I ran from them when they brought me to the ruins … I tried to escape, but the song drew me here … and I fell … The sirine uses me and the song … grows more powerful …
Ghaelya tried to speak, but a knot caught her words, entangled them in her throat, and tried to replace them with the wracking sobs which she refused to give in to. It hurt to do so, and she squeezed her eyes shut, clenching her teeth and digging her fingernails into her sides. She inhaled sharply, the sound rippling through the sirine’s mass, wavering the subtle undertones of the dreaming-song of the plaguechanged fey.
“I came so far,” she managed, “To save you.”
Tessaeril nodded slowly, pulling herself closer, able to move within the perimeter of the sirine’s waterlike body, but not beyond it. Shaking, she held out her right arm, exposing the gruesome network of vines, the sirine’s hair, that had flowed through her body. Thick veins from Tessaeril’s legless torso mingled with those of the slumbering fey, fed by the sirine’s lifeforce. Her dark eyes pleaded, her webbed fingers spread wide as she gestured at her disfigurements, changes that no known magic could overcome.
To save me … you must go a little farther.
Ghaelya’s hope had also turned to darker thoughts beyond Tessaeril’s unlikely rescue. She’d imagined any number of horrors that might have befallen her sister, that might have left Tessaeril’s lifeless body upon an altar of sacrifice or cast aside amid Tohrepur’s ruins. Dried blood, jagged wounds, even the predations of scavengers had filled her imagination when she indulged the hopelessness of her optimism. But she would have been prepared on some level. She would have been ready to collect the broken form of her sister and carry it away. Shamefully, she’d thought of what she might have said, prayers she might have sung to ensure her sister rested in some kind of peace, all the things mortals could do to ease the hurt of losing someone they loved. An image of a gravesite flashed through her mind, herself standing nearby; she tried to imagine what it must be like, as if it were someone else.
“We can find a way,” she blurted out, grasping hold of the fleeting, ragged edges of hope that threatened to leave her altogether. Denial crept selfishly into her thoughts, and she welcomed it for the brief respite, the faint thought that everything could be made better if only she had more time. “There must be something … The Choir-”
Is too powerful… Should you fail they will force your hand … They will use the bond we share … I will sing forever, and you will walk, singing ruin with the sirine’s voice … and we will both become their slaves … You must finish this.
Sounds of battle echoed distantly from above. Ghaelya turned to the open mouth of the cavern, and the stars glittered in the soft blanket of night, winking at her as if from another world. Khault’s words could not reach her, but the effect of his voice on the song was unmistakable, breaking the melody slightly and causing the steady stream to waver. Tessaeril winced, flinching at the sound and straining to keep it at bay. It was then that Ghaelya felt hope slip beyond her reach and sensed the heavy presence of the sword at her side.
Her sister’s pleading eyes glanced at the blade.
The dreamers paced nervously along the edge of the crystal spires, growling as they gathered east and west of the sirine’s cavern, their glassy eyes fixed on the shambling thing that approached. Uthalion watched the beasts warily, though they made no move to enter the clearing and simply acted as curious witnesses to what was to come. Vaasurri crouched in the mist-grass, shaking his dark, grasslike mane and stretching his lithe body. The fine edge of his bone-sword still glinted dangerously in the moonlight.
Sweat and blood beaded like pink jewels and dripped in streams across the puckered edges of a scarred visage that leered at them from among the spires, prowling into the edges of the mist-grass. Uthalion fought the brief sense of relief he felt as Khault approached, knowing that Brindani must have fallen and using that knowledge to hone the cool fury within him that patiently awaited the first cut into Khault’s flesh. The old farmer’s shoulders were hunched and misplaced, bent at strange angles that exposed knobs of spiny bone. Gill-slits along his throat hissed with bubbles of crimson foam. Uthalion shook his head, pitying the nightmare a good man had become.
“Look well, Captain,” Khault uttered hideously. “I was remade in her dreams, blessed by her singing … A far cry from my nightmares in Caidris.”
“You defended your home; gave food, water, and shelter to strangers,” Uthalion replied angrily. “You took a stand and lost your wife. The nightmares of Caidris were earned-honorable scars that many men might envy, that I envied. What I do now honors that memory.”
Khault chuckled, a disquieting rumble edged with high-pitched echoes. He stood taller, growths writhing behind his back as he slid forward, his ruined face arching low on a distended neck. His tattered robes writhed with movement, as if he were unfolding, remaking himself into new shapes. Uthalion noted the fresh blood dripping from the torn, bone white robes and felt his pulse quicken.
“Did you know that I prayed for death, Captain? An honorable man weeping and begging to die?” Khault said. His features twisted in a snarl of contempt, exposing rows of sharp, triangular teeth. “Is this the answer to an honorable prayer? Is this what you envy?”
“No,” Uthalion growled, his lip quivering in anger. “You’re just a body. Just the remains of the man I knew.”
“Shall you bury me, Captain?” Khault said, crawling closer, his thin legs followed by a mane of tentacles growing from his back. Uthalion could see where scabrous, toughened skin grew in patches on his arms and neck. Long spines, nearly translucent and needle-sharp, protruded in rows from his jawline, giving him the look of something dredged from the darkest depths of a forgotten ocean where there was no need for the eyes he had scratched from his skull. “Would you drag me to Caidris and lay me down beside my wife?”
“You don’t understand,” Uthalion said, taking a step forward and motioning for Vaasurri to flank. “I don’t care what happens to you now … as long as it hurts.”
Uthalion charged, slashing at Khault’s arms. The twisted man rolled backward, rearing high as whiplike tentacles grabbed at Uthalion’s legs. They laced around his boots, tugging him off balance and laying him flat on his back. He hit the ground with a grunt as Khault bent low, his claws reaching for Uthalion’s face. But he kept his sword moving, slicing into the hands that sought to smother him. Khault howled in pain and skittered backward, releasing Uthalion’s legs as Vaasurri joined the struggle.
The killoren was quick, but his blade cut only ragged wounds that seemed to have no effect. Uthalion rolled to his feet just as Vaasurri was batted away, sliding through the mist-grass. Khault towered over him, hissing through his teeth and spreading his arms wide as if welcoming the steel that sought to pierce him. Uthalion took the opening and thrust at Khault’s stomach, too angry to worry about himself or draw the fight on any longer. The tip of the blade slid on the tough, slick skin, scraping a gouge that bled a thick, clear fluid.
Tentacles shot forward beneath Uthalion’s blade, punching him in the gut and staggering him backward as Khault knelt low and unleashed his terrible voice. Pure sound slammed into Uthalion like an invisible wall, hurling him to the edge of the sirine’s cavern. The back of his head pounded with pain, and stars filled his eyes as he gasped for breath.