i

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“When we first met back in Winterfell’s inn, you mentioned a prophecy of doom heralded by my reappearance among your tribe.”

Krai’s gaze darted away; he seemed to study the cracked ice on the stair.

“It’s not the journey ahead that excites your heart,” Er’ril continued, “but simply relief that I am leaving your people—and your clan yet survives.”

“You shame me with your words,” Krai mumbled to the cold stone.

“I don’t mean to. That’s not why I stopped you here.”

“Then why?” he asked sourly.

“To thank you.” Er’ril took a step closer and reached up to grasp the man’s shoulder as Krai’s eyes grew wide. “I’ve already thanked you for sheltering us and healing me of the goblin’s poison, but I never thanked you for the risk your tribe took in taking me in. You knew the prophecy, yet took me into your home.”

“You owe us no… thanks,” Krai said, stumbling with his tongue. “We could do no other. We are bound to the Rock and will not shirk our duty—or its burden of prophecy.”

“Still I owe you a debt, friend.” Er’ril squeezed Krai’s shoulder a final time, then turned around to lead the way up to the Pass of Spirits. “And we of the plains, too, know something of honor.” Elena followed Er’ril, but not before noting the shine of respect in the mountain man’s eyes.

As they continued higher, toward the pass, Er’ril began to limp slightly on his right leg, the climb obviously worrying the bone struck with the goblin’s knife last autumn. The dagger’s poison had wasted the Standi plainsman to a hollow figure. Though he had quickly regained his muscle and form afterward, echoes of his injuries still persisted, especially with exertion. And Er’ril wasn’t the only member of the party bearing scars. Each member carried wounds—not all of them visible—from their first confrontation with the Dark Lord. And who knew what other battles were yet to be fought before the party reached the lost city?

Er’ril reached the top of the trail and stopped. His eyes were toward the open pass. “I still think the plan is foolhardy,” he mumbled.

Elena and Krai joined him.

The Pass of Spirits spread in meadows and gentle slopes away JAMES CLEMENS ±/

from them. Here spring had truly reached the highlands. Blooming crocuses spread in splashes of blues and whites, and at the edges of the pass, some flowers were even pushing right out of patches of persistent snow, as if spring itself were trying to shake its shoulders free of winter’s mantle. Besides the flowers, the pass teemed with life. At the fringes of budding birch trees, the spotted red flanks of a family of deer could be seen, slowly working up the pass. Overhead a circling hawk screeched and dove into the green sea of meadow grass then sprang back out, something small and furred wriggling in its talons.

Er’ril’s eyes obviously saw none of this. “Look at that wagon,” he said. “It looks like a cheap tavern whore, painted and draped in bells to attract every eye and ear.” Near a small creek that murmured among mossy boulders, Elena spotted the herd of tethered horses grazing by a large covered wagon. The“ wagon’s wooden sides were painted a burnt orange, and its canvas covering, stretched taut over a frame of bent maple saplings, had been stained dark blue with hand-stenciled white stars. Cowbells ringed its flanks, each painted a different color.

“I sort of like it,” Krai said beside her.

Scowling, Er’ril marched toward the milling horses and people waiting nearby. “I should’ve just taken Elena by myself. Then we would not have needed this foolishness.”

“It’s been long decided. We all cast our stones,” Krai said. “Besides the elv’in Meric—who wanted to abandon the entire journey—you were the only one who wanted to split up the group.”

“We are too many. A smaller party could move more swiftly and attract fewer eyes.”

“Perhaps, but if you should attract an enemy’s eyes, you’ll need the strengths and skills of all to keep the girl from the Black Heart’s grasp. It is not just brigands and thieves we must protect her against.”

“I’ve heard the arguments.”

Elena had to half run to keep up with the bigger men. She spoke between gulps of air. “Uncle Bol warned us that we must stay together.”

“I know, Elena,” Er’ril said, slowing slightly to allow her to keep abreast of him. “I don’t mean to disparage your uncle. He was a brave man. But the portents he attempted to decipher are tricky to interpret with accuracy. He might have been mistaken.”

Witch Storm

“He wasn’t,” she said firmly, and in her heart, she truly did sense the importance of keeping the group intact. Maybe in part because she had already lost her entire family: her parents burned to death by her own hand, her aunt and uncle slain by beasts of the Gul’gotha, and her brother Joach stolen from her by black magicks. So much loss would have been inconsolable without the support of those around her.

After six moons together, this group had become a second family, united not by the blood of birth but the blood of battle— and she did not want to see this family sundered. “We must stay together.”

“So we will,” Er’ril said, but doubt rang in his voice.

“It’s a sound plan,” Krai argued. He pointed at the gaily painted wagon. “There stands our banner.

Disguised as a small circus, one among many plying the warm roads of spring and summer, we will hide in the open. While searching eyes will seek for us along back roads, we will travel open and free, loud and noisy. Not only will this keep furtive eyes from looking too closely at us, it will also earn us coppers and gold to replenish our supplies. I say it is a sound plan.”

“Yes,” Er’ril said with sarcasm. “And you mountain folk only speak the truth.” Krai harrumphed and patted Er’ril good-naturedly on his shoulder. “Ahh… I see your time among the clans has taught you a bit of wisdom.”

Close to the wagon now, Krai’s loud voice drew the attention of the others away from their final preparations. Nee’lahn turned her head from where she had been cinching a saddle atop a roan stallion.

She raised a hand in greeting, then froze as her eyes settled on Elena. Blinking a few times, she dropped the currybrush she had in her other hand and crossed closer to them.

As she approached, Nee’lahn wiped a smudge of mud from her cheek while speaking: “Sweet Mother, Er’ril, what have you done to the poor child? Her hair!”

Elena, suddenly self-conscious, raised a hand to her shorn hair. Where once long auburn curls had draped past her shoulders, now only a coarse crop of hair that barely covered her ears remained. And that hair was no longer auburn, but dyed as black as Er’ril’s own locks.

“If we are to hide Elena within this daft circus,” Er’ril said, “what better way than to mask the girl herself?

So… meet my new son.”

Er’ril watched the others gather around Elena.

Amongst the thronging party, Tol’chuk’s bulk was like a boulder in a stream. Twice the weight of even the huge mountain man, the og’re did not crowd too closely, seeming to sense that his massive form still unnerved the much smaller girl. Even though the creature was foul to the eye—with his leathered skin, fanged teeth, and hulking mass—Er’ril had grown to respect and admire the og’re for his calmness and intelligence. It was Tol’chuk’s quiet words during the oft-heated discussion of their plans that had finally persuaded Er’ril to their present course.

In contrast, dwarfed in the og’re’s shadow hid the quiet Mogweed. To Er’ril, the shape-shifter remained a blank slate. The skinny man with mousy hair and nervous movements hardly spoke a word, and when he did, he talked so softly he could hardly be heard. Yet, as little as the si’luran man revealed through his manner and speech, Er’ril felt something oily and slippery about him. Even now, as Mogweed studied Elena, darting quick glances from a few paces away, he struck Er’ril as being like a hungry bird studying a squirming worm. Er’ril could practically see Mogweed’s mind swirling with thoughts and plans he never voiced.

Whereas Meric, dressed in his usual white linen and billowy green pants, never kept his opinions to himself. The tall, silver-haired elv’in leaned closer to Elena, reaching a narrow finger to raise her chin, but his words flew to Er’ril. “How dare you touch her? You had no right to mar the beauty of our royal line in such a manner.”

“It was necessary,” Er’ril answered coldly. “Her disguise might just very well keep that precious royal line of yours still breathing.”

Meric released her chin and turned hard eyes on Er’ril. “And what of her mark?” He pointed to Elena’s hand, where shades of ruby whorled in languid swirls. “How do you propose to hide her wit’ch’s blaze?”

“My son will earn his keep at the circus by hauling and sweeping. And for these chores, he’ll need a good pair of work gloves.” Er’ril tapped his belt, from which hung a set of plain leather gloves.

“You propose to have elv’in royalty sweep and handle filth?” Meric’s white skin darkened. “You’ve already made her a sorry enough figure with your ridiculous shearing.” Elena’s face had by now flushed to match her ruby hand. Meric knelt down by the girl. “Listen, Elena, you don’t have to do this. You are the last of the elv’in king’s royal line. In your veins flows the blood of lost dynasties. You must not ignore your birthright.” He took her hand. “Give up this foolish quest and return with me to the wind ships and seas of your true home.”

“The lands of Alasea are my home,” she answered, slipping her hand free of his. “I may be descended from some lost king of yours, but I’m also the daughter of these lands, and I won’t abandon them to the Gul’gothal lord. You are free to leave and return to your home, but I will stay.” Meric stood back up. “You know I can’t return—not without you. And my mother, the queen, would not tolerate any harm coming to you. So if you persist in this foolish pursuit, I will be at your side to protect you.”

Er’ril tired of this man. “The child is my charge,” he finally said, guiding Elena away by the shoulder. “She has no need of your protections.”

The wasp-thin elv’in ran a disdainful eye up and down Er’ril, then waved an arm around the pass. “Yes, I see how you protect her. Just look at the wagon in which you propose to lead her. You would have her travel like a vagabond.”

Er’ril inwardly winced at the words, recognizing his own complaint from earlier. He hated to hear the same sentiment on the elv’in’s lips. “It’s not an unsound plan,” he mumbled, knowing he was contradicting his previous words. “For centuries, I have traveled the roads myself as a juggler and showman to earn my keep. Its gaudiness will hide one plain girl.”

“But just look at her hair,” Meric moaned. “Was that necessary?” Before either could speak again, Tol’chuk interrupted, his voice a rattle of rocks in his throat. “Hair grows back,” the og’re said simply.

Krai grunted his amusement and turned to Nee’lahn, who stood at the mountain man’s side. “Well, it’s settled then, lass. With Elena disguised, I guess you’ll be the only woman traveling with this troupe… Of course, if you feel outnumbered, we could always pop a mummer’s wig on the og’re and call him Mogweed’s sweetheart.”

The petite nyphai woman swept back her long blond hair. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary. Now if you’re all done gawking at the poor girl, maybe we can finish hitching the horses and be under way.” JAMES l^LEMKNS

“Nee’lahn’s right,” Er’ril said, turning his back on the elv’in. “The wet passes will be ice by nightfall and—”

“Look!” Elena said, pointing past everyone’s shoulders.

A huge black treewolf could be seen at the head of the pass, loping across the meadow toward them, a dark shadow in the grass.

“It’s about time, Fardale,” Mogweed mumbled under his breath. Er’ril heard the distaste in the man’s voice and sensed there was much unspoken between these shape-shifting brothers.

The wolf swept up beside Mogweed, his tongue lolling from the side of his mouth. With his amber eyes aglow in the sunlight, Far-dale fixed his brother with an intent stare. After several silent breaths, the wolf nodded his head slightly, breaking contact, then crossed to the nearby creek to slake his thirst.

“Well?” Krai asked Mogweed. “What did your dog say?”

Before Mogweed could answer, Elena scolded the mountain man in hushed tones. “He’s not a dog. You shouldn’t call him that.”

“He’s just teasing, child,” Er’ril said and joined Krai at Mogweed’s side. “Now what did your brother discover about the condition of the passes?”

Mogweed edged away from Er’ril, deeper into the og’re’s shadow. “He says many of the ways are blocked by fast and deep waters. Impassable. But the northernmost trail is clear of all but a few swollen streams.”

Er’ril nodded. “Good. Then we have an opening to the valley and plains.”

“Except…” Mogweed seemed to shrink in on himself.

“What is it, man?”

“He says that it… smells wrong.”

Elena moved closer to them, a seed of worry growing in her eyes. “What does that mean?” Er’ril rubbed at a throb that had developed in his temple during the hard climb here. “Yes, what does that mean?” he repeated sourly.

Mogweed studied the flowers crushed under his boots. “It’s not clear. Something… something…” Mogweed shook his head.

Tol’chuk shifted his large bulk and cleared his throat. “The wolf speaks in pictures,” he attempted to explain further. “The si’luran half of my blood caught some of Fardale’s images, too: A wolf with raised hackles. An empty path that smells of rotten carrion.”

“What do you think that means?” Elena asked in a tiny voice.

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“He warns that the way may be open, but something struck his wolf senses as false. So he warns caution.”

In the resulting silence, Fardale trotted over from the creek to sit at Elena’s side, nudging her hand with his wet nose. She absently scratched him behind his ear as he squatted on his haunches.

So much for not treating Fardale like a dog, Er’ril thought, but he kept his silence. The intimacy shared between the wolf and the girl seemed to calm the growing unease in her expression, and the youngster needed as much resolve as she could muster for the long journey ahead.

“So we go,” Er’ril said. “But we keep our eyes and ears alert.” As THE OTHERS BUSIED THEMSELVES WITH FINAL PREPARATIONS, MoG-weed hung around the far side of the wagon. He had his own preparations. He spotted the bent-backed crone among the small crowd of Krai’s people that had gathered to wave them all off. Nodding his head at the old woman, he slipped into the shade of the wagon. He shuffled three coppers in his palm, then returned one to his pocket. Two should be enough.

He listened as the others of his party called orders to one another. All busy. Good. Soon, he heard the wheezing breath of the ancient mountain woman as she hobbled toward the lee of the wagon. He bit at his lower lip, hating his dependence on anyone else. But the task he had requested of the old crone was one he could not accomplish alone. He juggled the coins, clinking them together. Luckily, shiny coppers bought other hands to do the work his own could not.

The old gray-haired woman, leaning on a crooked branch of polished hickory, lurched into the shade beside Mogweed. She must have once stood taller than Mogweed, but time had bent her back so cruelly that now she had to roll her eyes up to stare Mogweed full in the face. With eyes the color of black granite, she studied Mogweed silently. As sorely as the passage of countless winters had ravaged her body, he sensed a core of ice in her as hard as the eternal snow atop the windswept peaks.

Suddenly he regretted his choice of accomplices in this task.

Glancing away from her flinty eyes, he cleared his dry throat. “Were you… able to get what I asked of you?”

She stared, still silent for several heartbeats, then slowly nodded and reached into the folds of her battered fox-fur cloak. “We mountain folk are traders, ain’t we?” she replied with a throaty cackle. She pulled out a small satchel made from cured goatskin and began to hold it out to him. But when he reached for it, the old woman pulled it back. “Whatcha want with this stuff anyways?” she asked.

He was prepared for this question. “A keepsake,” he said as guilelessly as he could manage.

The crone’s eyes narrowed with his words. “You’re a sly one,” she hissed. “Perhaps too sly for your own good.”

“I don’t know what you’re—” She spat at his boots. “You stink of lies.” Mogweed backed a step. Would the woman expose him? He

found his left palm slipping toward the hilt of the dagger at his waist.

“But your fate is not mine to judge, and a deal is a deal,” she said and tossed him the stuffed satchel. “The Rock will weigh your worth and carve your path.“

Caught off guard, Mogweed struggled to catch the little bag, fumbling it in his fingers until he pinned it to his chest. Unable to find his tongue, he slipped his other hand, which still palmed two coppers, back into his pocket and retrieved the third coin. He sensed he had better be more generous with his payment to this old crone. Offering all the coppers in his open palm, he finally muttered, “For your troubles.” The old crone suddenly lashed out with her hickory staff and struck his hand, scattering the trio of coins into the mud. “Only silver will cleanse your lies from my ears.” Mogweed rubbed his injured hand, then quickly fished the rare silver from among his small cache of coins. He cautiously passed her the payment, eyeing her staff warily.

The coin disappeared among the folds of her cloak. With a grunt of effort, she turned from him, but not before sharing a final warning. “Beware what you buy with lies, sly fox. You might discover the prize is not worth the price.” With that, she slipped from shadows into sunlight and vanished beyond the corner of the wagon.

Not worth the price? Mogweed fingered open the goatskin satchel and stared at its contents. A smile without humor etched his face. This prize could very well prove to be worth any price.

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Tucked within the shadowed interior lay several of the sheared locks of Elena’s auburn hair. Proof of a wit’ch.

Under the shadowed tangle of oak branches, a hush had fallen over the copse. Not a bird sang; not an insect whirred. Vira’ni listened for any sound. Naked, her skin the color of the softest moonlight, clothed only in the folds of her long black hair, she knelt by the rotted stump of a pine, its sides charred by old fires. She held her breath. Even a single noise could disrupt the spell.

Her children, though, had done their job well. Nothing still lived within a quarter league of the glade.

From here, she could see the ground littered with the small bodies of the dead woodland creatures—

tufted squirrels, birds of every feather, even a red doe lay sprawled at the edge of the copse, its neck contorted from the poisons. Satisfied, she bowed her head in preparation.

Before her, atop the worm-eaten wood of the stump, rested a palm-size bowl of carved ebon’stone. Its basin glowed blacker than the richest obsidian, while jagged veins of silver quartz etched its dark surface like forked lightning at midnight. She allowed a finger to trace its edge.

Here lay wealth—and within its basin lay power.

Using a bone dagger, she sliced her thumb and dripped the blood into the basin. Fat droplets rolled like quicksilver to the bottom of the bowl, then quickly vanished—the stone was always thirsty.

Reciting the words taught her, Vira’ni’s tongue grew colder with each utterance. Without halting, for that meant death, she forced her tongue to keep moving. Thankfully it was a short litany. Tears squeezing between her clenched lids, she spat the last word through her blue, frozen lips.

Finally done, she sat back upon her heels and raised her injured thumb to her mouth, licking gently at the cut. The blood was like fire in her frozen mouth.

Now, though, came the hardest part of the spell—waiting.

As she sucked at her wounded finger, her children must have sensed her distress and approached tentatively. Vira’ni allowed them to climb up her legs and nest where they had been birthed. An especially concerned child even crawled up her belly to gently rub its furred legs against her nipple. She ignored the young one, dismissing its impetuousness.

In her mind, she went over the ritual. Had she made a mistake?

Perhaps more blood—

Black flames suddenly erupted from the ebon’stone bowl, flickering like a hundred serpents’ tongues above the basin.

“Darkfire,” she whispered, naming the flames with lips still blue from the cold. But these flames offered no warmth. Instead the small glade grew colder for their presence. Where normal fire shed light into darkness, this flame drank the late-afternoon sunlight that dappled through the branches overhead. The wood grew gloomy as a fog of cold darkness flowed out from the flame.

The child at her breast, frightened by the darkfire’s blaze, bit her teat, but Vira’ni dismissed the pain.

Poison or not, the spider’s bite was but a small nuisance compared to the menace that lurked within the black flame.

She bowed her head to the stump. “Master, your servant awaits.” The flames swelled. Darkness swallowed the bowl and the stump. A faint scream echoed up from the flames. Even this whisper of pain brought a shiver to her skin. Vira’ni recognized the music of Black-hall’s dungeons. Her own voice had once joined the same chorus as she writhed among the tortured. And so she would have remained if the Black Heart had not found her pleasing to his eyes, choosing her as a vessel for his power and impregnating her with the Horde.

Vira’ni’s hand raised to where the Dark Lord himself had touched her that final night. A single white lock now nestled within her black hair, like an albino snake among black roots. As she fingered the single snowy tress, images flashed across her eyes—yellowed fangs, ripping claws, the beat of bony wings. Her fingers fell away from her hair. Some memories were best left untouched.

Then a voice rose from the flames, a voice that poisoned her resolve. Like a beaten dog fearing the strike of its master’s hand, Vira’rti felt her bladder loosen, soiling herself as she bowed her head farther. Her bones shook with each word. “Are you prepared?” the Dark

Lord asked.

“Yes, Sire.” She kissed the ground fouled by her own weakness. Her children scattered from her side, the spiders skittering under

leaf and carcass. Even this small remnant of the Horde knew their father’s voice.

“Your region is secure?”

“Yes, Sire. My children guard the entire pass. If the wit’ch comes this way, the Horde will alert me. I will be ready.”

“And you know your duty?”

She nodded, smearing her forehead in the mud. “All must die.” Elena closed her eyes and allowed the motion of the horse to lull her. The muscles of her legs responded to the shifts and rolls of her mount with easy familiarity, the line between beast and rider dissolving into simple rhythm.

They had been on horseback for almost a full day now, though the company had made little headway down the pass. The trundling, creaking wagon slowed them to a pace no faster than a quick walk; and to further delay matters, several swollen creeks had to be forded with care, the swift currents proving treacherous to wheel and hoof.

While the others grumbled about the meager progress of the troupe, Elena did not mind, simply happy to be once again atop her own horse. The small gray mare, Mist, was the only piece of her home to survive the ravages of last fall’s horrors. Now, as she rode, it seemed as if those terrible events were mere echoes from a bad dream. If she allowed herself, she could almost imagine that she was traveling the fields and orchards of her valley home, perhaps on a jaunt to Baldy Nob Hill for a picnic. Her hand strayed to the mare’s dark mane and combed the rough hair with trembling fingers. A slight smile curled the corners of her lips. For a moment, she could almost smell home in the scent of Mist’s musky sweat.

“Child, you’d ride better if you kept your eyes open,” Er’ril said, his road-tired voice shredding the memory of her home.

Elena straightened in her saddle and opened her eyes. Rows of alpine birch and lodgepole pine lined their path. Ahead, Elena saw

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the back of the wagon lurching through the rough terrain. “Mist is following the others. She won’t take me astray,” Elena mumbled.

Er’ril kicked his mount, one of the tall crag horses, a white stallion whose coat blended well with the ice and snow of the peaks. The Standi plainsman, dressed in knee-high black boots and a deep brown riding jacket, drew abreast of her. A band of red leather tied his black hair back from his rugged face, yet the winds of the pass caught a few locks and blew them like a banner behind him. He and his mount towered over the small gray mare and its rider.

“Have you been practicing your lessons lately?” he asked in a hard voice, his eyes glinting in the late-afternoon sunlight.

She turned away from his stare to study the pommel of her saddle. “I’ve practiced some.” Er’ril had been tutoring her on the few basic skills that the plainsman knew about the control and simple management of magicks. Er’ril’s brother, Shorkan, had been a powerful mage before sacrificing himself to the binding of the Blood Diary, and during Er’ril’s decade at Shorkan’s side, a small bit of the arcane skills had brushed off onto him.

The plainsman sighed and reached a hand to grab her reins lightly while controlling his own horse with subtle movements of heel and thigh. “Listen, Elena, I understand your reluctance to touch the power within you, but—”

“No. You’re wrong.” She slipped the glove from her right hand, revealing the bloodred stain. “I’ve come to accept the burden and do not fear it.” Elena reached her fingers toward Er’ril’s wrist, and as she knew he would, he pulled back his hand from her touch. “It’s you and the others,” she said, “that fear the power.”

She raised her face, but Er’ril would not meet her eye. “It’s not that we don’t—” he began.

Elena held up her ruby hand to stop him. She needed to voice this. “I have seen how everyone tries not to stare,” she continued, “how they shrink from my touch. Their fear scares me more than the magick.”

“I’m sorry, Elena, but you must understand. It has been centuries since anyone has borne the mark of the Rose—and longer since a woman has done so.”

“Still, can’t you see the girl hidden behind the Rose?” She pulled her glove back on. “I am more than just the stain on a hand.”

When she raised her eyes, she found Er’ril staring at her with a thoughtful expression, the hard lines of his face softened. “Well spoken, Elena,” he said. “Perhaps I have looked too much at the wit’ch… and not at the woman.”

She nodded her thanks. “Perhaps you should see both. Because I suspect that on this journey, both will be equally tested.”

Er’ril didn’t answer, but he reached a hand and squeezed her knee. “You have grown much during the six moons among Krai’s people. More than I had thought.”

“It must be the mountain air,” she said with a whisper of a grin. He patted her leg and offered her one of his rare smiles. Something deep inside her stirred at the sight, something touched by more than the palm on her knee. A mixture of relief and regret flooded her when he removed his hand and turned away.

Er’ril sauntered his stallion a few steps aside while Elena tapped Mist’s flank to urge the horse after the retreating wagon. Elena sighed. Suddenly the journey to A’loa Glen didn’t seem quite so long. Ahead, the thunder of hooves erupted near the wagon, drawing her attention. Meric appeared, mounted atop a spirited roan filly. The elv’in lord seemed to float above his saddle as the horse galloped toward them.

Meric’s silver hair, tied back in its usual braid, flagged behind him, matching his mount’s own tail. He and his filly flew to join them.

“What is it?” Er’ril asked.

Meric ignored him, instead bowing his head first toward Elena before answering. “Krai has called a halt ahead. He’s found something odd. He asks that we all join him.” Elena gripped her reins tighter. “What did he find?” Meric shook his head. “I don’t know. He says he’s never seen its like before among these peaks and passes.”

Elena recalled the wolf’s message: The trail smells wrong. She reached a hand and pulled her riding jacket tighter around her neck. Er’ril’s hand had wandered to the pommel of his sword. “Lead on,” he said.

Meric swung his horse around and guided the way. As they passed the gaily painted wagon, Elena saw that Nee’lahn and Mogweed were already gone from the wagon’s front. She glanced within the tented interior. It was empty. Apparently Tol’chuk, too, had proceeded ahead. Meric led the way along the thinly marked trail. As they rounded

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a bend, the path beyond vanished over a steep slope. The others gathered near the crest and were studying the lower lands. Elena and her companions dismounted and joined them.

“Krai,” Er’ril said as he stepped up to the mountain man, “what’ve you found?” Krai just pointed his thick arm downward.

Elena stepped beside Nee’lahn. The nyphai woman wore a worried expression. Ahead, the trail dropped in steep switchbacks toward a lower rimwood forest. With the sun setting behind them, the wood below drowned in shadows. Composed predominantly of black oaks and red maples, the trees’ gnarled and bent boles were a dramatic change from the straight and stately posture of the lodgepole pines and mountain birch of the higher elevations.

“That wood looks sick,” Nee’lahn whispered, seeming to draw inward, as if listening with more than her ears.

“What’s that stuff growing on the tree branches?” Mogweed asked.

Elena saw it, too. Strands of gossamer filaments blew and billowed from almost every branch, like ghostly mosses. Some clumped in thick patches, some in ribbons stretching longer than the trees were tall.

“What is it?” Mogweed asked, directing the question at Nee’lahn, the troupe’s expert in woodlore.

But the answer came from Tol’chuk, the og’re’s sharp eyes glowing amber in the dying light. “Looks like webs.”

Mogweed’s voice rose sharply in pitch. “And how… What would cause those?” Elena answered that question herself. “Spiders.”

Nee’lahn stepped toward the lone oak, seeking answers. The an-cient tree towered like a sentinel near the edge of the dark wood, separate from its web-shrouded brethren. Only its branches, peppered with green buds, lightly brushed the arms of its companions. Something was dreadfully wrong here.

“Nee’lahn!” Er’ril called. “Wait!”

She ignored him, only raising a hand to silence the plainsman and indicate she had heard his warning. The others were still trying to coax the wagon down the series of switchbacks to where the trail continued into these strange woods. She could hear their raised

voices as they shouted orders to one another. Only Er’ril and Elena had followed her when she had hurried toward the forest’s edge.

As one of the nyphai, steeped in the elemental magicks of root and loam, the woodlands were her charge. Nee’lahn could not remain idle while this stand of old-growth forest suffered. She would find who or what had assaulted its spirit—and make them answer for their violation!

Nee’lahn cautiously approached the ancient oak, careful not to crush the fallen acorns near the base of its knotted trunk. It wouldn’t be good to offend this old man of the forest—not if she needed answers.

Bent with age, its bark burnished to a polished black by decades of winter’s ice and summer’s scorch, the solitary oak commanded respect. Its branches were a snarled canopy overhead—as if in form, the old man expressed his anger at what had occurred to his root brothers. But even this stout survivor had not escaped the corruption’s touch. Nee’lahn spotted several melon-size horny growths sprouting like yellow boils from his trunk. They somewhat resembled the parasitic galls from nesting wasps, but she had never seen them swell so large.

Nee’lahn reached a tentative finger to touch the bark of the old man, keeping her hand well away from one of the ripe growths that protruded overhead. Closing her eyes and bowing her head, she opened herself up.

Wake and hear me, old one. I see’t your counsel.

She waited for a response, searching for that stirring of spirit that meant she had been heard. Some of the older trees could become lost in dreams and were reluctant to abandon the communal song of their forest home. But such was not the case with the old man—she heard no trace of woodsong, no music of the glade in which the old man communed.

The entire forest lay silent to her calling.

A chill passed through her. Only one other forest had been so deathly still—her own woodland home, Lok’ai’hera, after the Blight had destroyed it.

“Nee’lahn,” Elena said near her shoulder, but the girl’s words seemed far away. “You’re crying. What’s wrong?”

“The forest… It isn’t sick.” Nee’lahn’s voice cracked as she answered. “It’s dead. Poisoned like my home.”

“How could that be?” Er’ril said. “Look, the trees still bud with new growth. They seem fine.”

“No. A tree’s spirit will sing the moment it sprouts from seed and continue until it dies.” She faced Er’ril and Elena, touching her palm reverently on the cold trunk of the old man. “I hear no woodsong here,” she whispered. “All the spirits are gone.”

“Yet, the trees still sprout,” Er’ril continued to argue.

“It’s a deception. Something has dispossessed the true spirits and taken over the trees. What lies before us is not forest… but something else.”

Elena stepped closer to Er’ril. “Who could have done that?” she asked, her eyes wide.

“I’m not—” Nee’lahn tensed. Maybe it was just her imagination or a wishful dream, but for a breath, she’d felt a familiar touch: a tingling behind her ears, a minor chiming, like wind through crystals. She dared not hope. Then she felt him reach for her, swimming up as he drowned in poisons.

The old man yet lived! But he was in such pain.

“Nee’lahn?” Elena asked tentatively.

“Hush, he’s weak.” Nee’lahn turned away from the two worried faces to place both palms upon the knotted trunk of the ancient oak. Come to me, old man, she prayed. Let my song give you strength.

She hummed softly in her chest a melody taught to her as a child. The tree spirit drew closer, hesitatingly, as if wary. Nee’lahn opened farther. See my light; fear not. Then his song joined hers, at first just a mere whisper, but soon with a desperate fervor. It had been a long time since this tree had communed with another of the root. His song wrapped around her like the arms of a long-lost friend. Yet, Nee’lahn sensed little strength left in those once-strong arms. Though beautiful and full of the resonant depth that only the passage of many winters could cultivate, the woodsong faded with each note. The old man was using the last of his spirit to reach out to her.

Nee’lahn would not let his effort be in vain.

She sang in harmony to the old oak’s chorus of pain and loss, pleading: Tell me what has happened to those who shared your root, old one. We must know.

The old man continued to sing, but his voice weakened rapidly. Only one word reached her clearly: Horde.

What did that mean?

Confused, she hummed in supplication for a clearer description— but none came. He was slipping away.

She tried to sing him songs of healing and hope, but it was to no avail. The old oak’s spirit died as she held his song close to her heart.

She lowered her forehead to the bole of the tree. May the Sweet Mother make you safe, she sent him in final prayer. Yet, just as the old man drifted into nothingness, a last clear whisper reached back to her.

Shuddering, shocked by the oak’s final message, she dropped her hands from his bark. No! Not that!

Tears sprang fresh to her eyes. “What is it?” Elena asked.

Nee’lahn tried to pull her mind back to normal speech, fighting for control of her tongue. How dull simple language was when compared to the multilayered song of the root. She shook her head, still dazed by the tree’s message. “We must—”

“Get back!” Er’ril grabbed Nee’lahn by the shoulder and yanked her away from the oak.

Dancing to keep her balance, she twisted around to see what had so startled the plainsman. Her hand flew to her mouth to cover her expression of disgust. With the death of the tree, the yellow galls now quaked and shook upon the dead carcass of the old oak, and a sick droning buzz reached Nee’lahn’s ears. “Back, back…” Er’ril urged needlessly. They all sped in a stumbling retreat.

Suddenly, like ripe milkweed pods, the galls burst open. A flow of tiny red spiders poured forth from the ruptured sores, spilling across the trunk and branches. The stench of rotting meat flowed forth from the heart of the tree, now a nest of the blackest corruption. Within a heartbeat, thousands of spiders drifted on lines of silk, wafting in the twilight breezes.

“Mother above, what horror is this?” Er’ril cursed. Nee’lahn knew the answer. “It’s the Horde.” The spiders continued to entomb the tree in their webbing. It seemed as if the beasts were already growing, their tiny bodies swelling like blood blisters, their black legs stretching longer and thicker. So foul to the eye, there could be no doubt that poison ran strong in their bites.

“What… what are we to do?” Elena asked. “We can’t go through that forest.“

“Yes, we can,” Nee’lahn said, her voice venomous enough to match the spiders. She recalled the final chorus of the ancient oak. What he had asked of her was blasphemous to a nyphai, an entreaty that went against the grain of her own spirit—but now Nee’lahn understood the necessity.

“How?” Er’ril asked. “What do you propose?”

Nee’lahn closed her eyes, remembering the image that had bloomed in the oak’s deathsong: Flames licking at wood and leaf. Her voice grew hard with the promise of revenge. “We burn our way through.”

Elena chewed at her lower lip and flexed her right hand, study-ing the ruby stain in the early evening gloom. The sun had already set behind the peaks of the Teeth behind her, leaving only a shadowed twilight at the edge of the corrupt wood.

No one paid her any heed as she stood near the back of the wagon. The others were too deep in discussion on the plans for tomorrow. Only one item had already been settled—that they would not brave the forest this dark evening. Instead, they decided to camp well away from the woods with two guards posted throughout the night.

As they all argued back and forth, only Mist stood by Elena’s side at the back of the wagon, the horse’s nose buried in her feed bag. Elena’s left hand idly ran a comb through her horse’s mane, removing brambles and tangles from the long day’s ride. But she did a shoddy job, her attention more on the bloodred whorls and black eddies of magick that swam across her right hand.

She concentrated on the ruby stain, remembering Er’ril’s instructions. Just let the magick show; don’t release it. Elena deepened her breathing and let her heartbeat slow. She needed to practice control of her magick’s flow, sensing that tomorrow would test her skills. With her lids sinking partially closed, Elena willed the tips of her fingers to warm. As she watched, only half aware, the nails of her right hand began to glow a soft rose.

Now for a bit more magick.

Elena bore her will to an intensity that scared her slightly. She could feel the call of her wild magicks, a seductive chorus of power. She listened to their siren song, now well familiar with their allure after the many days of practice with Er’ril.

Elena could not deny that a part of her—the half of her spirit that was wit’ch—was attracted by the whispers of power. But rather than

deny this appetite, she heeded the power’s call. Er’ril had taught her that ignoring her desires would only give the wit’ch in her more strength and control over her own true will, allowing the wit’ch to overwhelm the woman. She would not allow that!

She was Elena Morin’stal, and too many had already died in her name for her to give up her heritage to some siren song of power. She would not lose herself to magick’s lust.

She spread her hand wide. The tips of her fingers brightened to a white heat, the color burnt clean from them. She allowed herself a smile of satisfaction. If she should prick her finger now, the wild magick would be free to flow from her, unleashed into the world. And when she finally chose to do this, it would be the woman, not the wit’ch, that bent the wild magick to her will.

She clenched her fist into a tight ball, feeling the energies penned up within, then opened her hand. Her magicks crackled in blazes of power across the palm and back of her hand.

Suddenly, a voice rose behind her. “What are you doing?” Startled, Elena’s magick flared brighter, like an ember fanned to flame. She fought it back down, but not before the blaze had stung her eyes, as if scolding her for not releasing its energies into the world. After it had died away to nothing, it took a moment for her stressed eyes to make out the slender figure of the shape-shifter standing behind her.

“Mogweed?” Elena slipped her hand, now dark again, back into its glove.

“Sheathing your sword, I see,” Mogweed said with a fluttering smile.

“Pardon me?”

He pointed to her gloved hand. “Covering up your weapon. A sheathed sword seems innocent enough, even beautiful, until the blade is pulled free, revealing its deadly edge.” Mogweed’s eyes glowed amber in the weak light. “Your magick is like that sword.”

“Maybe. But a sword is easier to control,” she said shyly. “It doesn’t try to stab people all on its own.”

“Ah, child, everything takes practice. A sword is only as lethal as the skill of its wielder.”

“But even a child can accidentally kill with a sword.”

“True, so true.” Mogweed reached to her currycomb. “Let me help you with that.“ He began to work Mist’s mane with more diligence than Elena’s halfhearted effort.

“I can manage,” she said, but Elena could not deny that Mist seemed to enjoy the shape-shifter’s attention. Of course, the chunk of cured sweetroot he first offered to the horse did wonders to ingratiate the man to Mist.

“Tut, tut,” he scolded her. “I enjoy it. The horses deserve a bit of kindness for their long day of labors.” He glanced over to her with those strange, slitted eyes. “Now, enough about horses. I really came to see if you could use some company. You seemed so alone back here. Why aren’t you with the others?”

“No one seemed interested in my ideas about tomorrow.”

“Hmm… that sounds familiar.” He offered her a smile. “I keep mostly to myself, too. I’m afraid I don’t fully understand the goings-on of mankind. We si’lura are an isolated people, living deep in the Western Reaches, well away from men, except for the occasional hunter or trapper. I’m not comfortable around others—” He lowered his voice, sounding like tears might threaten. “—especially so far from home.” Elena took a brush and began wiping down Mist’s flanks. “I know how you feel,” she mumbled. A pang of sorrow caught her unawares. As she worked at Mist, soft music rose from the campfire as Nee’lahn began playing her lute. The lonely notes wafted outward like the gentle warmth of the campfire, spreading not only into the night but also reaching inside Elena. Er’ril had once told her that Nee’lahn’s lute contained an ancient spirit of the nyphai’s lost home. And listening to its mournful voice, Elena knew it was true. Its chords spoke of lost homes and vanished friends and touched Elena’s heart. She had already lost so much of her own home—mother, father, aunt, uncle. Her only hope lay in the chance that her brother Joach, after being stolen off the streets of Winterfell by the dark-mage, still lived somewhere amongst the lands of Alasea. Her secret dream was that along this lengthy journey she might find her brother again. “Joach,” she whispered to Mist’s flank, “you promised to be there for me. I am holding you to your word.”

Mogweed raised his head from near Mist’s tail. “Were you talking tome?” She smiled, cheeks flushing. “No, sorry. Just remembering…” He nodded knowingly. “Memories of home are always a strange mix of sorrow and joy.”

“Yes… yes, they are.” She lowered her face and hid the tears that began to well. She had always found the shape-shifter rather cold: always alone, seldom speaking, always studying everyone with narrowed, suspicious eyes. Now, maybe, for the first time she began to understand the man. Maybe the two of them weren’t so different.

The two worked over Mist in silence, both turned inward. When he didn’t know she was looking, Elena caught a wavery smile pass over Mogweed’s face. She imagined the shape-shifter’s thoughts dwelt, like hers, on bittersweet recollections of lost homes and families. After several moments of quiet brushing, Mist’s coat glowed in the fading twilight.

They both stepped back to admire their handiwork.

“That’s much better,” Elena finally said. “Thanks.”

“No, I should thank you for allowing me to help. I found it nice to talk to someone who shared my sentiments.” Mogweed suddenly raised a hand and patted his leather jerkin. His fingers stopped at an inside pocket and withdrew something. “Here’s a gift,” he said. “Just a small token.” Elena leaned closer to see what he offered in his open palm. “It’s an acorn.“

“Yes, from near that big oak.”

“But why did you… I mean of what… ?”

“I know it’s not much of a gift. But I’m a collector. What is someone’s trash is another’s treasure. I heard Nee’lahn’s tale. This woodland home is dead. I felt sorry—so I collected the acorn to maybe plant somewhere free of this foulness, to give the forest a chance to someday live again.” Mogweed began to withdraw his hand. “I’m sorry. It was a silly offering.”

“No, no.” She took his hand in her own and removed the acorn. She held the oak seed in her fist and pressed it to her chest. “What a sweet and thoughtful gesture. Thank you, Mogweed. I will treasure your gift.”

“I thought since we both lost our homes… that maybe we could at least bring someone else’s back.” His voice cracked with his last words. “And in that way, maybe bring back a little of our own.” Elena did not hide her face this time. A single tear rolled down

jo WIT CH STORM

her cheek. She wanted Mogweed to see how much he had touched her with his words.

He seemed at first shocked by her emotion; then he glanced at his feet, as if embarrassed or guilty. “I’m sorry… I didn’t think…”

“No, Mogweed.” She reached to his shoulder. For a heartbeat, it seemed he cringed from her touch, as if he suddenly did not want to be here. She squeezed his shoulder.

Before she could speak, a stern voice rose from behind her. “Elena, shouldn’t you be in bed?” It was Er’ril. “We’ve a dangerous day tomorrow, and I want you well rested.” She removed her hand from Mogweed’s shoulder and faced the plainsman. “I was just combing out Mist.”

Er’ril ignored her. “Mogweed, don’t you have the first watch? Shouldn’t you be with Krai?”

“I was just going,” he said meekly, brushing past Elena.

“And keep your eyes open,” Er’ril called after him, his words more an accusation than an instruction.

When Er’ril turned back, Elena knitted her brow darkly. “You need not be so hard on him,” she said.

“He’s not a warrior, just a wanderer—like me.”

Er’ril blew out a rude noise. “I can read people. He’s a shirker. Always looking for the easiest path.” Elena roughly placed her brushes and combs back into the wagon. She dumped the horse’s water bucket, slightly splashing Er’ril with the contents. “Yes, you’re a keen observer of people’s feelings.” As she stomped off toward the spread of bedrolls, her fingers wandered to the lump in her pocket. The acorn was a reminder that looks could deceive. The acorn appeared tiny and weak, but within its shell lurked the potential for a mighty oak.

Er’ril could not see that—not in Mogweed, not in herself.

“What is the matter with that child?” she heard Er’ril grumble behind her.

Nothing, she answered silently. Nothing at all.

Er’ril stood with his back toward the camp’s fires. In the Distance, the light of the flames lapped to the fringes of the forest, but its heat barely reached his position. So far the creatures of the Horde seemed content to stay within their dead wood. Still it would be unwise for his band to let its guard down. Behind Er’ril, to protect against any marauding spiders, the group of bedrolls lay within a protective ring of small campfires. Standing just beyond their circle of warmth, Er’ril wore a deerskin jacket with a furred collar against the late evening’s cold as he stood watch. Morning seemed a false promise this dark moonless night. Even the stars were just whispers poking through a thin cloudy haze that had blown in at nightfall.

Unblinking, he studied the forest, trying to pierce its mysteries. The companions had argued well into the evening on the best course through the wood. They had all quickly decided that turning back was not an option. According to the wolf, the other trails were swamped with snowmelt—and who was to say that these other paths weren’t similarly blocked by corruption? No, they had to risk the wood. Yet doubt ran like ice in Er’ril’s veins. The child was ultimately his responsibility.

“We must go forward,” Tol’chuk suddenly said beside him, as if reading his mind. The og’re had been sitting so still and quiet, like a crouching boulder, that Er’ril had almost forgotten the hulking creature was there.

“I know,” Er’ril said, thankful to speak aloud what troubled him. “But are we right? We could always go back to Krai’s people and wait until the other passes open.”

“No, this be the correct path.”

The certainty in the og’re’s voice drew Er’ril’s eyes. “How can you be so sure ?” Tol’chuk shifted his thick body, his joints creaking like breaking saplings. In the firelight, Er’ril saw the og’re pull open his thigh pouch and remove a large object. Like a fired coal, it glowed a deep red between Tol’chuk’s claws. Er’ril recognized the stone: the Heart, as Tol’chuk had named the large crystal, a chunk of precious heart-stone mined from deep in the og’re’s lands.

Er’ril had seen the crystal before, but never aglow as it was this night. His gaze was drawn to it; its gentle radiance seemed to penetrate deep within him. Er’ril found his voice strangely hushed as he tried to understand the og’re’s revelation. “What’s the significance of… of the Heart?” he asked.

Tol’chuk became silent, a boulder again. Only the white flumes WIT CH STORM

flaring from his nostrils into the chill air indicated he still lived. Finally, he spoke again. “I would tell you something, Er’ril. Something I have told no other.”

“What is it?”

“Long ago, one of my blood ancestors, the Oathbreaker, betrayed the land most foully. And as punishment, the land cursed our people.” The og’re lowered his face in shame, his back bending in anguish.

Er’ril had never seen Tol’chuk so pained. Uncomfortable with the og’re’s display, Er’ril found his eyes drifting back to the forest’s edge, but he knew he could not so easily ignore his companion’s distress. He spoke into the silence. “What did this Oathbreaker of yours do?”

“No one knows.” Tol’chuk held up the glowing stone. “But this be our curse. The stone holds our clan’s spirits of the dead until they can travel to the next world. But the land laid a corrupt seed, a black worm called the Bane, within the heart of the stone. It now eats our spirits instead of letting them travel beyond.”

Er’ril grimaced. A foul story indeed.

“I be the last descendant of this Oathbreaker, doomed by my mixed blood never to bear offspring.

Prophecy says only I can lift this curse upon our people’s spirits and destroy the Bane.” Er’ril glanced back to the heartstone, trying to pierce its glow and spy the black worm inside. He could not see what the og’re described. “This Bane… How are you supposed to get rid of it?”

“I must discover what the Oathbreaker did and correct it.” Tol’chuk lowered the large crystal back to his lap.

“I thought no one knows what this ancestor of yours did.”

“That be true. But I was given the Heart as a beacon. It guides me where I must go.” Er’ril digested this information, beginning to understand. “The glow—?”

“It calls me forward. Leads me where I need to be. First to the shape-shifters, then to the girl. After I joined you all, the stone grew dark and quiet—so I know we all must stay together. But with the first melt of snow, it began to call again, worse as each day passed. Now it urges like hooks in my heart. We must not delay.”

Er’ril studied the stone for several moments in silence. “I believe you,” he finally said and turned back to face the corrupt forest. Though the og’re’s words had helped steady Er’ril’s resolve on their course, they did little to ease the fear around his heart. Stone or not, JAMES CLEMENS

prophecy did little to protect one from a spider’s bite. “But, Tol’chuk, are you quite sure of your stone’s pull?”

As answer, the og’re lifted the heartstone toward the dark wood. The crystal flared brighter, competing now with the flames of the hearths. “We have no other path. We must travel through the spiders’ forest.” Elena adjusted the damp cloth across her nose and mouth. It sat cold against her cheek. She shifted in Mist’s saddle, unable to find her rhythm.

“We look like a bunch of bandits, eh?” Krai called to her as he rode beside her. Elena imagined he wore one of his broad grins under his own mask of wet cloth. The others were similarly garbed to protect them from the smoke to come. Her companions were also outfitted with hooded cloaks, to keep ash and stray spiders from hair and face.

Elena nodded at Krai. They did look somewhat like a raiding party.

Ahead, Elena could see the tall column of black smoke already marring the blue morning sky. Its source was a fierce bonfire started at daybreak by Er’ril, Nee’lahn, and Meric. It raged a stone’s throw from the forest’s edge, near where the trail entered the wood.

She followed the trail of smoke to the blue sky above. Why did her journeys always begin with fire, she thought, remembering the orchard blaze that had heralded the beginning of her horrors.

Elena, accompanied by the mountain man for protection, traveled slowly toward the fire and smoke. The wagon trailed behind, its bells tinkling brightly in contrast to the dire wood they skirted.

Although the morning sun had quickly burned off the dawn haze, the forest itself still clung to the night’s shadows. Wisps of trailing webs, many carrying the red-blistered bodies of their makers, reached from the wood’s edge toward them. They kept well away from these clinging strands, aiming for the fire.

Mogweed drove the wagon behind her, bearing Fardale and Tol’chuk. Er’ril had insisted no one should travel this trail on foot; the risk of a spider bite was too high. Even the horses’ legs were wrapped in leather straps.

Elena glanced over her shoulder to where the two draft horses strained in their harnesses. Her heart went out to them. Er’ril had tried to corral Elena within the wagon with the og’re and the wolf. “It’s safer under the wagon’s canopy,” he had claimed. But she would not leave Mist tethered to the back of the wagon.

Restricted by the lead, unable to maneuver, her mare would be easy prey to the crawling beasts. She could not allow that. Risk or not, she would stay with her horse.

“Yo!” Krai called to Er’ril as they neared. Elena’s eyes were drawn forward. “If you stoke that fire any higher,” the mountain man bellowed, “you’ll be chasing us back to my clan’s caves.” Er’ril raised his single hand in acknowledgement but kept his head bowed near the silver-haired elv’in.

The plainsman’s hand and face were smudged with char and ash.

Meric shook his head vigorously at something Er’ril said. Even from here, Elena could see the elv’in’s blue eyes flash angrily.

Ignoring their argument, Nee’lahn stood between the fire and the forest, wrapped in her cloak and mask, her shoulders tight by her ears. She stared steadily toward the forest, her eyes moist with more than the sting of smoke. The nyphai raised a black hand to her cheek and brushed away a tear, leaving a smear of ash under one eye.

The jangle and clatter of the wagon as Mogweed pulled to a halt finally drew the three fire builders. Er’ril straightened and crossed toward them, trailed by Meric and Nee’lahn.

“We’re ready,” Er’ril said, eying Elena on top of Mist. A momentary flash of irritation mixed with worry seemed to cross through his eyes. He turned to face the others now gathered. “I’ve torches flaming at the fire’s edge. Everyone on horseback needs to grab one. Once remounted, we’ll spread out on either side of the trail opening.” He pointed for where he wanted everyone positioned. “Then on my signal, we’ll burn a swath through this cursed wood.”

Heads nodded and everyone, except those in the wagon, approached Witch Storm

the fire. Er’ril laid a hand on Elena’s knee when she tried to dismount. “You stay by the wagon. This is not for you.”

Elena deliberately removed the plainsman’s hand. “No,” she said with heat in her voice. She jumped from the mare’s back. “This is for me. This is all for me. I understand the need to conserve my own magicks until I’m more skilled, but if we are to burn a forest, then my hand, too, will lay torch to wood. I’ll not sit idle.”

Er’ril’s face had darkened fiercely. “Yes, this whole journey is for you, Elena. But its purpose is not for you to burn a forest. If we are to trust prophecy, you are our last hope against the Gul’gotha. You, child, have no right to risk—”

“First, I am tired of being called a child. I am well past my first bleed.” She moved to swipe back her hair, realizing too late that her locks were long gone. She dropped her arm, her face reddening further.

“Second, if I am to save these lands, I must learn to face adversity, not be hidden away and coddled like a babe. On this journey, I must learn to harden my heart in tempered steel. And, as you taught me, only the hottest fire can forge the strongest steel.”

Er’ril just stared at her, his mouth hanging slightly open. The others had stopped to stare at them, though several eyes now darted awkwardly away.

“I will not shirk my responsibility here,” Elena finished, her hands in fists. “I will face my fires.” Er’ril shook his head ever so slightly. “Fine,” he said aloud, but as she tried to brush past him, he stopped her with a hand to her shoulder. “But you stick close to me,” he whispered fiercely. “Lessons learned do no good to the dead.”

Elena nodded and crossed toward the fire. The others had already gathered burning brands. She reached for a stump of dead wood protruding from the fire and pulled out its flaming end.

Er’ril did the same. “Mount up!” he called to everyone.

Elena and the others returned to their horses. Mist shied from the torch’s flame at first, but with a few soothing words, Elena was able to calm the mare and regain her saddle. She walked Mist closer to Er’ril’s white stallion. The plainsman, guiding his horse with motions of his legs, held his own torch high.

Suddenly a breeze blew up from the lower valley and scattered smoke and flaming ash from the tip of Er’ril’s torch toward Elena.

Er’ril twisted in his saddle to face Meric. “Are you certain you can manage this?” The elv’in scowled at him. “You have already asked me that a fistful of times. My answer remains the same.”

Er’ril persisted. “Yes, and you have also told us a fistful of times that your heart is not firm on this journey. Our success here depends on your elv’in skills, Meric. If you cannot master these winds and keep the fire driving ahead of us, we will be forced to retreat.”

“I know my duty. I have given my word as an elv’in lord to drive this blaze through the heart of this foul forest. My winds will not fail me.”

The two men stared icily at one another for several heartbeats. Elena could tell Er’ril hated being dependent on another. She guessed that after centuries wandering the roads of Alasea alone, the plainsman had grown to distrust any arm but his own. She moved Mist between the two men. “Meric will not fail us,” she said, with a nod toward the elv’in. “He knows my wishes and will not balk from his duty.”

Meric bowed his head. “I see the elv’in king’s wise counsel has not been diluted by generations of ordinary blood.”

Krai called out from where he and Nee’lahn were guiding their horses away. He carried three brands caught up in his large fist. “If you’re done warming your jaws, we’ve a fire to set!” Er’ril raised his torch higher and kicked his stallion toward the forest. Elena followed, with Meric trailing.

The trio aimed for the forest to the left of the trail, while Nee’lahn and Krai trotted toward the far side.

“Sick-looking beasts,” Meric said as Er’ril pulled his group to a stop just beyond the eaves of the forest.

Elena found the elv’in’s words to be too mild. From the forest’s canopy draped a tangled curtain of webbing, snarls that hung like clotted blood from an open wound. The fat red bodies of the spiders, singly and in frenzied groups, added to the image that the trees bled.

“These are not natural beasts,” Meric said. “They stink of corruption.”

“Natural or not,” Er’ril said, raising his torch toward a tangle of web blowing out toward them, “a hot-enough fire can burn out any corruption.” He laid his torch to the mass of strands. The torch’s flame jumped to the web. Sizzling and hissing, the fire ran up the strands. A handful of spiders caught in the blaze tried to scrabble away, their bodies afire. Several blazing spiders even managed to pass the fire onto neighboring webs, while others popped and burst from the poisons boiling within their bodies.

Splashes of caustic poison etched the wood and bark they touched.

Er’ril raised his voice, his words echoing across the valley. “Now! Set it aflame!” He threw his torch into the forest.

Elena threw hers where Er’ril pointed. Meric moved his filly to the side a few steps, then flung his own brand deep within the wood. Deadwood that had accumulated like driftwood at the edge of a sea greedily consumed the torches’ fires.

“Again!” Er’ril called out. Elena and the others returned to the fire to collect more torches. They repeated their attack upon the forest, seeding new fires and spreading the breadth of the fire’s front. After four trips to the forest’s edge, they were forced to stop. The blaze had grown too hot to approach closer than a stone’s throw.

Er’ril called for everyone to regather. As the others joined them, Elena could not keep her eyes from the flames licking up at the sky. The fire crackled and popped like the choking laugh of a predator. What had they done?

Elena walked Mist beside Nee’lahn’s horse. The small woman hung limply in her saddle. The nyphai, too, could not turn her back on the fire. Firelight reflected in her tears. “We… we had to do it,” Nee’lahn muttered, reaching a small hand out to Elena.

Taking her hand in her own, Elena stayed silent, knowing that no words could ease this pain.

Nee’lahn continued, “I know the forest is dead… and I am glad to see the fire destroy the Horde that murdered this proud wood… But… but still…”

Elena squeezed her hand.

Tol’chuk had by now wandered over to them, his amber eyes aglow in the flames. The og’re’s sharp ears must have heard Nee’lahn’s words. “The spirits of the trees be gone now. Free now. It be not right that these beasts feast on the carcasses. It honors the dead to send their ashes back to the sky and ground. With the way burnt clear, life can begin again.”

Tol’chuk’s words seemed to straighten Nee’lahn’s shoulders. “Green life from red fire,” she said softly.

“What was that?” Elena asked.

Nee’lahn sighed and shook her head, slipping her hand free of Elena’s. “Tol’chuk is right,” she said.

“Even the last of our elders prophesied that my own forest home could only be rebirthed in fire. ‘Green life from red fire’ were the elder’s dying words.” Nee’lahn wiped away her tears and pointed an arm toward the fire. “Today we have not birthed a fire of destruction, but the first flame of new life.” Er’ril called to them all, drawing their attention back to the circle of companions. “The fire burns fierce enough. It’s time now to give the fire its legs. Everybody load up and get ready. We must stick close to the heels of this marching flame.” Er’ril swung to face Meric. “Are you ready?”

“Always.” Meric reined his filly around and trotted her several paces away from the group, toward the fire’s edge.

Once clear of the group, Meric settled his mount, then bowed his head with his arms tight across his chest. At first nothing happened. Elena noticed Er’ril’s stallion dance on its hooves as the mount sensed its master’s nervousness. What had to occur next was crucial to their plans.

They waited, everyone eying each other. Only Meric sat calmly upon his steed, his head still bowed.

Then a high whistle echoed down from the peaks, like the keening cry of a hunting hawk. Elena held her breath. At first, she felt a slight shift in the air. The smoke that had wafted toward them in waves, fouling the breezes with its stink and ash, suddenly cleared around them. Fresh air, crisp from the cold peaks, washed away the smoke.

Then it came.

In a rush that had all members of the group scrambling to keep their mounts steady, a gust of swift air swept down to engulf the group and slam into the fire’s raging front. The flames swelled hugely, leaping toward the sky, as if trying to stop the wind—but the gusts grew in force.

Elena crouched lower atop Mist, offering less of a target to the gale. Behind her, the wagon’s bells clanked angrily, and its canopy snapped sharply in the wind. With the gusts whistling in her ears, she barely heard Er’ril yell for everyone to make ready.

Soon the fire began to retreat from the wind, digging deeper into the forest, forging a wide path through the wood. The wind, knowing

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it had won the battle, calmed slightly but still blew steadily from the peaks, driving the fire onward. Their plan was to burn a swath through the forest wide enough to keep the spiders lurking to either side at bay.

But they couldn’t delay too long.

“Let’s go!” Er’ril bellowed to them. “Stay together.”

Ahead, Meric shook back his hood. His face, lit by the retreating fire, was aglow with rapture. He turned to Er’ril. “Do you still doubt my abilities?”

Er’ril led the group. “Not as long as that wind keeps blowing,” he said as he passed the man.

Meric tried to scowl, but after touching the elemental power in his elv’in blood, he could not erase the wonder and awe in his eyes. For the first time, Elena could see the prince in the man.

“We must hurry,” Er’ril yelled, struggling to be heard above the fire’s roar.

Elena faced the burning woods. The trail, a moment ago full of flame and smoke, was now an open throat, awaiting them. Elena pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders and kicked Mist forward.

Vira’ni knelt naked in the small glade, a delicate figure of carved moonlight, her fingers planted to the largest knuckle in the dank dirt. She listened with her head slightly cocked. Her long hair, silky like her children’s webs, draped to the leaf-strewn forest floor.

Surrounding her, the trees were now just black skeletons under shrouds of webbing. Thousands of her children scurried along the busy thoroughfares and byways of their magnificent construction, adding and building, fighting and mating. But Vira’ni ignored all this as she strained her senses. Like the trees, Vira’ni herself lay within a nest of silver web, but from her nest, eight cords of braided silk extended out to all compass points to merge with her children’s handiwork. These cords vibrated and thrummed like the strings of a finely tuned lute.

In her nest, Vira’ni listened to the music of her children’s instrument. Not just with her ears, but with the bones of her body. Since dawn, something had been happening. She read agitation in the faint vibrations.

One of her children scampered down a cord toward her. She pulled a hand from the dirt and reached a finger toward it. “What is it, my sweet?”

The spider crawled up onto her palm.

“You have news?”

Her child sat with its furred legs bunched under it in the center of her palm. It quivered ever so slightly.

“Don’t be afraid,” she cooed softly.

She raised the spider to her lips and placed the child in her mouth. Such a delicate creature. The warmth of a mother’s love for a child ran through her veins. She felt its eight tiny legs dance on her tongue, and a smile turned the corner of her lips. Oh, how she loved this tiny one, but now was not the time to dally.

Something was happening. The vibration in the cords increased with each breath she took.

Vira’ni moved her child with her tongue. Now tell me what you know, little one, she thought as she crunched the spider between her teeth. Its poisons swept through her instantly. The master had prepared her well.

Vira’ni swooned slightly, both hands again planted deep into the soil for support. Her vision swam in myriad hues. The trees and webs blurred. Then she saw—saw with the vision of her children— a great conflagration consuming her forest. It raged many leagues away, near the edge of her wood. She spied the fire from thousands of eyes all at once, her mind’s eye fractured into a thousand pieces.

Stinging tears flowed across her cheeks as she bore witness to the holocaust: sheets of flame consuming wood and web … her children fleeing… smo’te from countless windswept fires…

spiders aflame and dying . .. and for a moment, a charred wagon, its canopy smoldering, pulled by two wild-eyed horses…

She spat the hollow husk of her child to the ground. “No,” she moaned. “My children!” She pushed to her feet, snapping free of clinging webs.

Vira’ni looked toward the far western sky, trying to pierce the net °f branches and webs. The sky above her was clear, with the sun directly overhead, but to the west, the horizon was blotted out by a nuge black cloud. If not for her vision, she might have mistaken it tor an approaching storm, black with angry thunderheads—but she knew better. What fed these clouds was not rain and lightning, but fire and wind.

°

As Vira’ni watched, she began to hear a distant roar like the call of an approaching beast, and in the skies above, tendrils and roots of smoke began to worm out of the black wall, reaching toward her.

The fire was coming this way, sweeping through the forested valley!

She shuddered as she realized its impact. It would consume all in its path! She raised a muddy fist to her mouth in horror and tore her eyes from the roiling skies. “The Horde must not die,” she cried. In her breast, the numbing fear for her children was laced with the strangling terror of offending the Dark Lord if she should lose his sweet gift.

Her mind dwelt for a moment on the thought of trying to contact her lord, but by the time she could purify the ebon’stone and perform the rites, the fire would be upon her and all would be lost. That must not happen! No, she thought as she hugged herself, the call would have to wait. Once she and her children were safe, she would let the master know what had happened.

Behind her, the roar grew louder, and the day began to darken as smoke ate the sun.

She must hurry.

Scrambling free of her nest, she squatted in the damp mud, her small knees spread wide. She closed her eyes and opened that part of her, allowing the scent to flow out from her. It smelled of ripe meat and spoiled milk.

Come to me, my children.

She spread her knees wider, and they came—crawling, scrabbling, scurrying from all directions. She knew she could not save them all. Such a deed, besides being impossible, was unnecessary. She needed only to protect a fraction of the whole, only a small seed from which the Horde could grow forth again.

Come, come, she urged. Hurry.

Her children crowded over her knees and up her smooth legs, returning to where they had been birthed.

They squirmed and wiggled their way to the angle between her legs. She smiled with motherly pride as they entered and filled her womb. As she began to hum a lullaby taught to her by her own mother, the Horde kept flowing into her, thousands of scrambling spiders, swelling her belly ever larger. Soon her stomach was as wide as a mother birthing twins. Vira’ni felt her children settling in her belly and grinned.

^l

She carried so much more than twins.

Once her stomach was fully distended, she closed her knees. A few tardy children tried to climb up her bare legs, but she lovingly swatted them from her thighs as she stood.

Crossing to where her belongings were piled, Vira’ni quickly dressed and slipped a bag over one shoulder. The forest trail was nearby, but she would still have to hurry if she wanted to clear the wood before the fire caught her.

She set off at a fast pace, one hand holding her bag in place, the other on her belly. Though exhausted, she allowed a smile to shine on her face. She was such a good mother.

“Keep going!” Er’ril called, his throat burned raw with smoke and exertion. He watched the wagon’s rear wheels struggle to climb over the half-burnt log that had fallen across the trail. “Mogweed, don’t let those horses balk. Drive ‘em hard!”

A cascade of flaming ashes swirled across the forest path, igniting tiny blazes on the wagon’s canopy. It was death to stop on this trail. Though the main fire was still being deliberately driven forward by the elv’in’s winds, smaller side pyres still smoldered and spat at the company as they fought their way through the ruined wood. The wagon was most at risk, a large flammable target for stray flames.

“Get those fires out!” Er’ril hollered, but his words were unnecessary. Krai and Nee’lahn, mounted on their exhausted horses, were already circling the wagon, splashing water from goatskin flasks. The tiny flames sputtered out, leaving black scars on the wagon’s canopy.

“We’re running out of water,” Elena commented at his side. She coughed harshly and sat hunched in the saddle, wilting from the heat. The hot breath of the racing fire seemed to worsen the deeper into the wood they traveled, the heat taxing the company more than the flame and spiders. “And we still have so far to go.”

Er’ril adjusted his mask higher over his nose, trying to keep his worried expression hidden. “We’ll make it,” he muttered.

Once she had finished dousing the wagon, Nee’lahn idled her mount beside them. “Meric nears exhaustion,” she said. “He denies it, but I can see how his hands tremble on the reins. And a moment ago, he almost tumbled from his saddle.”

JAMES LLEMENS

“He’ll have to manage,” Er’ril said. “If the fire should expire before we breach the woods, we’ll be trapped. He must keep the fire moving. We can’t stop.” But as if mocking at his words, the wagon’s bells clanked sharply as the rear wheels failed to climb over the stubborn log and the rig settled back into the mud.

The two women’s eyes stared up at him.

Krai circled around to join them. He pointed to the left of the trail. “Here they come again.” Er’ril glanced where he pointed. It seemed that the spiders somehow always sensed when the company slowed. Various troupes of the Horde had periodically threatened the company along the trail, but luckily the creatures were slow. As long as the team had kept moving, the flames and the heat had posed a bigger risk than the spiders.

Until now…

Across the scorched ground, masses of red-bodied spiders rolled toward the trail from the fringes of forest that lay to either side of the fire’s wide swath. Scattered, smoldering embers consumed many of the attackers, their bodies hissing and curling into tight balls, but the others continued their march over their dead comrades. Even in the swirling smoke and eddying winds, tiny spiders floated upon wisps of silk, bits of poison in the wind.

Death crawled, skittered, and floated toward them.

Er’ril glanced back to the stalled wagon and kicked his stallion closer. “Lighten the load,” he called to the wagon’s occupants. “Toss out our supplies.”

Tol’chuk’s huge arm swung open the wagon’s back flap. Fardale peered out as the og’re began to climb from the wagon.

“No,” Er’ril yelled, “get back inside. There are spiders underfoot. Just jettison our gear.”

“I weigh more than all of our supplies,” Tol’chuk said, ignoring Er’ril’s order and continuing to haul his massive body from the wagon. The og’re dropped barefoot to the trail. “We og’re be thick of skin. No puny spider could pierce our hide.”

Er’ril had by now pulled his mount beside Tol’chuk. “Still,” he said fiercely, “I would rather lose all our supplies than you.”

Tol’chuk patted Er’ril’s knee. “Me, too,” he said with a smile that exposed his fangs.

The og’re then swung back to the wagon, bent his knees, and grabbed the rear axle in both of his huge, clawed hands. With his

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muscles bunching like gnarled roots, Tol’chuk hauled the back half of the wagon up, tilting the rig upon the front wheels. “Now!” he bellowed out, his voice full of the strain in his back.

The crack of a whip split the wind. The wagon lurched forward as if stung by a bee. With a groan, Tol’chuk followed, holding up the wagon, his legs driven in the loamy soil up to his ankles.

Once the rear wheels had cleared the log, Tol’chuk released the wagon. It crashed to the trail, clear of the obstruction. Seemingly satisfied, the og’re rubbed his hands together to clean them of the axle grease and drew his feet from the sucking mud. “Now we can go.” He stepped over the tumbled log, crossed to the wagon, and clambered back inside.

Sweat stinging his eyes, Er’ril sat stunned at the display of strength in the og’re. Tol’chuk’s manner, always so quiet and reserved, belied the raw force of sinew and bone in the creature. Er’ril would have to remember never to cross this particular member of the team.

“Spiders,” Elena said, interrupting Er’ril’s thoughts as she danced her mare beside him.

Like a wave breaking on a beach, the forefront of the spider army rolled onto the trail. At the same time, flanks of the foul troupe swarmed up the black trunks of neighboring trees and threw themselves on strings of silk toward the company. It seemed that the many beasts had one mind, one intent: to swallow Er’ril and the others in their sticky embrace.

Er’ril twisted in the saddle. “Nee’lahn, take Elena and catch up to Meric. Krai, stay here with me. We need to buy some distance from these beasts.”

Ahead, Mogweed popped his head from around the front edge of the wagon. His amber eyes were huge with fear. “Sh-should I go ahead? Meric is almost out of sight!” Waving his hand forward, Er’ril called to him. “Go! Catch up with him. And don’t spare the horses!” Er’ril swung his stallion . around as Elena and Nee’lahn trotted their mounts toward the wagon. He watched for a breath to make sure Elena followed his orders, then turned to Krai.

Cloaked in hood and mask, the mountain man seemed a menacing figure atop his black, fire-eyed war charger. The horse pawed its steel-shod hooves in the dirt. The spiders were now within spitting distance of the mount’s legs. “What’s your plan?” Krai asked calmly, showing little discomfort at the poisonous sea cresting toward him.

Er’ril hopped from his horse. “Buying us some time.” He pulled free his sword and swatted his mount.

The slapped horse whinnied surprise and galloped down the trail into the mass of spiders. Sometimes n

sacrifices were necessary.

The spiders swung toward the hooves that slashed into their idst. Like a single creature, they swarmed m

upon the horse. Its white legs and sides were soon encrusted with red-blistered bodies. The stallion reared, its neck stretched back in pain, a silent scream fixed upon its open jaws. It toppled backward to the muddy trail, writhing for several heartbeats before settling to a still form. Already loops and tangles of webbing began to enshroud the beast. Its open eye, once full of vigor and heart, was now the dull orb of a stillborn. A single red spider danced across the dead globe.

Sheathing his sword, Er’ril turned away as the sea of spiders swallowed their feast.

Krai reached a hand toward Er’ril to pull him up on his mount. “His name was Sheshone,” the mountain man said, naming the crag horse.

Er’ril allowed himself to be swung behind Krai atop the huge stallion. He wished the mountain man hadn’t imparted that piece of information. The nameless were easier to forget.

Krai swung his mount around and trotted him after the retreating wagon.

Er’ril did not glance back.

“What happened?” Elena asked, her face pale with concern. She watched the plainsman untether one of the two draft horses that trailed behind Meric. He stayed silent as he quickly unburdened the beast of three of the packs. He let them drop to the mud and climbed bareback atop the thick-bodied horse.

“Keep going, Meric,” Er’ril ordered. “Krai, make sure these packs get tossed in the wagon when Mogweed catches up to here.”

Krai grunted his acknowledgement, then reined his horse around. “I’d better get back to keep watch on our rear. That bit of horseflesh will not buy us much time.” He cantered away.

Once the mountain man was gone, Elena stepped her mare beside Er’ril. They followed Meric and Nee’lahn, who were already a fair clip down the smoky trail. “What happened to your stallion?” she asked.

Er’ril stared steadily ahead. “He’s dead.” The plainsman kicked his horse to a faster pace, signaling the end of this discussion.

Elena rubbed her red eyes and glanced over her shoulder as if she might spy what had truly happened on the back trail. Behind her, the wagon lurched, tilting back and forth, as Mogweed drove the rig after them. Whatever had transpired back there was hidden by the wagon and sharp twists of the path.

Resigned, she settled back forward. From Er’ril’s locked shoulders, she imagined the events had been hard on the plainsman—and as usual, he refused to share his burdens.

Elena found her right hand clutching the reins harder. Somehow she sensed that if she were better skilled with her magicks, perhaps she could have saved Er’ril from making the decision that hunched his shoulders now. She studied her gloved hand. Its ruby stain lay hidden from sight, yet, like a rash, its power itched across her skin, reminding her that what lay hidden could not be denied by mere deerskin.

Soon a time would come when Er’ril would not be there to bear her burdens. Then she would need to take her gloves off and make her own hard decisions. Elena contemplated the taut strain in Er’ril’s back.

Would she have his strength then?

Nee’lahn had slowed her steed and dropped back. “Trouble ahead. A league farther, the trail descends into a deep hollow. The flames jumped this secluded section of forest and skipped to the higher wood beyond.”

“And the spiders?” Er’ril asked.

“The forest remains intact in the low wood. And so does the Horde.“

Elena pushed Mist closer to the others. “Can we go around?” Nee’lahn shook her head. “Not with the wagon—and even if we abandoned it, I doubt we could make it safely through the smoldering fires and collapsed trees.”

“Let’s see this wood,” Er’ril said, snapping his reins to urge his mount forward.

Nee’lahn led the way. “It’s just beyond the turn of the trail ahead. Meric waits.” No one spoke as they trotted toward where Meric slumped atop his roan filly. The heat seemed to worsen with each step forward, its roasting touch reaching through cloaks. Elena found herself gasping for air by the time they reached Meric.

As they approached, Elena could see the exhaustion in every muscle of the elv’in. Somehow he seemed to have shrunk in on himself— as if the draining of his elemental abilities had sapped the very substance from his being. He glanced tepidly at them, his eyes ringed in shadows, as the horses pulled to a stop beside him. “Meric,” Er’ril asked, “how are you managing?” Meric’s lips cracked as he spoke. “The fire has but a league of forest yet to consume. I will last until then.” He nodded toward where a wide pocket of green forest still thrived just ahead. “But I can’t help here. It takes all my concentration and skill to keep the main fire

moving.“

Er’ril nodded as he turned to study the obstacle, his eyes narrow with worry.

Elena inched Mist forward to better view where the trail dropped into the deep hollow. The surviving bit of forest, sheltered in the recess, lay shrouded in web and silence. No spiders could be seen moving among the strands and tangles of silver thread. In fact nothing moved. The wood lay as still as a corpse.

The complete lack of any sign of life bothered Elena more than if a thousand spiders were crawling and capering among the branches.

“Maybe the fire’s smoke drove them all away,” Elena offered with halfhearted hope.

“I wouldn’t count on that,” Nee’lahn said. “The spiders have been tenacious in sticking to their nests. I wager that beyond the edge of scorched trees, the Horde still awaits us.”

“Then maybe we can just torch this section of wood by hand,” Er’ril mumbled.

Meric sighed and shook his head. “No time. We must stick close to the main fire as it marches, or the spiders will circle back and reclaim the wood before we can pass. Even now we delay too long. The fire escapes us as we speak.”

A thunder of hooves momentarily distracted the group from the dire glade. Krai galloped his stallion up to them. The wagon was trundling not far behind.

“The Horde is on the move again. They’ll soon be upon us. Why’s everyone stop—?“ Krai asked, but his voice died in his throat as he saw what lay ahead.

Nee’lahn explained the situation while Er’ril returned to studying the woods. Elena pulled closer to the plainsman but let him think in silence. She needed for him to realize that only one option still lay open to them, but if she voiced it, Elena knew Er’ril would stubbornly resist. No, she would not goad him and drive him away from the correct choice. Given time, he would realize the one true path ahead.

As Elena watched Er’ril, she saw the tautness in his shoulders suddenly slump and recognized the resignation in his posture. After a moment’s hesitation, he twisted in his saddle, and Elena found herself staring into his hurt eyes. She knew how it pained him to ask this of her. She simply nodded at him. Both knew what must be done.

Er’ril swung his draft horse around to face the others as the wagon closed to join them. He cleared his throat to draw everyone’s attention. “Spiders or not, we’re going to have to force our way through this bit of forest.”

Concern lit everyone’s eyes, but no one voiced a protest.

Only Krai spoke, his voice edged with hard humor. “I hope we have enough horses to spare.” Elena did not understand the mountain man’s words, but she did not dwell on it. Now was not the time for words or explanations. She swung Mist around to face the dark woods and took a deep breath.

With the others silent behind her, Elena slipped the glove from her right hand. Its stain was already aglow with ruby and crimson whorls. She sat straighter and willed the wit’chlight to flare brighter. An ember of brilliant light the color of a moonrose bloomed in her open palm, then spread out to her fingers.

As she concentrated, she sensed Er’ril settle his stallion beside her. “Let it build,” he whispered hoarsely.

“Don’t let it overwhelm you. The power is yours to control.” Elena let the lids of her eyes droop lower. Her hand now blazed in the shadowed wood. Magicks crackled across her skin. The power seemed so much larger than her small frame. How could it stay contained? And once released, how could she control it?

“Careful,” he warned, his voice full of worry.

A seed of Er’ril’s concern found fertile ground in Elena’s chest. She again pictured her parents swallowed in a wall of fire cast out

from her own body. The glow in her hand faltered. She could no better control her magicks now than she had back then. “I… I can’t…” she moaned.

Er’ril reached his hand to her knee. “Yes, you can, El. This magick is in your blood. It’s part of you.

Control yourself and you control your magick.”

“But?”

He squeezed her knee. “Trust me, El. I know you can do this.” Fighting back tears, she glanced up to Er’ril. Under hair as black as shadows, his gray eyes shone with the intensity of his convictions. In the hard contours of his face, she saw the strength of the man who was her protector. She nodded and drew a small amount of Er’ril’s stoniness into her. Taking a deep breath, she turned back to face the shrouded wood, clearing her mind of anything but the flows and ebbs of the magick in her blood. In a few heartbeats, the glow grew back to an intense blaze.

She would do this.

“Now, when you’re ready, you—” Er’ril’s voice was like a gnat in her ear.

“Enough!” she snarled at him, willing him silent. “You were right. I know what I must do.” Her left hand slipped to the sheathed knife at her belt and gripped its rose-handled hilt. She pulled forth her wit’ch’s dagger, its silver blade shining crimson in the reflected ruby blaze.

Her magick called for blood, sang for its release.

Now Elena was ready to listen.

She drew the dagger’s edge across the meat of her thumb. Their prison pierced, her magicks burst forth from the wound, a cold fire raging out into the world.

A flicker of a smile fluttered about her mouth before Elena could force her lips to a stern line—but somewhere deep inside, somewhere where Elena feared to look too closely, a part of her still crackled with laughter and wicked delight.

The roar of the consuming flame followed Vira’ni from the eaves of the forest. Her brow glistened with sweat, and her breath rattled in ragged gasps as she stumbled from the wood’s edge. Her hair and green jacket were coated in a fine powder of ash, and tears

streaked through the soot that stained her face. With her legs wobbling under her, she kept running, trying to escape the fire’s voice.

One hand still clutched her belly, reminding her why she must not let exhaustion lull her into defeat. She must protect the seed of the Horde. She must not let the Dark Lord’s gift die with her. In her mind’s eye, she still pictured the flaming death of her children. Whoever had burned this wood would pay—oh, yes, they would suffer for this crime! It was this rage that fueled her weak legs and tired heart.

It took her several breaths and several more steps before she even realized she had escaped the forest and had entered the meadowed plains of the lower foothills. Only when her feet splashed through a wide stream of shallow snowmelt did her eyes focus on the open fields. Around her, the last of the afternoon sunlight, smudged with blowing smoke, cast the meadow grasses in hues of rose and gold. A few scattered islands of young oaks dotted the landscape, and in vernal pools, splashes of wild daffodils heralded the spring. Among these round hills, a thousand brooks and streams coursed through the lush growth.

Free of the overhanging branches and the webs of her children, Vira’ni felt suddenly exposed and vulnerable. Her legs slowed as she continued along the trail that led down out of the highland forests toward the distant plains. She glanced behind her at the black skies, lit up from below with the scarlet glow of the flames. Like a living beast, the conflagration rolled slowly toward her, growling its anger at her escape.

She found her legs stumbling faster again. Would the fire be happy with just the forest? Though the meadow grasses were green and wet with spring growth, would that necessarily sate this hot flame and stop its progress?

She stumbled on, her hand moist on her belly. She had more to protect than just herself. She must keep going. As the sun retreated toward the horizon behind her, she struggled onward. Once she was sure she and the Horde were safe, then she could stop and let her master know what had befallen them. She kept glancing over her shoulder as she marched and splashed through the wet meadows.

With her eyes fixed upon the flames and her ears full of the fire’s roar, Vira’ni failed to see the small hunters’ camp sheltered beyond

the rise of the next hill until she practically fell within the circle of tents. She seemed to surprise them as much as they startled her.

Vira’ni shuffled to a stop, wary of these strangers. She quickly weighed the danger. A dozen men, dressed in the green leathers and knee-high black boots of hunters, stood or sat around three fires. A handful of women, now frozen in various poses around cooking pots and spitted meats, also mingled among the men. Scattered among the larger folk, the small faces of a few children peeked from around legs and bosoms.

Everyone stood fixed for a heartbeat until a hound tethered near one of the tents let out a long, baying howl in her direction. The dog’s voice set everyone in motion at once. Vira’ni backed a step away.

Several of the men nudged each other and words were exchanged with appreciative glances in her direction. Spits of grilling meats began to turn again, and one broad-shouldered woman cuffed the hound and scolded it quiet.

One man separated from the group and approached her. Sandy haired with a matching broad mustache, he was a good head taller than the other hunters. His lips were set in a firm line, but his green eyes carried a trace of suspicion. “Lass, why are you out among these hills by yourself?” Vira’ni shrunk under his gaze, letting her long black hair drape between his eyes and her face. She could not find words, still too shaken by her sudden intrusion among people.

“Where are your companions? Did—?”

The hunter’s voice was cut off as a woman who stood as tall as the large man elbowed him aside. She had blond hair cropped short and wore an uncompromising set to her mouth and eyes. “Sweet Mother, Josa, can’t you see she’s heavy with child and practically scared out of her skin?” She nudged the hunter farther away. “Go tend to your hound before it chokes itself on its tether.” Once Josa had shuffled back to the heart of the camp, the woman placed fists on her hips and ran her eyes up and down Vira’ni. Her voice was warmer than the tone she had used with the man. “Now, child, don’t fret. My name is Betta. You’re safe here. Just take a few deep breaths and calm yourself.” Vira’ni straightened and moved a few strands of black hair from her face. “The fire…” she began, but her voice failed her.

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JAMES LLEM1NS

“I guessed that from the soot and ash all over you. So you came from the wood? Were you traveling alone?”

“Yes… no… my children!” Vira’ni could not stop the flow of tears from bursting from her eyes.

Betta swallowed Vira’ni in her large arms just as her legs finally gave out. Vira’ni sank within her embrace, allowing the woman to support her for a few ragged breaths. It felt so good to unburden herself. Only another woman could truly understand the pain a mother felt at the loss of a child—to carry a life in your womb and see the world destroy it. She sobbed uncontrollably into Betta’s chest as the woman stroked her hair and whispered words to soothe her.

Betta led her into the camp, sweeping her into a tent for privacy. Once the woman had settled Vira’ni into a nest of pillows and ordered a cow-eyed woman to fetch a cup of tea, Vira’ni began to regain control of her emotions. She allowed Betta to wipe her face with a cold wet rag, clearing soot and tears from her cheeks. Vira’ni tried to speak, to let her know how much she appreciated the kind attention, but Betta placed a finger across Vira’ni’s lips to silence her. “Drink this; then we can talk.” Betta handed her a small cup of hot mint tea. Its steam and aroma seemed to seep into her bones and give her strength.

Vira’ni savored the tea in silence, allowing it to warm her tongue and hands. Once she had finished, she felt vigorous enough to speak without crying. She handed the small cup back to Betta. “Thank you,” she said shyly.

Betta settled to the pillows beside her. “Now tell me what happened. Are there others of your party that we should search for?”

Vira’ni studied her hands, willing her voice not to break with the sorrow. “No, I traveled only… only with my children.”

“Did they not escape the fire?”

She shook her head. “It caught us by surprise. It was too fast! I couldn’t… I couldn’t save the others.” Her voice began to rise until Betta placed a hand atop hers.

“Hush, now, do not blame yourself. You had to save who you could,” she said, nodding toward Vira’ni’s bulging belly. “Now, I want you to rest. You must be strong for the child you grow now.” Vira’ni sniffed back the tears that threatened, and nodded.

Betta pushed to her feet and began to leave.

“The fire rages fierce,” Vira’ni said before the other woman left the tent. “It might yet cross to the meadows here.”

“Don’t you fret. We know these lands. These spring meadows run wet and will stanch the fire’s path beyond the wood. And we’ll have watchers out to keep an eye on the flame. If it threatens, we can break camp and be all on horseback in a blink. So you sleep. We will ot let anything happen to you or n

your unborn child.”

“You are most kind,” Vira’ni said. She began to settle back into her pillows when a pain reached up from her belly to grip her heart. Her vision blacked, and a gasp escaped her throat as the fire ripped through her. For the briefest moment, she saw with the thousand eyes of her forest children: A small woman atop a horse ... her right hand raised, glowing like a small ruby sun… Death rained out from her and consumed all… a death more horrible than flame… a death born of dire magicks!

As quickly as it came, the pain and vision vanished, leaving only a dull ache and hollowness in her chest.

Betta was leaning over her, concern etched in every plane of the woman’s face. “What is it, child?” Vira’ni stayed silent, picturing again the woman’s fist aglow with wild magicks. She knew who approached, burning her way through Vira’ni’s children. It was the wit’ch! The one the master craved!

One trembling hand reached up to finger the lock of white hair nestled within the black. She had not forgotten her duty. The master must

be served!

Her face paled as she realized how close she had come to failing her Dark Lord. The wit’ch had driven her from her post and almost slipped past her—but the wit’ch had made a mistake. The master had attuned Vira’ni to the woman’s black arts. With her magick’s first touch upon the Horde, Vira’ni’s own body had felt its searing fire, warning her to the wit’ch’s presence. Foolish child! Now alerted, Vira’ni would not fail her lord a second time—or her lost children. She would make the wit’ch suffer and writhe as all those spiders had upon their flaming webs.

But she needed help—Vira’ni raised her face to the worried eyes of Betta and recognized a potential ally, someone to help her with her duty. Especially with a little coaxing…

Vira’ni allowed tears to rise to her eyes. “I remember now!” she moaned loudly. “My mind tried to erase… to deny the horrors… But now it comes tumbling back in a dreadful rush! Fire and death!” She pushed up from the pillows and clutched Betta’s arm. “Those who set the fires and murdered my children come this way.”

Betta’s eyes grew wide, then narrowed with fire. “You know who set this flame upon our wood ?”

“Yes… yes…” Vira’ni stared into Betta’s reddening face. “She comes with many others. I saw a wagon.” Vira’ni forced her shoulders to shudder. “They murder all in their path.”

“Who are they?”

Vira’ni sat straighter and cranked her voice to a fevered pitch. “Foul murderers… and defilers of children. Not men—but beasts!”

Betta’s eyes sparked with hate; her lips bled of color. She spoke rapidly. “Our elders warned that this wood was befouled by evil, that the poisonous beasts were unnatural markers of corruption. We were sent here to watch the wood and make sure the spiders didn’t spread to the meadows. And for moons now, the beasts have stayed cloaked among the trees, shunning the direct light of the sun. But now…

Sweet Mother! Now if your words are true, the evil prepares to spread its foul reach—and fire marks their coming!” The woman broke Vira’ni’s grip on her arm and stood. “I must alert the others. Those monsters will not pass here.”

Vira’ni watched the woman fly from the tent, Betta’s voice already raised in alarm. No, Vira’ni thought as she rubbed her full belly, the poisonous smile of a spider fixed on her lips. No, these killers of her children would not escape these hills.

The magick streamed in rivers of coldfire from Elena’s open palm while sparks of blue flames danced like will-o‘-the-wisps around her wrist. With sweat beading on her brow, she concentrated fully on her task, struggling as best she could to maintain a leash upon her magicks. Though Er’ril had instructed her in the basics of manipulation—simple lessons he had learned while serving as a liegeman of the Order—any complex orchestrations of her gifts were beyond her current abilities.

Still, what Elena lacked in skill, she made up for in raw power. . Wild magick was a force few things could withstand. As her flow of coldfire washed upon the shore of the web-shrouded glade, hoarfrost and ice froze all it touched. Tree trunks burst with explosive cracks. Frozen roots snapped their hold upon the dirt, toppling ancient oaks and stately maples. Even the tenacious webs of silk were transformed to delicacies of frost that shattered with even the slightest breeze.

A cloud of frigid mist rose from the forest, driven into the smoky sky by her coldfire crackling through the glade. Her magick devoured the wood and its denizens just as thoroughly as hot flames had scoured the main forest. Two fires, twins in extremes, consumed all in their paths. As Elena watched the white mist meet the black smoke in the sky, it reminded her of the extremes of her own magicks. While studying with Er’ril, she had learned that the character of her magicks was dictated by the light that renewed her power.