The other kaia, frenzied by the scent of blood, swarmed into the light, their budding eyes glistening like drops of sap. The largest of them, the size of a hunting cat, scrambled through the dirt and hurled themselves at the two warriors. A long tail whipped around Uthalion’s ankle, and he cut it free, reversing the slash to widen the kaia’s snapping jaws. Tiny hands, the size of a child’s, grabbed feebly at his blade as he pulled it free and stabbed at the next.
Brindani defended himself skillfully, cutting precise and strong; his quick blade was well stained with the blood of the beasts. Small fangs clamped down hard on Uthalion’s boot, needlelike teeth piercing the leather. It shook its jaws furiously. Snarling in pain, he stabbed down and pinned the kaia to the. ground. It opened its jaws long enough for him to escape and stomp the fight out of it. He kicked the beast into the fire where it writhed and screamed as the pair fended off the last of the braver kaia. The larger ones were dragged away by the smaller, ending their hunt without having to test the flashing steel and flames.
Slowly, they lowered their blades, watching as the kaia removed their dead, one generation feeding the next. Uthalion fell back to the fire, wrinkling his nose at the smell of the tiny body in the flames. Brindani remained standing, staring intently at the grisly scene. His hands no longer shook, and a flush of color had returned to his cheeks; his eyes were clear and focused.
“Feeling better?” Uthalion asked.
“Yes,” the half-elf replied casually, turning away from the feasting kaia. “Much better… Just needed some exercise I suppose.”
Uthalion nodded and stood, pacing to the spot where Brindani might have been eaten had he come alone. Fresh dirt had been dug up, leaving dimpled little holes in the ground, but no trace as to what had captured the half-elfs attention. Turning back east Uthalion noticed the pack over Brindani’s shoulder. He held it closein a tight grip, its side stained with dirty handprints.
They left the blazing circle of light in silence, careful to avoid the low stone walls where the kaia munched and fought over the flesh of their siblings in the dark. Uthalion kept Brindani in the lead, unwilling to turn his back on the secretive half-elf until he had discovered some answers. His thoughts were cut off by a series of low and distant howls drifting down from the high ground where only the tops of the Akanapeaks were visible to his human eyes.
Even from so far away, the dreamers’ voices carried a small amount of power, causing his pulse to quicken and his stomach to squirm uncomfortably.
“Let’s get back to the others,” he said. “There should be enough time for some rest before dawn. I’d like to be on our feet long before those things find us again.”
They jogged along the edge of the southern darkness. The cliff traced a fine line between solid ground and what looked like the end of the world, Uthalion eyed Brindani’s pack. A soldier’s instinct set off alarms in his gut, sensing yet another threat looming on an already dangerous journey.
“Little troubles,” he muttered under his breath. “They start out small, but they’re never pretty.”
The dreamers bounded down the hills, whining and howling to one another. Their sparse fur rustled in the breeze, and their heartbeats were synchronous beats of muffled thunder as they hunted in the tall grass. Sefir followed closely behind, his dark robes barely concealing his bandaged feet as he enjoyed the cool and crisp feel of the spring grass beneath his toes. He whispered to the dreamers as they searched, singing softly to them through teeth that ached with quickening change. He could already feel the pinpricks of new growth pushing through his gums where his old teeth had been displaced and discarded.
He felt his flesh ripple in the moonlight, responding to its glow like a tide, waves of change crashing through his limbs. His robes hid the blessed scars of the Lady’s touch, the gift she gave to all of those chosen to walk among the Choir.
“She moves quickly, Favored One,” he said as his companion joined him. “I fear the dawn may yet find her before we do.”
An exasperated sigh rattled from beneath the deep hood and dirty white robes of the figure at his side. Even in frustration, the Favored One’s voice held a power that shuddered through the very ground, a beguiling melody that could barely contain its undertones of destruction.
He was Sefir’s elder, tall and strong, moving gracefully as a fish in water. Scars crisscrossed his red-stained hands; yellowed robes bore the crimson reminders of his seniority among the Choir.
“She has help now. Guides,” the Favored One said as they walked in the wake of the dreaming pack. “These men, shadows of our old selves, use her toward their own ends. The girl must be rescued from their hubris.”
“Yet they lead her home, to where the Lady calls her,” Sefir replied. “Is this not proper?” “No!”
The voice lanced through Sefir’s body like a bolt of lightning, forcing him to his knees as the pain of pure anger coursed through his flesh. He gasped, catching his breath, and was suddenly ashamed of his foolishness, his presumption of the Lady’s desire. A strong hand, cold and crusted with old blood, fell gently upon his shoulder.
“Do not make the mistake of confusing coincidence with destiny,” the powerful voice said, flooding his thoughts with calm and wisdom. Sefir rose slowly, the pain subsiding and settling in those places where his body seemed ready to burst and bloom with bestowed power. He bowed his head to the Favored One, who continued, “You are young yet among our number, chosen for the sword you wear at your side.”
Sefir’s hand rested on the old blade, nicked and stained from battles he could no longer remember, the memories of some other life already washed away by the power of the Lady’s song.
“You are to be the Lady’s warrior, a blade in her hand… A song of war.” The words filled Sefir with pride as he lifted his head to the half-hidden face of his mentor. “I bid you go and sing. Bring steel and song to those who would judge us.”
Sefir turned, his back arching as he stretched, bones popping slightly, reconfiguring to support the squirming new muscles beneath his skin. He bent forward, sniffing at the air, tasting it on his tongue, and training his ears to the howls of the dreamers. A brief pain distracted him, bringing with it a dim sense of doubt, some forgotten thought rising to the surface of his mind like a corpse thrown in a river.
“She… The genasi,” he stammered, trying to make sense of the sudden emotion, though it was small in comparison to his desire to return home, to Tohrepur. “She will become the Prophet?”
“No,” the Favored One said, turning south. “She is the Prophet. Her sister will awaken her.”
“And the men?” Sefir asked, tapping the cool metal of the blade at his side.
“Seek them upon the edge of the lowlands, what they call the Wash,” came the reply, a current of anger thundering through his mentor’s voice. “Should they escape… Well, I shall have words with Uthalion myself.”
The name meant nothing to Sefir. Most names, save for the one he’d been given at Tohrepur, seemed unimportant devices, divisive markers of loneliness. His urge to ask yet more questions surprised him, but the feeling did not last long.
The song came whispering across the Akana. Trembling at the sound, at the wordless promises of the power growing within him, his vision blurred, and he winced in pain at the moonlight. The brightness burned his eyes, the light screaming at his senses.
Averting his gaze, he turned to the Favored One, to the tight bandages wrapped over his mentor’s face, obscuring the deep gouges and bloody furrows where sight had once been seated. Sefir placed his hands over his own eyes, feeling the toughness of his skin, lightly scraping a fingernail across his brow.
“There is a place at a rise among the lowlands,” the Favored One said. “A small village… called Caidris. Find me there.”
Leaving Sefir alone, he strode into the dark, barefoot and blind, but seeing far greater than most beasts of the Akana. Sefir watched after him for long moments, until the howls of the dreamers stirred his blood and drew him into their hunt.