The Fading Dream_ Thorn of Breland - Keith Baker [47]
Shan Doresh had committed the full force of the Fortress of Dreams to the struggle, but the Cul’sir host was a terrifying foe. All around her, Thorn’s brothers and sisters matched their speed and skill against the might of an army of giants. Steel and darkwood were the least of the weapons being brought to bear.
A giant raised his hand, and lightning lashed down from the sky, scattering Thorn’s kin. In return, one of the dreamshapers called forth a vision of hope—an image of their lord, as tall as a giant himself, wielding a curved sword that glowed like the moon itself. The dream titan charged the storm summoner, and lightning clashed with lunar radiance.
There was no time to watch the battle. Thorn had troubles of her own. She caught sight of the lord’s banner ahead, the half-closed eye held within the horns of the crescent moon, moon and eye shining in the darkness. But the enemy was upon her. The giant was smaller than the warrior Thorn had just brought down, and he wore robes instead of armor. He was a slaver, not a soldier, and was surrounded by a half-dozen thralls, the unfortunates Thorn’s people had come to save or, failing that, avenge. She’d heard that they had been twisted by foul magics, that they weren’t truly eladrin anymore, and looking at them, she could believe it. There was no light in their eyes, just dull whites and dark pupils. They were the eyes of a creature born of Eberron, not an heir to Thelanis. Could that spirit be returned? It was beyond her knowledge, but she didn’t want to kill them if she could avoid it. They had no such compunctions. Whether they were driven by enchantment or merely beaten into submission, they charged her, wielding knives and clubs. She tried to leap through space, but it was too soon; it was difficult to reach Thelanis in that time of shifting. If she could just push past the and, bring down the slaver, perhaps the slaves would be released.
It was a fine thought, but the slave warriors had no intention of letting her through. It was all she could do to stay alive as they slashed and swung at her, harrying her from all sides. She struggled to defend herself, but there were too many. The world went white as a club caught her in the back of the head. There was a flash of pain as a dagger tore the flesh of her arm. Her blade fell from stiff fingers, and she knew the end was near.
Then he was there. Shan Doresh, the lord of the fortress. His silver armor gleamed, the lunar eye at his breast blazing with his fury. He raised his hands, and the slaves dropped their weapons, falling to the ground in deep slumber. The slaver froze, his face a mask of fear.
For a moment she dared to hope. Then a voice thundered across the battlefield, louder than any mortal voice should be. “I TIRE OF THIS GAME, LITTLE ONES. YOU AMUSED ME FOR A TIME, AND THAT TIME IS OVER.”
She felt a strange tingling in her nerves as the voice roared around her, a terrible sense of vertigo. Was the world … was the world fading?
“YOU ARE CREATURES OF TOO MANY WORLDS. BORN IN THE FEYWILD, BROUGHT TO OUR LAND, AND DRAWING ON THE POWER OF DREAMS. TWO WORLDS TOO MANY … AND ONE YOU’VE NEVER TRULY SEEN. LET DREAMS BE YOUR HOME NOW, AND LIKE A DREAM, BE SOON FORGOTTEN.”
Her lord held his hands high, and she could see reality rippling around them. For a moment she hoped that he could counter whatever vile sorcery the Cul’sir emperor had prepared. But the chill was spreading throughout her. It was like shifting through space, but it wasn’t the warm woods of her home that were taking shape around her. Just