Curse Of The Dark Wind (Book 6) (26 page)

“It must be in our blood to dance when upset,” says a male voice from where Luke is resting.

The gypsy whirls around and flings a stiletto at the middle-aged man sitting next to the snoring half-elf. The weapon passes harmlessly through the stranger’s head and thuds into a slender tree. As if the attack ruined his hair, the man fixes his neat black tresses with a simple brush. He gracefully hops to his feet and adjusts his royal blue tunic, making sure the ornamental collar is centered on his throat. Spinning his arm, the phantom sends the stiletto toward Sari and slips the hilt into her hand.

“I’m surprised to have run into you. In fact, I’m surprised to even exist,” the ghost admits with a charming smile. His green eyes shimmer with warmth, putting the girl at ease. “I thought I would be locked up for so much longer. Maybe seeing you in distress woke me early. Now that I look at you, I can see some resemblance to Metis. At least when she turned human, but I always saw her as the beautiful naiad she was.”

“You’re my ancestor,” Sari says, doubt dripping from her words. She jumps back when the man bows to her, his head passing through the bed. “No sudden movements because this is strange. I can understand part of Metis being inside me, but you’re a human. Well you’re a ghost now, but I doubt you had enough magic to bond with your bloodline when you were alive. No offense, sir.”

“Who said I was coming from you?”

“Then . . . where?”

“That’s something even I’m not sure about.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

The phantom drifts closer, cornering Sari against a tree. “It is what it is. We don’t have a lot of time to converse. So I would appreciate it if you stopped asking questions and let me say what I have to say. I’m here to help after all.”

The blue-haired gypsy cautiously watches the specter, her eyes hunting for any sign of deception. For a brief moment his features shift and twist, masking whatever dark emotion flickers in his pupils. She curses when she realizes that she cannot read him, the ghost’s demeanor a confusing storm to her instincts. Drawing a second dagger, she spins both weapons and circles around the specter to stand near Luke.

“It’s possible I’m exhausted and subconsciously created you,” Sari says more to herself than the phantom. “Then again, you’re acting too independent to be an illusion. Do you know why you’re here?”

The ghost appears on the other side of Luke and bends down to examine the half-elf’s flushed face “It’s a shame you’re following in my footsteps. We both fell in love with people who will cause us pain in the end. Don’t give me such a shocked expression. He may choose the other and your heart will be torn asunder. The Callindor may even die today and again you will be left crying. Relationships for our family are risky and have a history of ending poorly.”

“My parents were great together.”

“They were also devoured by zombies, which proves my point,” the phantom bluntly states. Pain flashes across his face at the emergence of an old memory. “Did you notice that the entry about me in your bloodline diary never mentions my name? It fails to tell how my story ended too.”

“I don’t like where this is going.”

“Our family saw me as a disgrace after a certain incident,” the man explains, tucking his hands in his pockets. His voice turns into a garble of noise as he continues speaking, the words returning without him noticing they were ever gone. “As expected, the family refused to support me and sided with the Grand Matron. Metis passed every test and was allowed to die from their selfish decisions. I would like to say that nobody could blame me for being angry and wanting to prevent it from ever happening again. True, I may have gone too far, but I made my bed of bones and I’ve been comfortably sleeping in it ever since.”

Sari eyes the ghost suspiciously and waves the stiletto at him, knowing how ridiculous she may look. “Your voice cut out, so I missed the actual story. Did you do that on purpose or are you forbidden from speaking about it?”

The handsome man is about to speak when his attention is drawn away. His body flickers as he appears to watch something in the distance. Sari follows his gaze in time to see a shadowy figure dart behind a tree. Another flits across a gap in the forest, the slender form carrying a curved blade and shield. Expecting the phantom to be gone when she looks back, she yelps in surprise when he is standing within inches of her.

“It would appear we’ve run out of time,” he declares with a sigh. He walks through Luke, shivering from the touch of the half-elf’s infection. “General Vile and a group of chaos elves are after you. I’m sure they’re here to kill you and the Callindor. If this works out, you’ll avenge your murdered clan. Thought you should get a warning before I left. Too bad we didn’t have any more time to chat.”

“Tell me your name,” Sari demands as she moves away from Luke. Her emerald eyes follow the dark forms, but she is unable to tell how many enemies she is facing. “I’d really appreciate knowing who you are since we’re family.”

“It might not be the best time.”

“It might be the only time.”

“Very well, but I tried to warn you,” the phantom states, his body fading away. He bows and his eyes erupt into crimson orbs. “My name is Tyler.”

Sari is caught off-guard when the chaos elves charge, her mind reeling from the ghost’s final word. The assassins are nearly upon the gypsy when the snow swirls and rises into a wave that pushes them back. Shaking her head clear, Sari darts to the side and hurls a dagger into an enemy’s chest. The others give chase as she uses the snow and ice to glide out of reach, the gypsy never straying very far from her helpless friend. Ducking under a wide slash of a cutlass, she slips her hand into a snowdrift and flicks her fingers. A lance of ice spirals out of the ground and impales the nearest assassin through the throat. Spinning around the falling body, she throws another dagger at a female chaos elf that is approaching Luke. The weapon hits the swordswoman in the head, dropping her at the base of a tree.

“Leave us alone!” Sari desperately screams, charging the nearest enemy.

The gypsy’s opponent parries her stiletto and strikes her in the head with his shield. He hesitates long enough for Sari to drive the hilt of her weapon into his groin. Feeling groggy and her vision swimming, she stumbles away from the collapsing chaos elf. She awkwardly dodges a hurled spear, the crude head grazing her side. The weaponless assassin rushes forward and leaps to tackle her to the ground. He feels his shoulder dislocate when he hits the immovable gypsy, so he attempts to roll away. Before the warrior can get to his feet, the snow around him turns into a toothy maw and swallows him whole.

“Nice spell,” a female chaos elf says, watching her companion cower from the effects of Sari’s illusion. With a muttered spell, a crackle of lightning dances between the woman’s gloved fingers. “Odd that you’re suddenly going non-lethal after killing three of my friends. Are you already weakened?”

“Heat of the moment has worn off,” the champion answers as she circles the caster. “I’m only going to kill the ones that go after Luke. So it’s best that all of you focus on me if you want to survive this.”

“That’s very kind of you, but you’re the one we’ve been sent after. The warrior is not really our concern.”

“It doesn’t mean we won’t kill him,” General Vile announces. The halfling is kneeling next to Luke with a blood-dripping shortsword held back for an easy killing blow. “Drop your weapon and turn on your special power. Stephen wishes for you to suffer before you die.”

“Don’t torture the girl,” the other caster argues. She bravely approaches Vile, leaning forward to whisper. “You told us she didn’t have to suffer. We should simply kill her and leave because the others could return soon. Besides, my queen has a soft spot for this girl and I would hate to be involved in something that upsets her.”

General Vile sighs and lets his sword arm fall to his side, his eye turning to the nervous gypsy. With a swift flick of his wrist, the halfling’s shortsword slices through the chaos elf’s neck. The Eblem poison works quickly and blood gushes from the wound, the woman’s choking gurgles making some spurt out of her mouth. He moves to the other side of Luke to avoid the pooling mess and aims his shortsword at the slumbering half-elf again.

“Do as I say or the same thing may happen to your friend,” Vile says, his voice cold and steady. “I’ve no idea how the Eblem blood will react to the living curse. It could turn him into a monster or grant him an agonizing death. I suggest you not push me to find out.”

“Okay,” Sari replies in defeat. Her body grows a thick layer of frost, but she stops when the halfling clears his throat. “What? You wanted me to use my powers.”

“Not the naiad abilities,” he states with a cruel grin. He beckons to one of the remaining chaos elves, who nervously walks into the open. “You can prevent yourself from being moved, but you still feel pain. Turn that on and let me find out how much you can take. I promise this will be brief.”

“I’m really getting tired of you people torturing me,” the gypsy mutters, snapping her fingers to give a show of her immovability turning on.

General Vile points his finger at the anxious chaos elf warrior, who draws his longsword and takes careful aim. He strikes her arm with the flat side of his blade, which quivers from the impact. The warrior beats on Sari’s limbs and sides while she patiently waits for Vile to call for the painful assault to stop. At the halfling’s request, the warrior attempts a few stabs to her shoulders and knees. The tip pushes in enough to draw blood, but the weapon is shoved out of the wounds by an invisible force. Feeling brave and hoping to end the display, her tormentor slams the hilt of his sword into her forehead. With a surge of anger, Sari draws her stiletto and stabs the chaos elf in the stomach. Both collapse to the ground, but only the gypsy is able to drag herself to her hands and knees.

“I prefer to be quick, but Stephen wanted a show,” the halfling soldier says as he approaches Sari. He kicks her in the head when he gets close, knocking her onto her back. “Now you’re truly defenseless.”

Vile lifts his poisoned blade to strike, but his body jerks and he emits a gasping cough. As she rolls over, Sari can see the end of a shortsword sticking out of the warrior’s chainmail-covered chest. With eerie grace, a hand holding a dagger swiftly comes around and pulls back to slit the soldier’s throat to the bone. Vile falls to the ground dead, giving Sari a clear look at the brown-haired halfling standing in front of her. His leather armor is battered and there are smudges of dried blood on his gloves, making the gypsy think this is not the first life he has taken.

“Bye, dad,” the newcomer says, his voice teeming with bitterness. A friendly smile crosses his face when he looks at the gypsy and extends his hand. “My name is Nimby. I think it’s about time we talked.”

10

Heart racing and palms sweating, Timoran hides in the darkness with Fizzle crouched on his shoulder. They have been patiently waiting for Zander to join them for what feels like an hour, but may only be minutes. Realizing that they cannot wait any longer, the barbarian gets on his belly and crawls down the smooth hallway. Powerful gusts of wind rocket over him and he feels the Dark Wind harmlessly lashing at his back. He stops when a gangly shadow steps into the distant light and leans forward as if trying to spot the warrior. The creature unleashes a faint howl and wanders off, leaving Timoran to continue dragging himself forward.

“What that?” Fizzle whispers as he crawls next to his friend.

“I assume the source,” Timoran replies, struggling to keep his voice low.

“How we beat?”

“There is that wind-enhancing gem that John gave us.”

“Use now and see.”

“I do not know. It could be something we use after we destroy the source.”

“Then what we do?”

Timoran stops and thinks, his eyes watching the doorway for the return of the shadowy creature. He hears echoing howls from ahead and several shadows dart across the chamber’s entrance. Reaching into his belt pouch, he draws a flask of Ifrit mead and greedily drains every drop. He can see the form of Fizzle staring at him, the curious gaze of the drite easily sensed in the near darkness.

“The crystal enhances the scent that is on the breeze,” Timoran explains, feeling the alcohol warm his belly and steel his nerves. “I was told to use a potent smell, so I chose Ifrit mead. It is now on my breath, so all I have to do is blow on the crystal. Hopefully it works and we can cleanse the Dark Wind from the region. Are you ready for battle, little one?”

“Fizzle do best,” the drite declares as he crawls forward. “How we fight?”

With a broad smile, the barbarian moves to the edge of the darkness and silently draws his great axe. “I shall fall back on the tried and true tactics of my people. I will swing my weapon until all my enemies are defeated. I trust you to use your magic, my friend. It is likely that you will be more successful than I.”

“Fizzle protect friend,” the dragon hisses, patting the warrior on the shoulder.

Timoran nods to the drite and focuses on the vast chamber to get his eyes adjusted to the bright light. Shadowy figures drift around the cavern, their tall bodies and gangly limbs swaying in the whipping wind. Wisps of darkness constantly float off the hazy creatures and pour into a churning orb in the center of the room. A howling wind erupts from the shimmering back wall and disperses the globe, transforming it into a wave of Dark Wind. Timoran holds his breath as the living curse is fired into the hallway and launched up the chute.

After getting a sense of the terrain and a general idea of the creatures’ movements, Timoran crouches and waits. Fizzle crawls up the wall to get out of the barbarian’s way, his scaly body turning invisible. One of the creatures drifts by the entrance and faces the warrior, who pounces and swings his axe. A startling wail erupts as the shadowy monster explodes and its remnants streak into the ceiling. For a second, Timoran thinks his eyes are playing tricks on him when the darkness far above his head shifts like a gentle ocean. He grips his weapon when more of the creatures rise from the mass of ooze-like Dark Wind that he mistook for shadows among the stalactites.