He pushed himself into the halfling's mind and found it a jumble of terror and frustration. Not a coherent thought to be found.
You're frightened, he projected into the halfling's mind, and savored the creature's shock at the telepathic contact. I smell it.
He leaned forward and ran his tongue along the halfling's jawline, just above the jugular, drinking in the sweat.
I taste it.
The pathetic little being actually tried to control its fear by praying. Serrin smiled. No god would help this one.
All at once, he decided to let the halfling see him, the real him, in his true form.
He mentally recited the words that allowed him to take other forms, and with that, he began to change, to grow. When his feeble human fingers had once more become his claws, when his mouth had once more become his maw, he gave the halfling a grin wide enough to swallow the little creature's head.
When the halfling's prayers turned to mental screams, Serrin smiled. He enjoyed the fear for a moment, then began to administer pain.
Cale knew that he was dreaming but could not wake himself. He sat in his favorite chair back in his quarters in Stormweather Towers. Strangely, flames consumed his bed, but he warmed his hands before the blaze as though it was a campfire. A chill breeze blew through his only window, sealed not with his usual shutters but with draperies—red curtains with green ovals. Odd, he thought. He had never had draperies in his room.
The breeze gusted, grew harsher, colder, and the curtains began to tear. Strips peeled off and blew around the room. He thought he could hear the whisper of a scream as they shredded. He pulled his cloak tighter around him and held his hands before the dancing flames.
"Chill wind blowing," said Riven from beside him.
Cale turned with a start. He had not noticed Riven before. The assassin sat in Thamalon's favorite rocking chair, the one made from Archendale walnut. Strangely, Riven's right eye was the scarred hole. Cale would have sworn it was Riven's left eye that should be gone. This could not be Riven, could it? Tiny stars seemed to twinkle in the blackness of the empty socket. Cale leaned in closer to better see—
—and without warning, Riven leaped from the chair, grabbed him by the shoulders and screamed into his face, "Wake up!"
Cale snapped open his eyes, heart racing. Beside him, the campfire had burned down to embers. He lay still and stared up at the cloudy night sky. What had the dream meant?
He heard a sound, like wet fabric being slowly torn, like curtains shredding in the wind. His skin went gooseflesh. He propped himself up on an elbow and looked across the campsite to Jak....
A horror stood over the halfling, flaying him alive.
"Jak!" Cale leaped to his feet, blade bear, holy symbol somehow already in his hand.
The creature uttered a surprised hiss and dropped into a hunched crouch as it whirled to face him.
To Cale's right, Riven awakened with a gasp, his hand going immediately to his unsheathed sabers, which lay beside him. He took in the scene in a breath.
"Dark!" he cursed, and scrambled to his feet.
Even hunched the creature stood taller than Cale, with warty green skin as creased and rough as old leather. Beside it Jak—held immobile by some spell, Cale assumed—looked as small as an infant. Arms as thick as Cale's legs ended in long, black nails; legs as wide as a man's waist ended in splayed, clawed feet. Veins, muscles and sinew pulsed and flexed with each movement of its powerful frame. A flat head, dominated by a wide mouth and row upon row of teeth, sat on a short, thick neck. Its face struck Cale as vaguely amphibian. Somehow, it reminded him of a toad. Its eyes were merciless gray slits—the easterner's eyes.
This was the easterner's true form, Cale intuitively knew. And he also knew, as he had known when he had faced the shadow demon Yrsillar, that this creature was not of Toril.
Jak's blood, black in the firelight, glistened on its clawed fingers.
"Everything feels pain," the creature croaked, and winked at Riven.
It stuck its blood-soaked fingers in its huge mouth and slobbered them clean.
Cale roared and charged. Riven bounded over the campfire to join Cale's attack. As he did, the assassin shouted a word that recalled to Cale the syllables the assassin sometimes spoke in his sleep: "Vredlaul!"
The utterance of the word staggered the powerful creature. It stumbled backward a step as though it had been punched in the chest. Cale closed, raised his blade high—
—and the easterner croaked a word of power and darkness fell. Utter pitch. Cale could see nothing. He swung his blade anyway but struck nothing. He froze, dropped into a crouch, and listened.
"Here," he hissed, so he and Riven could get an idea of where each stood.
"Here," answered Riven, from his left.
Cale advanced a step, blade held ready for a quick stab in any direction, ears peeled. He had an idea of where Jak was and stayed in that vicinity.
"Here," he said again.
"Here," answered Riven, a few steps ahead of Cale but still to his right.
Cale heard nothing. Where was the blasted thing?
As abruptly as it fell, the darkness suddenly lifted. Cale and Riven stood a few paces apart. The creature was gone.
Cale kept his gaze from Jak, at least for the moment. He could not allow himself to be distracted.
He signaled Riven in handcant, Invisible. Move on my signal.
Riven nodded understanding.
Cale waited only a heartbeat before giving the signal.
Both men exploded into action around the campsite. Leaping, lunging, blades cutting the air. Neither struck anything.
"Gone," Riven said afterward, sweating and breathing heavily.
"Stay alert," Cale said, and he went to Jak.
The spell still held the halfling immobile. The easterner had broken all of his fingers. They twisted and jutted at angles that made Cale's stomach turn. Too, the creature had bared Jak's chest and flayed the skin and muscle above his heart. Cale could see the white of bone peeking through that shredded mass of red. The easterner had done to Jak what Riven had threatened to do to the easterner.
Cale held his breath as he held his ear to the halfling's mouth. There! Breath. Jak still lived, despite the torture he had endured. Cale could hardly imagine the pain Jak had felt, was still feeling. Tears threatened but he held them back.
"I'm sorry, little man. I'm sorry."
They should have killed the easterner! They should have cut him up and burned him to ash, just as Riven had said. Cale would never make that mistake again. Not with any of them. Two and two were four, bastards.
He had prayed for spells from Mask earlier in the night—at midnight, during his watch—and had requested spells of healing. Mask had granted his request, and had also granted Cale knowledge of another prayer that Cale had never before cast. Fortunately, that spell was not necessary.
Eyes blurry with tears, Cale recited prayers of healing, pouring into them all of his concern for Jak. One spell. Another. Another.
The wounds in Jak's flesh slowly closed, shrank to only white scars. Bone reknit. His breathing grew more regular. His body was healed. His soul... ?