The Fading Dream_ Thorn of Breland - Keith Baker [33]
She opened her eyes and tightened her grip on the rope binding her to Drix and Cadrel. A quick slash with Steel severed the connection. “Both of you. Back. Hide in the mists if you have to.”
“I wouldn’t.” She’d heard that voice only once, but Thorn remembered it clearly. “My soldiers are already in there, waiting for you.”
Cazalan Dal stepped out from the shadows of a shattered building, into the light of a cold-fire streetlamp.
“Welcome to Seaside, my lady. I’m glad you could make it.”
The scar running down his face bent with his smile, and his dark sword took shape in his hand.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Seaside, the Mournland
Barrakas 23, 999 YK
Once upon a time, the streets of Seaside had been filled with life and laughter. It had been a resort before the Last War, and even during the war, it was a favored destination for Cyran sailors seeking to forget the terrors of battle. The people of Cyre had always been proud of their unbreakable spirits, their ability to sing and laugh even in the darkest times.
No one was laughing in Seaside that day.
Thorn had heard of places in the Mournland where the dead wouldn’t rot, where you could find soldiers whose bodies were perfectly preserved, still bearing the wounds from a battle fought five years past. Not so in Seaside. They’d crushed bones on the beach, but there were no bones to be seen in the city, only clothes. A dress was spread across the cobblestones in front of Thorn, its bright blue and yellow pattern muted in the dim light. A colorful parasol lay a few feet away, the handle wedged between two stones. Even as she was evaluating the threat, Thorn realized that there were clothes spread all around the street, gowns, uniforms, even the gleaming mound of an abandoned chain mail shirt. There were boots and gloves. It was as though the people had vanished completely, leaving only their clothes behind.
Cazalan Dal stood in the center of the empty street. A silk scarf was caught beneath his boot, crimson folds fluttering in the faint breeze. The soldier was dressed in the same black uniform he’d worn in Wroat. He held his dark sword in his right hand, and a wand in the left, leveled at Thorn and her companions.
“Well, this is a surprise,” Thorn said, keeping her tone light. It wasn’t entirely. Ever since Zane had told her that the bodies hadn’t been recovered in Wroat, she’d had an uneasy feeling about the Covenant of the Gray Mist. Right then she needed to keep him talking. She traced a cross on Steel’s hilt as she spoke. “Are you saying that you tracked us through the mists?”
“Your boy is good,” the man said. “But this is our calling. Spend enough time in the shadow, and your eyes adjust to the dark.”
Gray hair, gray eyes, Thorn thought. The color of the mists.
“You talk a good game; I’ll give you that,” she said. “But surely you don’t expect us to fall for ‘I’ve got friends hiding in the mists.’ What’s next? A dragon behind the building?”
“No dragon. And I didn’t say they were my friends. But they are here, nonetheless.” He raised his sword, and two arrows emerged from the mists and whistled down the street to either side of him. “Only a few can see so well as to shoot in the mists, but I assure you, they aren’t alone.”
He’s using the same equipment as before, Steel reported. Shifting blade. Shiftweave clothing. Evocation in the wand and charged for use—the blast of fire, unless I miss my guess. I don’t know about his friends in the mists; I still can’t penetrate it. Beyond that, there’s something about him I can’t put my point on. A faint aura that surrounds him and infuses him, not unlike that of the mists themselves.
The wand’s the problem, Thorn thought. If it was the same as the one he’d carried in Wroat, a single blast could engulf all three of them. And while fire might not hurt her, she didn’t have any sort of special immunity to arrows in the back of the head.
“Covenant Dal.” Essyn Cadrel hadn’t spoken since they entered the mists. He took a step forward, a slight smile on