The Shattered Land_ The Dreaming Dark - Keith Baker [101]
Mate? “Of course I am, and what’s that going to involve? Eating hot coals?”
The elf held out his hand, and the scorpion crawled off of Daine’s back, returning to its master’s wrist. “I am Shen’kar, Vulk N’tash of the Qaltiar.” He rose to his feet. “If you have been misled, I offer you this chance to return to the righteous path and leave our land. Lie to me, and I will hunt you in this life and the next.”
He called out in Elvish, and Daine heard his comrades answering the call. A moment later someone cut the cord binding Daine’s wrists and ankles together, but even as he stretched, he felt a new rope being tied around his left foot.
“What’s this?”
“You promise the proof,” Shen’kar said. “He wakes and is ready. Now is the time to show.” He exchanged a few more words with his companions, and the hilt of some sort of weapon was pressed into Daine’s hand. “Your mate still sleeps; we stand with her and watch. Prove your words. Flee and she dies.”
Now the cords binding his ankles together were cut, but there was a separate tether around his left shin. He tested it—the knots were tight, but there was no pressure on the rope. Two of the dark elves pulled him to his feet; glancing sideways, he saw that one was the woman he had fought earlier. Her black skin was tattooed with a series of white streaks that reminded him of tears, and he could see the cuts and contusions on the side of her head where he’d bludgeoned her. She stared at him, her large eyes blank and impossible to read.
“Little time,” Shen’kar said. “Prove swiftly. Then we decide your fate.”
His two guards stepped away. Shen’kar darted forward, Daine’s dagger in his hand, and Daine felt the cords binding his wrists fall apart. He flexed his arms, wincing at the stiffness, feeling the weight of the weapon he’d been given—a heavy wooden baton with a carved hilt.
“Act,” Shen’kar sang. “Kill the firebinder.”
Daine turned around. He saw that he’d been bound with vines, not ropes. The vine still wrapped around his left ankle ran a short distance across the clearing, to the leg of another man. The captive’s arms were bound behind his back, and he was gagged with a thick vine, like a horse with a bridle. Daine took a step back and the cord between them snapped taut, pulling the victim into the moonlight.
It was Gerrion.
Lei was exhausted.
The tireless warforged were marching through the night, heading deeper south through the jungle. Lei’s hands weren’t bound, but there was no question that she was a prisoner. Hydra was shadowing her, following to either side, arm blades set and ready to strike. The little warforged was hungry for vengeance, but so far Pierce and Harmattan were holding him in check. Harmattan had agreed to spare Lei’s life—but only so long as she could keep up with the others. To her surprise, Pierce had agreed to this.
There were six warforged in the band that had captured them, but as it turned out, there were really only three. The four scouts weren’t just identical in appearance—they were controlled by one mind, a force that called itself Hydra. Lei had never heard of such a thing, but the evidence was incontrovertible. The scouts often moved in perfect unison, and when they didn’t speak at the same time, they would finish one another’s sentences. They even had the same ghulra—the mark of life on the forehead, a symbol that was supposed to be unique to each warforged. The consciousness of Hydra stretched across all of his bodies, and he had fought them on the icy beach. He’d felt the pain when Lei had destroyed that body—and given the opportunity, Lei was sure he’d take vengeance. Hydra rarely spoke, but he was always watching Lei with at least one set of eyes.
Harmattan was a greater mystery, a ghost of metal and wind. His body was formed from bits of broken armor, shattered blades, arrowheads, and splinters of steel too small to be identified. He had no skeleton, no frame—he was just a mass of metal pulled together by magic.