Chapter 3

Afterwards, Sam cradled Neana in her arms. The Changeling was, by nature, a hugger. She had dropped the ir'Arth disguise and put on the face she usually wore around Neana; that of a young female half-elf, with coppery red hair and dark green eyes. In all other ways she resembled her natural state; instead of being disguised as another person, she simply became Sam the Khorovar instead of Sam the Changeling. It was a Changeling custom, she had explained, intended to put the members of other races at ease while still maintaining a Changeling's individuality. Neana preferred this form to Sam's real one. Although she would never say it to Sam's face, for fear of hurting her feelings, she found the Changeling's true form to be unnerving. It wasn't an ugly face, but it was alien and sexless and cold. Neana had a difficult time kissing her nearly nonexistent lips, staring into her milky white eyes, or being aroused by her practically boyish body. That she did so, from time to time, was a mute testament of her deep commitment to their friendship.

"I love you," Sam said.

"Yeah," Neana replied. "I love you too." Every time she said it, it was a little easier than the last. Either she was getting to be a better liar, or she meant it. Neana wasn't sure herself; she and her emotions were reluctant acquaintances.

The Changeling snuggled against Neana, altering her shape to make it fit seamlessly to the other woman. Sam asked, "Did you hear something a few minutes ago?"

"Yeah, a lot of things. 'Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods, this is wonderful, keep doing that, yes, yes, yes, I'm almost there,'" Neana deadpanned.

"No, damn it," Sam laughed. "Like a loud bang."

"I think my foot hit the wall at one point. Does that help?"

"Fine, be that way." Sam said.

They lay in silence for a time, impossible to tell how long. Cradled in warmth and comfort, and doubly exhausted by both her months at sea and her more recent exertions, Neana dozed. Her eyes snapped open with a jerk when Sam spoke, "Something feels wrong."

"What?" Neana asked, irritated.

"I don't know. There's just this sense I get, in the back of my mind, that something is going wrong. A foreboding. You know what I mean?"

"Sure."

"Maybe it's the war. It's not going well for our side."

"Pfft," Neana snorted. "It's not going well for anyone's side. Cyre's doing fine, comparatively."

"How can you say that?" Sam retorted. "We lost the South–"

"Traitorous fucking elves!"

"Yes. Okay, granted." Sam sighed. "But still, we did lose the South. And the East, even though that was nothing but halflings and desert. And Breland took the southwest territories."

"And then the gobbos took it right back from Breland." Neana countered.

"I'm just saying that we're losing more than we're winning lately."

"It's the nature of war," Neana shrugged. "And that's all old news anyway. Decades old. The Hobgoblins betrayed Breland before you were born. The elves betrayed us before I was born. The border lines get redrawn a dozen times every year."

Sam laughed. "I forget, sometimes, that you're an old maid."

"Not. That. Old." Neana made her voice iron.

"You're just lucky that when I'm old and wrinkled, and you're still looking young and pert, I'll still be able to make myself look any age I want. People will see the two of us and think that I'm your daughter."

Neana didn't respond. Privately, she doubted that this relationship, or, frankly, she herself, would ever survive to see old age. It worried her, the way Sam kept growing closer and closer, insinuating herself in dozens of tiny ways into Neana's life. Their relationship was doomed from the moment it began. She could see the tragedy coming from leagues away, and yet she could not find in herself the courage to stop it.

To begin with, it was illegal. Both women were ranking officers in the Cyran navy; lieutenants, though Neana had seniority. That made them, and especially the acts they had so recently performed, a breach of protocol, a conflict of interest, and conduct unbecoming an officer. If either Cpt. Ir'Arth or Sam's captain, the cranky old soldier who commanded the Mother Bear, ever found out, they both would have hell to pay. Only Sam's natural talents for disguise had allowed them to keep their rendezvous and trysts secret every time they managed to be in port together.

Because of that, it wasn't, and would never be, much of a relationship. They grabbed time together whenever they could – a week here, on leave, a month there, while the ships were in dry dock – but that was all they had, and all they had to look forward to in the future. Neana had no interest in quitting the navy, and while Sam had considered it, she had too many ties to the military. All of which meant that their love, such as it was, came with an expiration date. But ever since their two ships had been paired together in harassing Breland's coast last year and they had spent an unprecedented amount of time with one another, Sam had shown increasing signs that she was forgetting these basic facts. The more futile things became, the closer she clung.

The other problem was Neana herself. She had known, since the death of her parents, that she would never be right or healthy again. Something small and basic and decent inside her had leaked out of her opened throat and soaked into the parched Talenta grasslands. Over the years she had become reconciled to its loss. It was fine. Whatever she had lost, she was capable of surviving without it. She lived her life from moment to moment, taking revenge against the elves every time it became possible, and thanked the Six for the opportunity. Some day she would die, on the edge of a Valaes Tairn blade, and that too was fine. It was proper, and satisfying in a way she could not express. Compared to that, this relationship, like all her previous ones, was only temporary.

And yet, it was difficult to end. She felt comfortable with Sam, in a way that she had not in a very long time. So she let it continue, even though she knew that she would someday pay for this small comfort with a commensurate pain when the end came.

Neana realized that the conversation had lapsed into an awkward silence, and that it was her fault. "I wouldn't worry myself about the war," she continued lamely. "It's lasted a hundred years so far. I doubt it will end anytime soon. I'm sure the Great War will outlive us all."

"So you don't have any hope that the Northern fleet will win? Admiral ir'Matast has a half our ships within a fireball's toss of Flamekeep. Thrane and that little priestess must be shaking in her slippers."

"Maybe," Neana replied. "I wouldn't get my hopes up."

"You're too cynical." Sam sighed. "It must be amazing, to be in the heart of all that action. And to serve under ir'Matast. I've heard she's a genius when it comes to strategy and tactics. I mean, she has to be! We've never exactly had much of a navy, not like Breland or Karnath and their damn Lhazaaran mercenary fleet. Cyre isn't a warlike nation. With as few ships as she's got, she's accomplished some amazing things. Think about it! Right now, at this moment, they might be laying siege to Flamekeep. I wish I was there with them."

"I don't," Neana said. She had been present at the siege of Arythawn Keep fourteen years ago, as a raw marine recruit on the deck of the Bellhammer. She would never forget it. Five months spent ferrying supplies to the ground troops entrenched around the castle's earthworks. Two weeks spent lobbing boulders at the impenetrable battlements. Hours spent screaming and passing buckets of water, as the crack Thranish archers lobbed fire arrows into the advancing fleet. And then one night the archers had filed, silently, back into the keep to be replaced by a line of white figures. She remembered vividly the way the holy clerics of the Silver Flame had stood, praying, atop the battlements in their white tabards and gleaming mail. Fifty of them, bearing no weapons and firing no arrows, had linked hands in sight of Cyre's fleet and chanted a simple phrase, over and over. She hadn't understood the language, but it had still filled her with terror.

The sailors came to understand the cleric's actions too late. Their first inkling came when the Bellhammer began listing to starboard; a terrified young sailor had stared over the side and screamed, "The ocean's gone!" Neana had gone to see for herself, only to discover that he was half-right; the clerics had made a hole, somehow, in the water, like pulling the plug from the drain of a sink. The water just dropped away, and pulled more water in after it, creating the biggest and most hellish whirlpool Neana would ever see. They were caught in its grip, and all struggle was futile. You couldn't beat gravity. The Bellhammer rolled to the side, its prow falling away and down, pointing the ship directly into the maelstrom. Those crew who weren't fast enough in grabbing a rope or lashing themselves to a piece of the ship had slipped and tumbled down the now vertical deck. Clinging to the railing, Neana watched one unfortunate soul fall, screaming, from the quarterdeck to smack headfirst into the main mast with a wet and sickening sound. His screaming ended, he slipped from the mast to drop limply into the sea...

Neana shivered. It had all turned out to be a feint by their side, a ploy to draw out the keep's defending spellcasters. The Cyran admiral in charge of the fleet had endangered half a dozen of his own ships to tempt the besieged Thranes into the open air. Before the Bellhammer had even finished being ripped apart by angry waves, a squad of Cyran arcanists had emerged from hiding to sweep the chanting clerics from the battlements with bolts of fire and acid.

"No," she said. "You never want to see seigework. Not ever. Believe me."

Sam's response was a comforting hug and, after a moment's pause, a change of subject. "So what are you going to do with your shore leave?"

"Sleep. Read, a little. Stretch my legs. Eat something that hasn't been salted and left in a barrel for five months."

"Ah, the infamous excesses and debaucheries of a sailor on shore leave," Sam said.

"Heh. So what about you? Do you have plans that don't involve soaking in this tub until you get finger wrinkles?"

"I thought I'd see a show," Sam said, wistfully. "There's an Orien coach that stops in Lorn, and they have theaters. It's been forever seen I've seen a proper play. A real one, with a stage that isn't two barn doors nailed to some crates, and actors that actually memorize their lines. Lorn has all that; Seaside might be big, but it's too crude and maritime-y. A hundred merchants, a dozen pubs, and not one decent playhouse. In Lorn, I've heard they might even hire on a House Phiarlan company, and that means illusionists! I know you aren't really fond of all things elvish," she added quickly, before Neana's face could darken, "but Phiarlin is the good kind of elves, not the evil betraying mercenary kind." She sighed. "I haven't seen a good play since... oh. Since our second date, I guess."

"That wasn't a play," Neana replied. "That was an opera."

"So?"

"So there's a reason we haven't been to another one."

"And what's that?" Sam asked archly.

"Look: plays are fine. I like plays, with dialog and plot and people emoting. Opera is just... fat men standing around and singing in elven for five hours until I pass out from boredom."

"And drool on my shoulder, as I recall. There's nothing wrong with opera," Sam said. "It's cultural. I know you may have grown up in a backwater, but I was born in the big city and we appreciate–" She stopped.

"What?" Neana asked.

"Something's wrong."

Neana glanced around the empty bathhouse. "I don't see anything…?"

"Something is wrong," Sam shouted, and leaped out of the tub. Water slopped over the lip of the copper vessel and ran in rivulets down her body as she paced the room. She gripped the sides of her head, planting both fists behind her ears and squeezing it between her forearms as if to keep the pain inside. "It's Hopper."

"What, your pet bird?"

"He's trying to tell me something." And then she screamed; a loud and unending sound that filled the tiny bath room. Neana realized, perking up her ears, that Sam wasn't alone. There were screams in the distance, outside the Guard's Rest. It was impossible to say how far.

Neana stood up and stepped carefully out of the tub. "You're right, something is wrong." she said. "We need to see what it is."

Sam nodded grimly. She had found her clothes. The pain seemed to have passed. "I'm sure the others are already dealing with it. If I can feel this, I know Chandra can. I'll help you put on your armor, and then we'll go."

"No need," Neana said, pulling the loose gambeson over her damp body. " To me !" At the word of command, her armor disappeared from its cubbyhole storage space and reappeared on her body. Clasps fitted, bolts bolted, and straps tightened themselves. In the space of a breath she went from dripping and nearly naked to fully armored, if chafing.

"Wow." Sam said. "Where can I get armor like that?"

"You kill enough elves," Neana replied, drawing Sharneth from its resting place, "and the Admiralty will give you an entire armory. Come on."

Sam sighed, and tugged on her breeches.

When they emerged from the cellars, they found the common room of the Guard's Rest empty. Not even the serving staff had stayed behind. Everywhere she looked, Neana saw signs of recent evacuation: overturned chairs, cracked dishes, spilt ale. Entire tables had been flipped over in the room's occupants' hurry to leave.

"Why didn't we hear this?" Neana asked. Sam shrugged mutely. It made little sense; Neana's heritage gave her excellent hearing, and Sam was a veteran military scout. They could not have missed the sounds of stomping boots, splintering wood, or smashing pottery. Odd, and inexplicable. From the twilight streaming through the inn's tiny, dusty windowpanes, Neana realized hours must have past while she and Sam indulged themselves.

"My bow's upstairs in my room." Sam said.

"Meet me outside when you find it. I need to see what's going on."

The street outside the inn was carpeted with the dead. Neana, veteran of a hundred battlefields, was shocked. There were hundreds of corpses, if not thousands; more people than she would have guessed could fit in Seaside. It was hard to make a count of them, for a thick grey mist had rolled in on the tide, and concealed everything but this one street. There was no blood or gore, no signs of violence. Each person had crumpled to the ground where they stood, sprawling in the dusty street. Here and there were a few tucked into doorways and huddled up in corners, as if they had seen their doom coming and tried to flee.

Nearly every body had fallen facing south. They had been moving towards the sea.

Neana stalked among them, numbed, searching for she knew not what. There were humans and elves and dwarves and even gobos; many, which she had at first taken to be children, turned out to be Halflings and Gnomes. Many others really were children. Those who had fallen face upwards wore expressions of surprise, fear, and a kind of crushing despair. Their sorrowful faces scared her even more than their corpsitude, somehow. The tears streaking their dusty cheeks were still wet; either they had died only minutes ago, or the dead were weeping. She found people she knew among the dead: sailors in Cyran uniform, Janis, the barmaid who had drawn her bath, and merchants she had known from the town. She thanked the Six that none of them were her marines, or officers from either the Kitten or the Bear. She found many, many more that she had never seen before, often wearing fancy clothing of a style you rarely saw in the hardworking port of Seaside; rags and silks and noble's finery, they had all died together. Many of them were caked in road dust and showed other signs of recent travel.

A picture was emerging, but it made no sense. Refugees had flooded into the city from the north, a mob of people of every race. They brought nothing with them; Neana saw only a handful of knapsacks and packs. Whatever had compelled them to flee, it had not left them any time at all in which to prepare. They had fled south, coming to Seaside, and then they had died in moments.

Neana looked to the north, but saw only a grey wall of mist. Thick tendrils of the fog were even now creeping down the street and into open doorways. The fog hadn't come from the sea at all, she realized, but from the north, from the direction all these people were fleeing. It wasn't natural weather, and she felt an urge to get far away from it. Only the thought of Sam restrained her from fleeing south herself.

A flicker of movement caught her eye. Was the misty wall closer now than when she had first begun searching the street? Yes, she decided, and either the sky was lightening beyond the dreary clouds, or the mist itself had begun to glow dimly. And then someone came shambling out of it: a man, wearing the ragged remnants of a Cyran uniform, torn to bloody shreds around his shoulders and waist. Deep, bleeding gashes marred his torso. He moved like the walking dead – not an uncommon site on battlefields of Karnath – but his face showed some life and his eyes skittered restlessly from side to side. It took her some time to recognize him.

"Paulo?" Neana's voice was oddly muffled in the misty air, and she got her first inkling of how she had missed the massacre. The grey fog sucked the sound away, stealing the whisper right out of her torn throat. Regardless, the wrecked man didn't respond to his name, and his jittery gaze passed over her without recognition. She noticed that his hands were blackened and withered as if they had passed through a fire. Exposed nubs of spiky bone made his fingers into gruesome claws.

She raised Sharneth. "Stay back, Paulo." She couldn't even hear herself speak; the mist had grown that cloying. Soon it might begin drawing the breath out of her body as well. Neana stepped towards him, preparing a deathblow. The air tonight was practically throbbing with ominous energy and, with concentration, Neana borrowed a little. She wreathed her falchion's edge in thin strands of crackling lightning. Whatever had befallen Paulo seemed horrific and unnatural, and she wasn't about to let him infect her with it. Besides, it would probably be a mercy.

Paulo's eyes focused on her blade and his pupils began to glow with the dull orange light of banked embers. The crackle of magic in the air seemed to lend him vitality. He snarled hungrily and, to Neana's astonishment, a plume of mist poured out of his open mouth. It enveloped her face, blinding her and filling her nostrils with the stench of rot and decay. It clung to her face, no matter how she tried to wave it away. She was blind now as well as deaf.

Neana, desperate, spoke the word of flight; a pair of translucent bat-like wings formed on her back. They flapped frantically, hurling her up and out of the mist with such force that the vapors lost their grip on her. She touched down lightly on the roof of a nearby shop and felt the magic fade; the spell only lasted a handful of seconds. From the street below Paulo stared hungrily at her sword, still wreathed in sparking energy. It seemed to be the only thing that existed, as far as he was concerned. She considered her next move. Neana wouldn't be safe up here for very long; Paulo, with his bony claws, looked like a good climber.

Suddenly a screech shattered the mist's deadly silence. Neana glanced up, as surprised at finally hearing anything in this stifling gloom as she was by the source of the noise. Hopper, Sam's pet hawk, was diving through the pale mist. He struck Paulo in the face like a feathery missile, gouging and clawing into the infected man's face. The bird was possessed with murderous frenzy as it tried to destroy the unnatural abomination.

Paulo didn't cry out in pain, not even when the hawk's talons punctured his eyeball and the thin jelly ran streaming down his face; instead he knocked the bird away from him with a casual backhand. There must have been tremendous strength behind the blow, because Hopper was thrown clear across the street and smacked into an adjacent wall with a wet thud. It fell, twitching, to the ground. Paulo turned the orange glow of his remaining eye upon Neana, and began walking towards the wall.

"Hopper!" Sam's scream of rage arrived in Neana's ears like a whisper. The Changeling appeared in the upper window of the Guard's Rest, wearing a hastily donned mail shirt and an expression of incoherent anger. In the blink of an eye she had an arrow fitted to the string of her prize longbow – a Cannith Firebow Mk. II with pearl inlays, specially created for Cyran officers in the great creation forges at Whitehearth – and with a breath she loosed it. A bright line of fire traced the distance between Sam's bow and Paulo's chest.

Paulo finally made a sound, a hoarse inhuman cry of rage, as the burning shaft set his tattered uniform ablaze. Another arrow joined it, and then another, as his cries grew louder and more desperate. He swatted desperately at the flames with his hands, trying to extinguish his bubbling flesh.

Time to put an end to this.

Neana called her wings. Drifting gently down from the roof, she landed behind the roaring human torch that had been her soldier. With a sweep of her blade she decapitated him. She had been afraid that this would not kill whatever he had become, but both head and body fell to the ground with a thump and a splatter. Tiny arcs of residual lightning made his dead limbs twitch in the street.

She stabbed it a few times until it stopped moving. It paid to be thorough.

"Hopper!" Sam leapt out of the window, slid down the hardwood shingles, and dropped nimbly to the ground, accomplishing with dexterous skill something that, for Neana and her heavy armor, had required magical aide. She ran to the body of her animal friend but it was obvious to Neana that the bird was beyond saving. Sam picked up its limp form and cradled it in her arms.

"Sam," Neana said as gently as she could. "We don't have time to mourn."

Sam spun on her lover, tears streaming down her cheeks, and prepared a nasty retort. She looked down at the death and destruction around her, and thought better of it. She laid Hopper's body in the street with all the other dead and picked up her bow. "He was a friend."

"I'm sorry," Neana replied. She had never seen the attraction in pets herself, but even she had to admit that the bond between Sam and her hawk had been extraordinary. The two seemed to share an empathic link; Hopper had responded to her slightest commands and Sam, for her part, seemed to know what the bird was thinking. Usually this was "feed me!" but, what the hell, it was a bird.

"Let's just get to the ships," Sam said.