Depths of Madness - Erik Scott De Bie [111]
Gargan-that was his name.
Twilight wondered why he was' not with the others-why they seemed not to notice him. Were they cruel, these goliaths? She opened her mouth to call out.
Then she felt something tingling in the back of her mind, as though a gentle lover were kissing the back of her neck, though no one was there. She stood, eyes half-shut, relaxing in the peace, and allowed the phantom fingers to trace down her neck, along her bare back, down, down… to the starburst mark at the base of her spine.
It was only a thought in her head, but it sounded like words. Lover.
"Liet?" she asked, her heart fluttering.
Perhaps, came the mental reply. But not just now.
Then she saw demons emerging out of the corners of her world, and she pressed her palms against her temples. Maniacal laughter filled her, consumed her, and she screamed her way down into darkness.
Gargan stood amid pots bubbling over fires. He watched the elf writhe, claw, and moan in the sick tent.
Her neck and face stood taut beyond reason, veins bulging all along her body. Blood seeped from her mouth and nose, and her eyes rolled in their sockets. She wore nothing but sweat, her tangled hair, and staining poultices where her ivory skin had broken open under the pressure of muscles spasms.
It took three goliaths to hold Foxdaughter still enough for Mehvenne Starseeker Kalgatan, the clan druid, to administer healing magic and balms, all to no avail. Blood stained her fingers from wrists, throat, and face, and from those who restrained her now.
"There is a demon" the withered crone said. She reached to one of the simmering pots and drew out the long wooden spoon with a substantial helping of the ruddy orange mixture. "A demon inside. She has brought evil into our camp."
Gargan nodded. By necessity, he knew, that was the closest she would come to addressing him. He wanted to assuage the fears of the goliaths, and tell them of Foxdaughter's strength, but they would hear and not listen. It was forbidden.
The elf screamed and babbled incoherently. He could tell the depth of her agony, from her tone. Delirious, she delivered stunning kicks and cruel gouges to those who held her, fighting them off as though they were attackers rather than healers.
The frail druid-the oldest goliath Gargan had ever known-knelt beside her, without fear as ever, and seized the Foxdaughter's jaw. The elf clawed, but Mehvenne pushed her fingers away firmly but gently, as one might discipline a wayward wolf pup.
The elf gagged on the liquid the druid forced down her throat. It worked quickly, and her struggles slackened. Finally, the tent was silent and she slept peacefully.
Gargan had learned his herbcraft at Mehvenne's feet, and even the rudiments of healing from her, but he was still impressed at the power of her potions and poultices.
"Demons of the flesh," Mehvenne said, still not looking at Gargan, "and demons of the blood or heart. We can fight these. But demons of the mind and soul, we cannot."
Gargan did not pretend to understand the minds and spirits of elves, but he knew what she had endured in those depths. She had been right about a traitor in their midst. Gargan had never trusted any of the companions, but he'd given Liet the most faith.
Liet and Slip.
Gargan felt a twinge of regret for the little one, but the demands of fate outweighed those of friendship. He reminded himself of that looking at the shuddering, moaning elf who lay in agony on the furs and hides.
He stepped forward and the attending goliaths turned away. He did not blame them. If they acknowledged his silent existence, they would soon share it. As he took the elFs hand, only Mehvenne's eyes traced his square features-a tribute to her station in the tribe-but even she said nothing.
"Come back, little fox," he said in Common. "Wake."
Then the tent filled with a new sound, one that prompted hands to dart to crude hilts of stone weapons. Laughter.
The elfs lips curled back. "We have found her, monster," her voice said, with words that were