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Authors: Kristen Britain
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the figure like live things in attack, fusing onto it, causing it to stagger backward. Though buffeted by the force, the figure shrugged off the magic and forged ahead, passing between the obelisks.
The ward stones shattered.
The white bolts of energy sputtered out and evaporated, and the figure vanished like a shadow in the night.
And then there was nothing.
Nothing but a haze of smoke. Darkness descended over the forest quenching the afterlight of the magic. Small campfires and lanterns still glowed here and there, insignificant and incongruous with the events of the last several moments.
Nothing moved. Was everyone dead, or, like Karigan, too terrified to move?
After a period of silence, there were finally some cries of pain and fear, invocations to the gods, and coughing. Karigan’s own throat was raw. Had she been screaming all along, or was it the result of simply holding back the screams she had been unable to loose?
The dread that once inhabited the clearing now advanced on her. It moved toward her like a great inescapable wall and surrounded her. Her screams came out as whimpers.
A figure emerged from shadow and paused before her. It was made of the night, and only the black dusty rags it had been buried in gave it a man’s shape. The moon shone on the pale face of a corpse. An iron crown of twisted branches gleamed upon its brow.
It lifted its arm and pointed at Karigan with a bone-thin finger. The gesture was like a lance thrust into her chest and she stumbled backward.
“Galadheon.” The figure’s voice rasped out of nothing, clung to her, wrapped her throat in cold fingers. “Betrayer.”
BENEATH THE CAIRN
The wraith of rags and shadow dropped its arm to its side. It tilted its face up and, curiously, it snuffled the air. Then it averted its dead gaze to something behind Karigan.
She whirled. Before her eyes registered the Eletian with his bowstring released, before her hair had the chance to settle on her shoulders, or before she could even draw a single breath, an arrow grazed her cheek and ear before hurtling onward.
She spun, following the arrow’s flight, but the wraith was gone, the arrow impaled in a tree. The dread that had cloaked the wraith was absent; the oppressive weight of its presence all but gone from the woods.
A current of night-cool air stung her face. With a trembling hand, she touched along her cheekbone and ear. When she withdrew her fingers, she found them smeared with blood.
“You should not have moved.” The Eletian’s voice was light and accented. It possessed the timbre of a cool, fast-flowing stream. “A hair’s-breadth more, and I would have killed you.”
Karigan glanced over her shoulder, trying to comprehend just the Eletian’s presence, much less her close call with arrow and wraith.
The Eletian strode past her. Pearlescent armor glowed in the moonlight, and rippled with subtle tints of green, pink, and blue, changing continually as he moved. From his shoulder pauldrons bristled odd, deadly looking spines, and barbs jutted in rows along his forearms. She watched him thoroughly bespelled.
He stopped before the tree and tugged his white shafted arrow out of the trunk. “My aim was true,” he said, “but one cannot kill that which is the substance of death.” On the arrow’s shining tip was a snatch of black cloth. He rolled his eyes to gaze at her without turning, and she perceived a tight-lipped smile.
He spoke in his own language and she thought of water smoothing over rocks in a stream. Despite its beauty, she found no comfort in it, though she could not explain why. Finally, using the common tongue again, he said, “Remember well the precision of my aim, Galadheon.” And before she could make sense of his words, he added, “Telagioth who leads us will speak to you in the clearing.”
Karigan stumbled away, wondering what new dream she had entered.
She picked her way among the slain, groundmite and Sacoridian alike. It appeared that
The ward stones shattered.
The white bolts of energy sputtered out and evaporated, and the figure vanished like a shadow in the night.
And then there was nothing.
Nothing but a haze of smoke. Darkness descended over the forest quenching the afterlight of the magic. Small campfires and lanterns still glowed here and there, insignificant and incongruous with the events of the last several moments.
Nothing moved. Was everyone dead, or, like Karigan, too terrified to move?
After a period of silence, there were finally some cries of pain and fear, invocations to the gods, and coughing. Karigan’s own throat was raw. Had she been screaming all along, or was it the result of simply holding back the screams she had been unable to loose?
The dread that once inhabited the clearing now advanced on her. It moved toward her like a great inescapable wall and surrounded her. Her screams came out as whimpers.
A figure emerged from shadow and paused before her. It was made of the night, and only the black dusty rags it had been buried in gave it a man’s shape. The moon shone on the pale face of a corpse. An iron crown of twisted branches gleamed upon its brow.
It lifted its arm and pointed at Karigan with a bone-thin finger. The gesture was like a lance thrust into her chest and she stumbled backward.
“Galadheon.” The figure’s voice rasped out of nothing, clung to her, wrapped her throat in cold fingers. “Betrayer.”
BENEATH THE CAIRN
The wraith of rags and shadow dropped its arm to its side. It tilted its face up and, curiously, it snuffled the air. Then it averted its dead gaze to something behind Karigan.
She whirled. Before her eyes registered the Eletian with his bowstring released, before her hair had the chance to settle on her shoulders, or before she could even draw a single breath, an arrow grazed her cheek and ear before hurtling onward.
She spun, following the arrow’s flight, but the wraith was gone, the arrow impaled in a tree. The dread that had cloaked the wraith was absent; the oppressive weight of its presence all but gone from the woods.
A current of night-cool air stung her face. With a trembling hand, she touched along her cheekbone and ear. When she withdrew her fingers, she found them smeared with blood.
“You should not have moved.” The Eletian’s voice was light and accented. It possessed the timbre of a cool, fast-flowing stream. “A hair’s-breadth more, and I would have killed you.”
Karigan glanced over her shoulder, trying to comprehend just the Eletian’s presence, much less her close call with arrow and wraith.
The Eletian strode past her. Pearlescent armor glowed in the moonlight, and rippled with subtle tints of green, pink, and blue, changing continually as he moved. From his shoulder pauldrons bristled odd, deadly looking spines, and barbs jutted in rows along his forearms. She watched him thoroughly bespelled.
He stopped before the tree and tugged his white shafted arrow out of the trunk. “My aim was true,” he said, “but one cannot kill that which is the substance of death.” On the arrow’s shining tip was a snatch of black cloth. He rolled his eyes to gaze at her without turning, and she perceived a tight-lipped smile.
He spoke in his own language and she thought of water smoothing over rocks in a stream. Despite its beauty, she found no comfort in it, though she could not explain why. Finally, using the common tongue again, he said, “Remember well the precision of my aim, Galadheon.” And before she could make sense of his words, he added, “Telagioth who leads us will speak to you in the clearing.”
Karigan stumbled away, wondering what new dream she had entered.
She picked her way among the slain, groundmite and Sacoridian alike. It appeared that
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