The Gossamer Plain (20 page)

Vhok heard the sound of arrows smacking against the opposite side. He shrugged and turned away, sliding down to test. “Will they follow us?” he asked.

The canomorph made a strange barking sound, and the cambion realized it was a snort of derision. “They cannot,” Kurkle said. “They are great leapers, but the Islands are too much for them. Sometimes, they use magic to foray out here, but they cannot come in force.”

“Then we are safe,” Myshik said, his voice weak with weariness. “They will trouble us no more.”

Kurkle snorted again. “Nay, not safe,” he said. “Other things lurk here. We must be wary. Watch the skies, the flow between islands.”

Vhok eyed the territory with doubt. The sea of lava, dotted with mesas of solid land, stretched as far as he could make out in the hazy air. The molten rock sloshed and churned, hiccupping bubbles and gouts of liquid fire randomly. The whole horizon shimmered and wavered from the heat.

“How far does this go?” he asked.

“Not far,” Kurkle replied. “A short trek, if we were on solid land. But we must find a way to cross. Your magic,” he said, turning to Zasian. “Can you use it to let us walk upon the air, as we did before?”

The priest nodded. “You still can,” he said, “for a bit longer. But it will vanish after a time, and I cannot bestow it upon the others,” he said, gesturing at Vhok and Myshik. “The half-dragon cannot glide from island to island—some

are too far apart. Vhok? What magic have you?”

The cambion shook his head. “Not much,” he answered. “Too much went against the bandits, or to aid in escaping them. And I am bone tired, anyway. I say we stop for the day and resume our journey tomorrow. Zasian and I can plan new magic to help us cross this.”

“It’s not safe here,” Kurkle argued. “We should press on.”

“It’s safe enough for my magical mansion,” Vhok said. “You’ll have to come with us, Kurkle.”

The canomorph gave the cambion a doubtful look, but at last acquiesced with a nod.

“This wall of yours is handy, Zasian,” Vhok remarked as he dug the miniature archway out of his belongings. “The centaurs can’t see us disappear. If they do get over here, it will seem like we are long gone.”

With that, he summoned the portal leading into his posh extradimensional abode and gestured for everyone to enter. The cambion was the last to pass through the doorway, and once he was gone, the shimmering passage winked out of existence.

<Ť’

Though the mid-morning air was crisp and cold, the sun shining on Aliisza’s face warmed her skin. She drew a deep breath and caught the scent of fragrant blossoms emerging from the flaky-barked branches of a felsul tree in the tiny garden. Spring had come to Sundabar.

Two young children, a boy and a girl, played in the garden. They dug in a bare patch of dirt with their hands. As the boy made a path, the girl moved a wooden block painted to look like a coach along it. Neither of them noticed the half-fiend in their midst.

The children kept their voices soft, near-whispers meant only for one another. Aliisza could not make out what they said, but she caught an edge to their tones that hinted at apprehension. They played, as all children did, but they had dread in their hearts.

The door from the house opened, and the children’s mother—no, their older sister—emerged, clothed in a simple dress, perhaps a bit threadbare, covered with an apron. Her shoulder-length ebony hair framed eyes of brilliant blue, eyes that expressed deep sorrow in all that the young woman beheld. She offered a smile as the two children glanced up at her, but the expression belied the look in her eyes.

“Remember,” she said to the pair, “don’t leave the garden. I’ll be back near sundown.” Her tone was light and upbeat, but Aliisza could hear a catch in her voice that told a different story. “When you get hungry, there’s some bread and cheese in the cupboard. Don’t eat it all—I don’t get paid until the morrow, and that’s all we have left.”

The young woman moved to the garden gate, passing very near Aliisza. She never acknowledged the alu. She pulled on the latch of the gate and opened it. As she stepped into the narrow street beyond, she turned and gave the children one last smile, then pulled the gate shut after herself.

Aliisza saw the two children peer at the gate for some moments afterward. The boy sighed and turned back to his digging, but the girl, whom Aliisza could see was a few years older, rose to her feet and went to a bench beneath the felsul tree. She plopped herself down and hunched over, staring at the ground. Her eyes welled with tears. She drew her sleeve across her face, scrubbing them away.

“When I get bigger, I’m going to take Dada’s sword and kill that man,” the boy said, kneeling in the dirt. His eyes were watery, too. “I’ll stab him right in the gut.”

“No, you won’t,” the girl said, defiantly wiping her eyes. “Not even when I have to work for him, too.”

Aliisza had enough. With a snort of disgust, she turned away. The little wretches weren’t going to ruin her morning. She found herself standing outside the garden, near the gate. She could see the older sister making her way down the lane. The alu decided to follow. She didn’t know why.

The young woman crossed the square, pushing her way through milling merchants hawking their wares and the goodwives who bought them. Her gait was slow, almost reluctant. She paused for a moment to stare at a barrel filled with old, withered apples, and even at Aliisza’s distance, the alu could hear the girl’s stomach rumble. Tearing her eyes away from the food, the girl entered an alley. She passed a handful of doorways, the back entrances of several shops, until she came to her destination. She stepped inside.

Aliisza followed her, compelled to see what sort of man she might work for that would raise the ire of a mere boy. To her surprise, she discovered that the building housed a tailor’s shop. Bolts of fabric lined shelves along every wall, while spools of thread filled several wooden boxes atop work tables. A loom stood in one corner, a half-finished weave of fabric stretched across it. Two other doors led from the chamber, one toward the front of the building, most likely to the shop. The other door was on a side wall, behind a table bearing a pile of fabric scraps.

A squat man with greasy hair and an ocular clenched in one eye glanced up from where he had been sorting needles. He scowled. “You’re late,” he growled.

The girl lurched to a halt, dropped her head, and stared at the stone floor. “I’m very sorry, Master Velsin. I had the morning sickness again, and I just couldn’t—”

“I don’t care what ails you,” he snarled, stomping around

the corner of the table. He grabbed her by one arm and jerked her to face him more directly. “You’re to be here by seven bells, not a moment after. Next time you’re late, don’t bother coming at all.”

The girl’s mouth trembled as she stared at her employer. “Y-yes, Master Velsin,” she breathed.

“Now get in there,” the man snapped, flinging her arm free and jerking his thumb toward the side door. “Yrudis Gregan wants to see some new dresses.”

The girl cast her eyes down to the floor again and mumbled, “Yes, sir.” She moved woodenly, untying her apron as she approached the door.

Aliisza rolled her eyes, trying to feel uninterested in the girl’s plight, but she understood what the young woman’s illness meant and felt a pang of sympathy anyway. Despite her desire to leave the shop, to return to the street outside, she followed the girl.

The cramped chamber beyond was dim, lit only by a single oil lamp on a small table in the far corner. An obese man filled most of the rest of the room, his considerable bulk spilling over the sides of a single rickety wooden chair. He was dressed in plain clothing and wore an apron, though it was caked with flour and other smears. He sat with his arms folded across his chest, a severe look on his face.

“It’s about time,” he said, glaring at the girl. “I’ve been here since seven bells.”

“Yes, Master Gregan,” the girl said. “I’m sorry.”

“Of course you are,” the man replied. “Well, no more dilly-dallying. I want to see how they fit. Not going to buy my daughter such expensive dresses without knowing how they fit, you know.” He gestured at a disheveled pile of fashionable dresses heaped in the corner. “Start with the blue one,” he said.

“Y-yes, Master Gregan,” she answered, picking up the dress atop the pile. She held it up, looking at it.

“You don’t really think you deserve to put on dresses like that, do you?” the man asked, his tone demeaning. “They aren’t for trollops like you. You must think you’d be very pretty in a dress like that. Maybe even prettier than my daughter?”

“N-no, Master Gregan,” the young woman said forlornly. She began to unbutton her own dress, turning away as she slipped it over her head, leaving herself in only her small clothes.

“Stop that,” Yrudis Gregan said sharply. He leaned forward, an eager, lascivious grin on his face. The chair creaked in complaint beneath his bulk. “Turn around so I can see you. No trollop is going to tell me she’s prettier than my daughter. Turn around so I can see you!”

Aliisza found herself back outside the tailor’s shop. She was breathing faster than normal, and there was a tightness in her chest she hadn’t noticed before. She realized she was clenching her fists, and she relaxed them.

Angry? she thought. Am I angry? What do I care what happens to that girl? I didn’t do that to her. It’s not my problem. She turned to depart, prepared to dismiss all thoughts of the young girl from her mind forever, when she noticed a man standing in the alley, dressed in soldier’s gear, watching the shop.

An air of both sadness and fury hung about him, both at the same time. He stared at the tailor’s doorway, his eyes boring unseen holes through the walls to learn what was happening inside. Once, he almost took a step forward, as if he were going to march right in there and put a stop to it, but he didn’t budge. He just stood there, fighting against himself.

Aliisza knew, without knowing how she knew, that he was the girl’s father. His wife had died some years before, giving birth to the boy in the garden. He was their sole parent, taking care of the three of them ever since. She also knew that he was dead, a ghost like her, a figure no one could notice. He couldn’t help his daughter.

He had died not too many nights before, ambushed and slaughtered along with the rest of his Sundabarian patrol, the victim of fiendish ores under a gibbous moon in a narrow canyon.

?

Myshik awoke, just as he intended to, in darkness. His chamber was silent save for the gurgle of a fountain. It was nearly dark in the room, lit only by the soft glow of some magical light emanating from nowhere in particular. The half-dragon stretched and sat up.

“Come to me,” he commanded softly, and instantly, a figure stood before him, one of the servants Kaanyr Vhok had offered as part of the palatial accoutrements of his magical safehold.

The figure, a human woman dressed in diaphanous silks, smiled and waited, watching the draconic hobgoblin mutely.

Myshik arose from his bed and dressed quickly, donning his full armor and weaponry. He felt rested, refreshed. He was also giddy with anticipation. He checked over his gear once, twice, a third time, knowing he could make no mistakes and survive.

“Lead me,” he commanded softly. “Show me the door to the canomorph s chamber.”

Without a word, the servant turned and began to walk. She moved through Myshik’s own door into the tapestried and carpeted hallway beyond. She moved silently, crossing the floor on dainty feet that seemed to barely touch the ground.

The draconic hobgoblin followed, trying to emulate her as best he could. He was not a deft being, and his boots thudded more loudly than he would have liked.

The beautiful servant paused in front of a door, not far from the half-dragon’s own. She wordlessly pointed at it and stood still, watching him and smiling gently.

Myshik thought carefully about how to word his next instruction. If he did not explain it thoroughly and correctly, the consequences would be disastrous. Finally, he formulated his order. “Without disturbing Kaanyr Vhok in any way, enter his chambers, retrieve the sculpted archway that creates this place, and return with it to me.”

As the servant vanished, Myshik slipped through the door and entered Kurkle’s chambers. The half-hobgoblin was assaulted by overwhelming heat. He gasped as waves of it crashed against him, carrying the stench of burning stone. The ring upon the hobgoblin’s finger repelled the brunt of the devastating swelter, but he broke out in a sweat immediately.

The room looked nothing like a guest room. It appeared more like a small hollow upon the blasted landscape of the Plane of Fire, a sheltered spot among low stone ridges made of scorched and glowing hot rock. The light was dim, as it had been in Myshik’s room and in the hall outside, so his eyes had no trouble spying the figure curled up within the hollow.

Kurkle was sleeping in hound form, but his canine head rose up at Myshik’s approach. The canomorph let out a low growl and leaped to his feet as the half-dragon rushed at him. He hefted the dwarven war axe high in the air and swung forward.

Kurkle tried to jump clear of the strike, but Myshik was

too quick and the canomorph too slowed by the daze of sleep. The axe bit deeply into Kurkle’s flank. The impact reverberated with a rumbling boom and knocked the fiery creature aside.

Kurkle yelped in pain as he sprawled away. He tried to stagger upright, but his hind legs didn’t work properly. With a keening whimper, the canomorph began to shift form, changing into a half-ore. As he transformed, his belongings appeared, and Kurkle fumbled in a pouch strapped to his hip.

Myshik strode forward again. He pulled his axe back for another blow, eager to strike before his foe extracted the object he sought. Kurkle yanked a flask free and tried to guzzle the contents and roll clear of the draconic hobgoblin at the same time, but even as a humanoid, his injured legs hindered him.

Myshik slammed the axe down hard, splitting the half-ore’s skull.

Kurkle’s eyes went wide and glazed over as the concussive thump caved most of his head in. The flask fell from his hand and tumbled to the scorching ground. Its contents leaked onto the searing rock, evaporating in thick wisps of greenish steam. His body flopped onto the stones, limp.