seen anything quite like these. Instead of tearing apart the white-eyes’ bodies with concussive force as she expected, the energies released from the spheres caused the white-eyes to begin collapsing inward on themselves. Their bodies began to compress, as if they were being pushed upon by an invisible force from all directions. Their forms began to crumple and shrink, bones snapping, muscles tearing, skin splitting as their bodies were reduced to a fifth their original size. The process wasn’t a smooth one, however. The white-eyes’ healing ability struggled to fight off the effects of Ranja’s spheres, and sometimes the compression would halt, even begin to reverse, but then the magic would intensify and the process would continue. When all was finally said and done, five white-eyes had been reduced to lopsided fleshy masses lying still upon the stone street.