The Arcana: Shadow Wars, Codex I

Part I

The Flayers

Ebon Cove, Lyrcania — One month before the Night of the Burning Sky

Chapter I

In the Lighthouse

In which a detective encounters a terrifying foe

The screaming had stopped by the time they reached the dock. Watch-Huntress Alia Ironwing approached the corpse cautiously, letting her Ellura Aura Detector No. 8 lead the way.

Straight to the mess.

Steeling herself, Alia stared down at what little remained of what was once a man. Her apprentice, Sheridan, followed close behind her, lighting the way with his Ellura wand. Watch-Huntress Serafina brought up the rear, walking backwards to thwart ambush. As a Salamandra her sight was not diminished at night, so she appointed herself their sentinel.

Serafina stopped a few feet away from them and lolled her neck, audibly cracking the kinks out. The delicate chain of amulets threaded through her hair clinked a little as she moved. She shuddered, staring back down at what little remained of the man.

“If we had run a little faster,” she said, sounding bemused.

“Not possible. Besides, we would have met the flayer,” Sheridan pointed out, turning this way and that. The light of his Ellura wand joined the light of the full moon, and the glowlights of the lighthouse.

The lighthouse stood at the crest of the grassy bluff before them. Rocky, narrow stairs carved into the bluff led down to the beach where the unfortunate man had met his doom.

Serafina shrugged. Reluctant and weary at once, Alia knelt no closer to the body than necessary as she ran the detector over the still-steaming mess.

Ever thoughtful, Serafina held out her hand above Alia’s head, and within a heartbeat flames lit from her fingertips to the midpoint of her forearm. The silver embroidery in her silk, sleeveless pelisse softly flared up in response to her flame, turning Serafina into a walking lamp.

Now they could all see better. Unfortunately. Recoiling in disgust and horror, Alia fastened her eyes on her Ellura, to avoid seeing the corpse. After a short while, the soft beeps and subtle flashing green lights gave her confirmation of the dead man’s identity.

“This one was Gavin. The customs officer,” she said for the benefit of her companions.

“Interesting how the flayers know to come after the Brotherhood and no one else,” Serafina observed.

“So I noticed,” Alia agreed. In her mind’s eye, that thread only led to one place…

“This is the first body, though,” Sheridan pointed out. “The other three vanished without a trace. Why is there a body this time?”

Since midsummer, members of the Brotherhood began to turn up missing. Three men entered public places around town, and were never seen again. No sign of violence marked their passing. Strangest of all was the absence of blood, which seemed so unlikely in a flayer encounter, especially if the flayer took the sorcerers by surprise. More—without a chance for them to fight or flee, a disquieting detail. And now?

Skin, bones and teeth—all that remained of what was once Gavin.

The classic signs of a flayer kill.

Until now, their only evidence of flayers were the readings from the aura detectors, and it took Serafina to interpret the results. Which was unconvincing to skeptics, because what did she have to compare the readings to? Mechanical aura detectors didn’t exist when the flayers last appeared in the realm, forty years ago.

So rarely did flayers appear—and never under such quiet conditions—that no one imagined the creatures were involved until Serafina’s assessment. Surviving a flayer encounter was rarer still, and for this reason human sorcerers never managed to build up a body of lore regarding them.

However, the Salamandra possessed an extensive store of knowledge on flayers. In fact, only Salamandra ever tangled with them unscathed, which made Alia particularly grateful Serafina chose to team up with them. She gave them the edge they needed, against the brotherhood and the flayers both.

Now, with this evidence before her, Alia contemplated strategies for controlling events once the Brotherhood knew flayers were after them. The syndicate was her rightful prey, and for once she had a golden opportunity to get the better of them. But for the moment, the immediate problem took priority.

Another flash and series of beeps from the Ellura, and Alia’s blood began to race. “Looks like Gavin wasn’t alone. Junius was with him.” Somehow she kept her excitement out of her voice. She glanced up at the others, but Sheridan quickly fixed his gaze elsewhere.

Right. Likely her apprentice didn’t believe he had leave to speak freely on the matter, given he’d only known her four months. Both of them were still feeling their way. The most Sheridan knew of her was that she’d dedicated her adulthood to destroying Junius Fellrath, leader of the Brotherhood, and his business of capturing dryads. And that her interest was decidedly personal.

“Where is he then? Where are his footprints?” Ever meticulous, Sheridan swept the ground with his light.

A pair of footprints definitely indicated two people, Gavin and Fellrath, had disembarked from the dinghy and walked up the beach. But Fellrath’s ended abruptly in the sand.

Alia gasped at the implication. “Maybe two flayers came here. One killed Gavin, and the other must have taken Fellrath, like the others sorcerers were taken.”

Sheridan turned sharply to Serafina, and Alia suspected why: the flame-slinger was their insurance against one flayer. No one anticipated two.

Alia set her jaw. Under no circumstances would she squander this opportunity. Flayer or no flayer, they needed to strike now, while the Brotherhood was still unaware its head was missing. Soon enough one of the members would seize control when word got out of Junius Fellrath’s demise. Moreover, the flayers hadn’t eliminated the inner circle, which meant the power grab would be short and brutal. Whoever landed on top would be sure to render any intelligence she gathered here unusable. If she couldn’t get two steps ahead.

She rose.

The lighthouse loomed above her. By day its white limestone surface would shine unbearably bright in the sunlight. By night the glowlights gave it a silvery cast. The lighthouse rose from the center of a two-story plaza, with its shaft in three segments. A long rectangle formed the longest and tallest stage of the tower. Atop the rectangle, crenellated walls surrounded an observation plaza. She imagined sorcerers and soldiers alike raining down missiles from that deck.

Rising from the center of the first stage observation deck was an octagon tower, which she knew housed the keepers—and Gavin, whose official occupation was customs officer. A role that gave him the cover to access ships and move the dryads without arousing suspicion.

The octagon was not the pinnacle of the lighthouse. In the center of the octagon’s top deck, a staircase twined about a narrow cylinder, all the way up to the beacon. An excellent place to observe, without being observed in turn. Alia shivered at the thought. The element of surprise might not be with her, after all.

Nevertheless, certain questions needed answering: was the lighthouse also a prison for the dryads? The coastal location would allow for quick transport by ship.

“Are the flayers still around here?” Sheridan asked.

“The Ellura’s range isn’t that extensive,” Alia noted. “If the flayer is in the lighthouse, we won’t know until we get near the entrance. Sorry.”

Serafina said, “I don’t see anything, either. The gates to the lighthouse complex is closed, and the flayer’s tracks don’t go up that far. It dropped in, from out of nowhere.”

Alia squinted, trying to make out any tracks herself, and gave up. “Don’t they have to come out of nowhere? They aren’t from our realm, and I’ve always assumed they use some sort of portal to get here from whatever plane or world they live in.”

A detail which troubled her. No portal to their world should function. Not without permission from the Gate Wardens—the dryads.

Dryads were far too conscientious to let manslayers or any other foreign beings enter their world. Somehow, the flayers managed to slip past their guard, but Alia did not understand how they were doing it.

“Not a portal,” Serafina countered. “Not in the same sense we would mean it. Portals have fixed locations. Flayers appear where they wish, at will. At least, that’s how it looks to us. To answer your question, though, yes, they do seem to come from out of nowhere.”

Alia swallowed, unnerved by the possibility of flayers arriving out of thin air, with no warning or obvious reason. Only one comfort availed itself to her: the flayers might be deliberately targeting the Brotherhood, not taking them by happenstance. If so, she and her companions were in no danger … unless they were to stumble across a flayer already present. The Ellura should eliminate that possibility.

There was one thing she must do first, though.

“Switch places, you two. Serafina, look out for flayers. And you, Sheridan, hold your light over Gavin.”

Smothering a grimace, Sheridan did as she asked. While he dutifully held the light he kept his eyes on the forest in the distance, likely to check for flayers. Meanwhile, Alia searched what was left of Gavin’s clothing.

Tap pat. Tap pat. Sheridan’s fingers drummed against the sidearm holstered at his hip. The weapon was similar to Alia’s Dragon Pearl IV, in the Ember series by Hurik & Sung. How heady must it be to carry such power at his fingertips, when before he only wielded long knives?

Before they set out at sundown, Serafina—Hurik’s daughter—loaned Sheridan the firearm. Unspoken between them was the thought that if Sheridan ever came close enough to a flayer to use a knife, then he was too close. Throughout the evening, Alia often saw Sheridan’s hand stray to the sidearm, as if to reassure himself he had it.

A twinge of sympathy for him spurred her to search faster; better for all of them to get this part over with quickly. At least Gavin’s blood and gore wouldn’t penetrate her leather gloves.

At last her fingers grasped a keystone. Of course, for what self-respecting sorcerer would deign to use a metal key? Metal locks and keys were worthless if broken or stolen. Wards served sorcerers better, as did the special signet stones imbued with specific counter spells. Best of all, if a keystone were stolen, the sorcerer could re-set the ward to instantly kill anyone using that stone.

In normal circumstances Alia would have expected Junius to have done just that for places Gavin would have exclusive access to in the lighthouse, including his own quarters or his office. But in this instance she doubted the flayer would have given him sufficient time.

Armed with her prize, Alia led the way up the steps to the lighthouse. At the midpoint of the bluff the staircase was interrupted by a terraced walkway which led into the forest.

Here they made an unsettling discovery: the footprints of a flayer, immediately below the curb of the walkway.

Undeniably the huge, three-toed print belonged to something neither human nor salamandra. Claw marks gnashed at the soil, at intervals suggesting a long stride. Legends claimed the flayers to be tall, and at least one flayer lived up to the legend.

However, the aura detector assured them no flayer currently graced them with its presence, and so they passed into the lighthouse without incident.

Inside the first tower they beheld the grandeur of the lighthouse. A ramp, wide enough to support light wheeled traffic started not far from the doors, and disappeared from view behind the interior walls of the lighthouse shaft. Windows pierced the shaft, which would give them a glimpse of anyone on the ramp. That is, until the windows came to the coffered orichalcum ceiling which marked the end of the first floor of the tower.

Glowlights blazed in iron sconces flanking the windows. The lights glowed yellow at the ground level, then green about two thirds up, then blue, with white lights reflecting red against the ceiling. At the ground level, mosaic tiles on the floor depicted scenes of water nymphs at play.

Sheridan stared at the mosaic and stroked his goatee as he mused aloud, “This looks like it came from Rasena Valentis. They love mosaics there.”

Alia glanced at him, curious. “I didn’t realize you came from so far away.”

“I didn’t. But when I was a boy, two of my grandfather’s neighbors were from there. Their house used all these pretty tiles to make pictures on the floors.”

The lower walls of the tower featured alcoves containing marble statuary. Closer inspection revealed the statues were highly idealized versions of members of the Sun and Stars Society, who funded, built, and owned the lighthouse. Junius was a scion of one of the key members, a connection Alia had learned to rue.

A connection which reminded her speed was of the essence.

Serafina scoffed at one of the statues. The column of three tiny spikes down the center of her forehead remained golden, so Alia knew she was not angry, merely critiquing the quality of the art. Salamandra were famed for the coolness of their temper, and were slow to anger. A change of color in their spikes marked a sign of extreme emotion.

Nevertheless, Serafina often experienced a startling exception in the reputation of her people. When Alia was first trying to learn more about human society, Serafina revealed a strange prejudice humans possessed: a belief that red hair marked a person as uniquely hot tempered.

With her bright carnelian hair, Serafina was obliged to be twice as careful not to even hint she might be displeased about something. Because Alia was raised by dryads she lacked such preconceptions, which made Serafina feel more comfortable around her.

“You see it, too?” Alia gestured at the statues and sucked her teeth. “Whoever did these has heard of the Cassander marbles, but hasn’t got his skills. Shouldn’t money buy quality, not mere frippery? Look how stiffly they’re posed. Obviously these are simply customized versions of whatever that knock-off factory makes. Drop a custom head onto a template body, change the hairstyle, and there you have it.”

Serafina chuckled. “Oh, Alia. To think a dryad’s foster daughter would turn out to be an art critic! But I agree with you. Brennus Fellrath is fooling himself if he thinks we believe he was ever that chiseled.”

Alia prided herself on having an eye for quality. Keen eyesight was a boon to any huntress; why should she lose her edge just because she no longer stalked prey in the forest? Besides, the art of humans fascinated her, and gave her a much-needed window to their society.

Above a massive set of wooden doors a sign proclaimed, to the cellar. Forever after; however, Alia would refer to the lower level as the dungeons.

The dungeon was a dark labyrinth of narrow passageways. So few glow lights meant that one end of a corridor was always shrouded in shadows to whomever stood at the other end.

Stone and darkness; darkness and stone, Alia noted. How would a dryad react to such an environment?

Serafina raised her hand and led the way, the flames she generated lighting their path. Bringing up the rear, Sheridan held out his wand. Nothing would take them by surprise, not with his vigilance. Alia strained to hear anything other than their echoing footsteps and the clinking of the amulets in Serafina’s hair. After a while she decided it was fortunate Serafina’s amulets were all she heard. Silence meant they were alone, and safe.

Probably.

Many of the rooms served an innocent purpose, storing grain and supplies, but at last they came to a door of iron, the only such door they had yet seen in the labyrinth. Alia’s heart began to pound. No dryad could be defeated by a wooden door, but iron …

This door was warded, and Alia swore when her Ellura Ward Detector No. 8 revealed the nature of the barrier.

“A blood spell?” Sheridan asked. “That’s a little extreme, isn’t it?”

“It can’t be ‘picked,’ so it makes sense,” Serafina pointed out.

The ward detector normally allowed Alia to identify a warding spell and ‘pick it’ by using a spell of negation. Standard enough for a standard ward. As far as she knew, blood spells could not be evaded. The blood of a specific person was required, no exceptions. So whose blood did she need? Gavin’s? Fellrath’s? Or the blood of something not sapient? Perhaps all three?

Alia pounded on the door. “Is anyone in there? Aunt Nalini?” Most dryads were abducted from groves in Xia and other nations in the Gold Sea. But Aunt Nalini hailed from the same grove as Alia’s foster mother, which heightened her sense of urgency.

Though Alia held her breath and smashed her ear against the door, only silence answered her. Which meant nothing, as the walls and the door seemed thick enough to bar even a scream from escaping. A thought which summoned horrible images in her mind, and she violently shook her head as if to rid herself of them.

She turned to face her companions, and straightened.

“Fine,” she said. “Let’s call the others so we can secure this lighthouse. With Gavin’s death we have our pretext, so from now on we have leave to search here at will. And Fellrath’s home as well. If any one asks, we suspect a flayer is present; see who objects then. Furthermore, our people should detain and question anyone who comes here or to Fellrath’s house.”

“I’ll summon them,” Sheridan offered.

Alia was already striding down the corridor, making way for the surface. “Request the scryers and truth-seers, too,” she added. “Don’t forget to warn them about the second flayer.”

Back on the main floor, Alia and Serafina began their ascent to the second stage of the lighthouse.

On the way up, Alia pondered the blood spell. Usually the requisite blood would be acquired ahead of time, so Gavin probably stored the vials somewhere.

More, her hunch that the blood spell required three donations was likely correct. Sorcerers often did blood spells in threes, using three different types of people.

Not only that, but given the nature of the Brotherhood, she couldn’t imagine Gavin being permitted sole access to the dryads. Likely Fellrath would insist that a component of the spell include his own blood, or the blood of something he had exclusive access to. In fact, she was sure the latter case was most likely, as Fellrath surely wouldn’t want to require anyone to bleed him for any reason.

Alia took note of the names on the plaques to each floor as she climbed the tower. Ostensibly other businesses rented out space in the lighthouse, but in truth Junius Fellrath infested the lighthouse with people either under his thumb, or strongly connected to him and his operation. With Junius likely dead, he might now serve as her fulcrum to move his allies right where she wanted them.

As they walked they passed by Gavin’s office. Which Alia duly ignored, given that only a metal lock secured it. A sure sign Gavin kept nothing incriminating there. No, he would keep anything truly damning as close to himself as possible, which meant his own quarters.

At last they reached the first plaza deck. Cool air washed over them, and for the first time the scent of blood and viscera from Gavin’s corpse left Alia’s nose. The breeze lifted the flaps of the overcoat she wore, slapping it lightly about her legs.

Stars twinkled vividly in the sky, bestowing their radiance upon the heavens. Memories came to Alia, of her mother’s bower, and the countless nights she’d spent gazing up at the stars as a child.

Her mother taught her the names the dryads used for their favorite stars and constellations. In adulthood Alia learned humans did not use the same names, nor possess the same lore, which first emphasized to her how isolated she was from other humans. Commonalities she expected to find turned out to be gulfs of separation, and at times the gulf seemed unbridgeable.

Even her friendship with Serafina grew out of her ignorance of human society and their mutual need to learn about it. Still, Alia managed to give herself as best an education as she could, once she set herself on the path to take down Junius Fellrath.

Serafina called to her, bringing her mind back to the task at hand. By this time Sheridan had rejoined them, and they were contemplating the door to the second tower. Fortunately, the door used a conventional lock, which surprised them.

A laugh escaped her lips, and Alia’s shoulders shook at the release of tension. This she could deal with, easily.

From her coat she drew forth her own firearm. So proudly she carried her weapon, a special edition of the Dragon Pearl IV forged especially for her by Serafina’s father: dragon ivory stock, with a gold dragon for the barrel, and a muzzle slightly protruding from the dragon’s teeth.

As usual, her aim was precise. With a bang and a plume of smoke the locks fell away, destroyed.

Inside the second stage tower, they found Gavin’s apartment on the third floor. His keystone began glowing within three feet of the door, which swung open of its own accord when they were only inches away.

Gavin’s foyer was lavish, with a black sixteen-point compass star inlaid into the teak parquet on his floor. Life-sized paintings of Gavin in sumptuous clothing dominated every other wall—four altogether, on account of the room’s octagon shape. Ornate, gleaming gold frames encased each painting.

Again Serafina scoffed. “Is he making up for not having a sculpture of himself in the lobby?”

Sheridan laughed, but Alia, wide-eyed, was too entranced to react. Adjusting to human-style dwellings took her some time, but the few homes she usually visited were decorated on a more modest scale.

For her own apartment, supreme self-control kept her from carpeting her floors in blossoms, or threading the canopy posts of her bed with flowering vines. Such a practice would only be a pale imitation of her mother's bower, and Alia resolved to be true to where she dwelt now. However, she still remained uncertain of where to go from there.

But Gavin? Yards of silk upholstered his divans and armchairs, and paneled his walls. Gilt embroidery trimmed his furniture. Priceless artifacts took up almost all the space on his end tables. Or rather, copies of priceless artifacts, which Alia recognized from museum paintings, thanks to her ceaseless self-education efforts.

“Is this wealth from his job?” she asked. “Or from his life in the Brotherhood?”

“Option two,” Serafina replied.

They spread out, examining every nook carefully. This time, Alia used her Ellura to find evidence of an active spell. The detector would at least give her an indication of concealment or illusion.

The entryway was clean, as was the kitchen and dining room adjacent to it. Spiral copper, openwork stairs brought them up to the next floor, which housed Gavin’s library and stillroom.

The stillroom was where the trap awaited them.

Apothecary chests and jars lined the room, except for the wall directly across from the door, which had a door of its own. Presses, pots, vials, and jars cluttered up a massive table in the center of the room, and what surfaces these did not cover were filled in with scroll cases, codices and notes.

An open codex caught Alia’s eye and gave her pause. Her eyes narrowed as she recognized the spell: Gavin was studying a dryad ward of protection.

The ward looked similar to the one enchanted into the very fabric of Alia’s coat, by Alia’s mother. She shrugged off her top coat to hold it against the page for comparison. The deerskin leather coat, forest green, bore an engraving of almond blooms, with elderflowers about the hem and cuffs. When she ran her Ellura over it, the device revealed the subtle glyphs marking her mother’s enchantment against fire.

In silence Alia fought off the cold terror clawing its way through her belly. So what was Gavin planning? To make it possible to burn down a dryad grove? No, how could he? No human could check a dryad’s power. Not on their own …

But sorcerers did not act alone. Celestial spirits aided them, unless the sorcerer had fallen into perdition, lowering himself to dealing with fiends from Erebossa.

The Erebossi made for demanding servants; none offered power without cost. To receive sufficient power to directly cross a dryad would put a sorcerer into a debt not readily paid in a mortal lifespan. And infernal aid truly was required in this matter; no celestial spirit would participate in harming the daughters of the Huntress.

Salamandra fire could burn down a grove, but the Salamandra were subject to a treaty with the dryads. The Fire Lords and Ladies governing the various political factions of the Salamandra were obliged to swear a blood oath to uphold the treaty.

Salamandra policed their own, and took the treaty seriously enough to make skirting close to breaking it a grave offense, with terror-inducing penalties. Aside from this, Alia never found any hint they were involved in Fellrath’s Brotherhood. Nay, the Brotherhood of the Jackal was strictly the affair of human sorcerers.

Which was disquieting in itself. Whence came their power to poison dryad groves? Infernal assistance was absolutely required, she was sure of it.

Or thought she was sure. The dungeon gave her the glimmer of an idea, but she would have to talk to her mother to flesh out her thoughts.

How the sorcerers effected to blight dryad groves wasn’t the only mystery. Looming over her investigation was the question of the dryads’ fate once captured. Step one, sorcerers blighted their groves. Somehow. Step two, abduct dryads. And step three? Where were they taken? For what purpose?

“What’s this?” Sheridan asked, bringing her out of her reverie. Arms folded, he stood before a pair of bronze doors at the end of the room.

Alia raised her eyebrows. “Perhaps it’s—”

Geometric patterns etched into the door suddenly began to glow a bright copper, but what stopped her short were the illuminated lines beneath Sheridan’s feet. The lines formed a labyrinth pattern. A portal. Jolted by recognition, she started to cry out.

“Sheridan!”

He followed her gaze, and his mouth fell open in dismay. Visibly he stiffened his spine, but his eyes belied his panic.

“I can’t move,” he whispered.

Alia rushed towards him, ignoring the voice in her mind telling her she was too late. With mighty creaks and groans the doors began to swing open, admitting a blaze of coppery light.

The labyrinth pattern on which Sheridan stood sketched an imprisonment spell, one she knew he couldn’t free himself from. Could she? With all her strength she yanked on his arm, desperate to pull him out of the circle. Where would the portal would send him? Into nothingness? A prison? Another realm?

But true to spell lore, Alia’s efforts availed her nothing, for Sheridan wouldn’t budge. Worse, the doors were now completely open, forcing her to shut her eyes against the light. Two impulses warred within her. Either she abandon him to his fate—

She stepped into the circle with him, a split second before a roar deafened her and all went black.

The screaming sent Alia bolting upright, shocked into wakefulness. Momentarily disoriented, all she knew for certain was that her eyes beheld darkness, and her flesh ached against cold stones.

And her ears rang with Sheridan’s screams.

By instinct she reached for her Dragon Pearl IV ...

... which was holstered in her coat. On the table in Gavin’s still room.

Chilled inside and out, Alia sat motionless for a moment. Flagstones lay beneath her. Ergo, the portal hadn’t hurled her and Sheridan into oblivion. Excellent. Whatever happened next, they could handle it.

One thing at a time.

Easing herself to her feet, she waited for her eyes to adjust. Thin rays of moonlight filtered down from an unknown source above her, giving just enough light to see shadows.

Gradually she made out one shadow a few feet to her right. She froze. By its contours she concluded the shadow belonged to Sheridan. Who was no longer screaming. Excellent? Except, what made him scream to begin with? The man wasn’t prone to blind panic.

Clickety click click.

Every muscle in Alia’s body locked. Something sharp-footed was racing toward them, too fast for them to evade it.

Without warning a silvery light flared, blinding Alia. Too late she drew her arm over her eyes, only lowering it when her vision adjusted yet again.

Sheridan’s head was haloed by the light of his Ellura wand. With his profile presented to her, she didn’t miss the clench of his jaw and the flare of his nostrils. Tense, but unharmed, she noted, before she followed his gaze.

Before them stood an array of bars. Ah, so they were caged. No—imprisoned. In a cell. Thus, they were in the power of an intelligent being she might reason with.

But what was making that clicking sound? What approached them?

This time, the scream came from her own throat. Alia hadn’t realized she was backing away until she slammed against the stone walls, startling herself so that she screamed again.

Approaching them was a thing.

Slightly hunched, the creature was not quite as tall as the six-foot-two Serafina. Taller than Alia’s five-seven, and sufficient to loom. Menacingly.

Slender talons punctuated meaty hands. Raptor-like, the talons looked elegantly suited to tear apart the creature’s prey. Lithe muscles rippled beneath slick grey skin. Muscles which pulsed furiously as the creature began to dash towards them. Long, opposing talons on its huge feet supplied the source of the unnerving clicking sound.

A flayer.

The creature now stood just beyond the bars. Without warning its arm lashed out.

The surge of blood in her veins put Alia in a surreal stream of time, where events happened at lightning speed and glacial slowness all at once.

She lunged for Sheridan, instinct taking over, her body acting of its own accord as she grasped the cold metal at Sheridan’s hip—just as he arced away from her, his body airborne.

The cage bars rattled as Sheridan thudded against it. The noise brought Alia back to herself, and she stood facing Sheridan, aiming his gun at his heart. Quick and ragged, Sheridan’s breaths were all that marked his terror. He hung deathly still, immobilized by the flayer’s grip on his neck from behind. His feet dangled an inch above the floor.

Next to his head, the flayer pressed its face against the bars. It glared at Alia.

Egg-sized eyes bulged from a long, narrow face. Elliptical pupils narrowed in the light of Sheridan’s Ellura wand. The pupils slid back and forth. Was the creature sizing her up? Abbreviated nostrils flared; the flayer had snorted. In turn Sheridan flinched. Then the mouth opened in a perfect circle.

Sucker mouth, Alia realized. Inside it sat crisscrossing scissors. No wonder the organs of flayer victims were always missing …

How long she stood gaping in terror Alia didn’t know. But at last she found her voice.

“I will kill you quickly,” she swore. “I will not let you suffer.”

Sheridan met her eyes. His lips parted. Whatever he might have said was lost in their mutual shock at what happened next.

“Unnecessary.”

Sheer astonishment almost made her squeeze the trigger. Inwardly she rebuked herself, and steadied her nerves. Breathe. Just breathe.

Nothing in the archives hinted the flayers could speak. All available lore suggested the flayers were mindless, malevolent megafauna. Not even Serafina ever hinted they were sapient.

With steady hands, Alia kept her gun trained on the flayer. In the back of her mind she admitted the creature was unlikely to give her a clear shot. But she didn’t trust it to stay put, either.

Then again, it didn’t appear intent on going anywhere. Instead it snaked its free hand over Sheridan’s torso, resting its talons against his heart. The hand attached to those talons curved suggestively, poised to rip.

Sheridan’s gaze slid down to the talons. His expression turned blank.

Alia calmed herself by focusing on the flayer’s words: Unnecessary.

Please, by the Huntress, may it mean the flayer did not intend to flay Sheridan! The man was all of twenty-four, and seemed too good a person for such a death.

The flayer spoke again. In Pelasgian, Alia realized. How did it know Pelasgian?

“Know: We took your sorcerers. We called them to our realm and they came, and in turn we are here. In our world they will remain, and in your world we will remain, unless the famine ends.”

So the portal not only didn’t send them to oblivion, it hadn’t taken them to another, horrible world either. Slowly Alia exhaled in relief, even as she considered the flayer’s claims.

Again the lorebooks failed her. Flayers could invite people to their realm? For what purpose? And what famine? Visions came to Alia of sorcerers making a pact with flayers, perhaps to give them a sacrifice every so often. Such foolishness was not beneath wicked men the likes of Junius Fellrath.

“What is this famine? Why and how did you call the sorcerers?”

The creature raised its free hand and cuffed Sheridan’s ear. Sheridan began to hyperventilate, stopping only when the creature dragged a talon across his throat. A red sliver followed in its wake.

“I will not suffer evasions. Nor will I suffer the thieves to live. Thieves from your world drain ours of life. The thieves will meet an end, or we will claim your world in place of our own. Decide.”

Hmm. The flayers had a grievance? A legitimate one, by the sound of it. Thus, Alia weighed her words carefully before replying.

“Visitor to my world, know this: I serve the Huntress, as warden and protector of the people of this world. As servant of the Huntress, I suffer no incursions of blights upon the lands of this world. Nor blights upon other worlds. In the name of the Huntress, I will attend to these thieves you accuse. The man you hold is a huntsman, and I require him alive and well in order to help you—”

The low growl cut her off. Alia stiffened. The flayer’s eyes narrowed to slits. In anger? Or approval?

“Words are nothing,” said the flayer. “He stays. You go. Bring me the answer.”

Despair and sorrow threatened to overwhelm her. To leave Sheridan in such circumstances was unconscionable!

Forcing herself to meet his eyes, Alia whispered, “I’m sorry.”

If only she had reached for Sheridan instead of his weapon. Then she would have leverage over the flayer, and they both might escape alive.

With one shot available to her, she destroyed the lock on the prison cell.

At the threshold she hesitated. “Do you honor agreements and vows? I have vowed to help you, and I am bound by that vow. Do you vow to refrain from harming my friend? Will you bind yourself to that promise?”

“When you return he will be here.”

“Alive? Unharmed?”

The flayer’s lips receded, showing her its teeth.

“Alive. Unharmed.”