Prologue

Dara was pulled out of the murky waters of the swamp by an unseen hand. She ran as squat, bulbous plants pummeled her with a gelatinous goo that sapped her energy. Her breathing became labored as she fought to move forward. Suddenly, the same invisible hand pushed her in the back, and she was sent sprawling out of the forest, into a clearing. Having escaped imprisonment, death, or maybe something far worse, Dara tried to make sense of this latest assault.

The swamp had seemed benign when she’d entered. Though hungry, Dara hadn’t picked from any of the plants for nourishment. Many forests and swamps she had traveled through had turned out to be living organisms. Everything in them was connected. Eating from one plant had repercussions for entire portions of the forest or swamp, and she could become its prey until she navigated her way out. So Dara was careful where she chose her food.

Dara had come to a stream of luminous green water. She had to shield her eyes from its brightness. She found a branch that had fallen from a tree and poked it into the water. Not deep at all, she thought. And the water did no damage to the branch. There was no getting around the stream. Cross or turn back. Retreat was a last option for Dara. Midway through the stream, the water had turned a sickly green, then to mud, and Dara was trapped, unable to move. She felt herself being sucked from below. It was then that the invisible hand had plucked her, none too gently, from the stream. Moments after escaping the stream, the plants that had appeared harmless during her journey through the swamp turned treacherous. The liquid that spat at her was sticky and smelled of decay. It didn’t harm her, but Dara couldn’t wipe it off. It stuck to her like a garment. She was soon slowed by the sheer weight of the substance. She knew if she fell, she would be devoured by the swamp. Yet, as her strength failed her, she was again saved by a hand she felt but couldn’t see.

Why? she thought, as she caught her breath. Had she passed some test? Or maybe failed one? Had the swamp rejected her? Was she too small or weak to be worthy? Or maybe something about her might sicken, even kill, the swamp. Or possibly the swamp was comprised of dueling entities. One desired her to succumb. The other came to her aid for unknown reasons.

Dara would never find out. When she had first begun her journey from her Shamra homeland, she often became frustrated when answers eluded her. Now she merely accepted the fact she had again survived and could move on to her next challenge. Not everything could be explained, she had learned. And that wasn’t necessarily bad, she knew. She would spend the night replaying the adventure and conjure all manner of reasons she was still alive.

Her travels had been as exhilarating as she had anticipated. Any number of times, she had faced injury or death yet had prevailed. Unlike the Shamra of her homeland, she embraced danger. She had no death wish. On the contrary, she had too much to live for. But being bored to death as a housewife had no appeal to her. The unknown beckoned. She couldn’t remember being more content, even if she now smelled of decayed food.

A pond suddenly appeared in the clearing. It was as if the earth had opened to reveal what it usually kept hidden. Maybe those who survived the swamp were rewarded. The pond itself was only twice the size of her body. The water smelled sweet and alluring. The water beckoned, and Dara couldn’t resist. Not only did she reek from the swamp, but she had little water remaining in her canteen. Dara had no fear of the water. Nothing so beautiful could be deadly.

A loud squawk startled Dara out of the fog that had enveloped her mind. She looked skyward and saw Screech, her Shriek, who appeared to be warning her not to approach the water. Shrieks were bird-like creatures covered with black scales instead of feathers. They were fearsome, with talons that could tear their prey apart, and teeth as sharp as knives. Totally loyal to those who provided for them, they had been soldiers of the invaders of her homeland. Screech, though, hadn’t been brought to her homeland by the Trocs who had sought to enslave the Shamra. When Dara and another resistance fighter, Heber, had fled their homeland to locate allies, Screech had attacked them. The creatures were predators, and Dara and Heber, much smaller than these creatures, appeared the perfect prey. But Screech had been thwarted, captured, and injured. Dara had nursed him back to health, and he had become loyal to her, just as the Shrieks were to the Trocs. Screech could soar above the dangers of swamps and forests. If Dara rode Screech, she would be safe. But the thrills she encountered would have eluded her. So she trudged through the swamp while Screech flew above.

Now the creature sensed something amiss, and its shrill scream pierced the stillness. Dara stepped back, picked up a stone, and tossed it into the pond. It plummeted endlessly. The water was an illusion, the pond, a bottomless pit with hypnotic powers. If Screech hadn’t warned her, Dara would have disappeared forever or possibly been devoured by yet another living entity. Dara moved back even farther. She was still a gooey, putrid mess, but she was alive. Ahead lay a forest. Maybe there she’d find real water and be able to bathe.

Dara entered the forest and heard a loud noise, as if a door had closed behind her. She attempted to leave the forest, a sense of foreboding surrounding her, but there was no longer any exit.

Dara shrugged and moved forward. What else could she do? And, as always, her curiosity overcame her fear. The deeper Dara entered into the forest, the darker it became. She could see just a few feet ahead of her. Around her was a cacophony of voices. Screams of terror, torment, and despair, yet Dara saw no living creatures. Then it began to rain. A sudden downpour. Dara thought it was a mixed blessing. The sticky substance was washed off her, but the rain fell with such intensity, it was like needles striking her flesh. She sought shelter under a huge tree whose trunk pulsed as if it were breathing. The tree wanted nothing to do with Dara. Its leaves and branches began swatting her, warning her off. She ran from the tree, back to the path, and slipped on some wet vines. The rain continued to fall steadily, and Dara felt herself being sucked into the wet ground. She heard other voices calling out to her, but still saw nothing.

“Stay down.”

“Don’t get up.”

“Join us.”

At times thunder drowned out the voices.

Then Dara did see something that made her skin crawl. From the mud, figures arose. She didn’t recognize any, but each seemed a different species. Some stumbled toward her on two, four, or even six legs. Several of the creatures had one eye, while others had as many as a dozen. Some had as many arms as a tree had limbs. Yet, different as they were, Dara could understand their plea.

“Join us. Join us,” they spoke as one. “Become one of us.”

“And lose myself?” Dara yelled back. “No, never!” She tried to get up but sank deeper into the muck. The creatures moved toward Dara as one, as if linked by a rope. She was utterly helpless.

Two figures rose from the mud in front of Dara. With swords, they began hacking and thrashing at the creatures, their backs to Dara. With difficulty, Dara freed herself from the mud and joined the battle. She was able to see that one of those who fought by her side was Pilla. Her lifelong friend, Pilla had died during the occupation of the Shamra homeland. She had become a prophet upon her death and had saved Dara’s life on several occasions. Just as important, Dara felt Pilla’s presence wherever she ventured. It was always a comfort to her. Dara didn’t get a good look at Pilla’s companion but knew she, too, was female. Her face seemed shrouded in a mist. It didn’t hinder her, however, as the three of them fought for survival . . . at least Dara’s survival. As the creatures were struck by their swords, they howled in pain, despair, and frustration. Just as suddenly as they had appeared, they allowed the mud to swallow them to escape death. Impossible, Dara thought. Somehow she knew that, like Pilla, they were already dead. But Dara had long ago learned to accept the impossible during her journey.

With the threat gone, Pilla and her companion disappeared. Now the only sounds to be heard were the rain that continued to pelt Dara and the sound of thunder. Without warning, a bolt of lightning filled the sky, felling the tree Dara had sought refuge under. Then, like arrows, more lightning struck nearby Dara—first to her left, then her right, in back and in front, as if to imprison her. Then silence. No rain. No thunder. A swirling light appeared above Dara, and a bolt of lightning struck her, knocking her down.