r

^-,-,

Meric and Kral had stopped halfway across the warehouse.

“What’s happening?”

“Black magick,” Meric answered. The elv’in stood beside Kral, his silver hair floating in wisps about his face, drifting contrary to the night’s breezes. Meric had touched his elemental magick. “Beware them,” he said. “They steal the life from you and use it for their own.” The rats again approached the og’re.

Meric raised his hands in a warding gesture, and a blast of wind blew out from him. The edge of the sudden gale knocked Kral to the side. He had to stumble a few steps to keep his balance. The wind blasted through the warehouse toward the rats. Straw and dirt billowed into the air, and the flames of the fire flared brighter with the

breeze.

Caught by the gale, one rat tumbled back into the fiery wall. Its body instantly blew ablaze as if coated with oil. It howled like no beast Kral had ever heard. The small hairs on Krai’s arms bristled at the noise.

With its eyes burnt black, it raced in blind circles for several heartbeats then lay still, a smoking pile of bone and charred fur. The other rats ignored their companion. With claws dug deep into the packed dirt of the floor, they resisted the elv’in’s storm. Though not blown away, they were at least held at bay. It was a standoff.

The rats’ noses raised in unison, as if sniffing at the elemental wind. They swung their gazes hungrily toward Kral and Meric.

“Beware!” Meric hissed. A sheen of sweat marked the elv’in’s brow. How long could the elv’in keep this up? Overhead, the wind-fed flames had raced madly up the rear wall and reached the rafters. The heat now was like an open hearth before his face. And how long until the warehouse collapsed into fiery ruin?

“I’ll try to drag Tol’chuk and Fardale away from them,” Kral said, hitching his ax on his belt. “Hold them off!”

“Use caution, mountain man. I sense they’ll not let their prey escape them so easily.” Kral crept forward, crouching low. The wind at his back threatened to tumble him forward into the line of rats. Step by step, he crossed the warehouse toward the og’re and the wolf. Once close enough, he saw that his companions still breathed. A wash of relief broke Krai’s concentration. His heels slipped, and the wind caught him, driving him to his knees.

Growling into his beard, he pushed up. He kept his gaze away from the rats and stared at Tol’chuk’s clawed foot. Just a bit farther.

Three steps later, he was close enough. He reached an arm out. Just as his fingers touched the og’re’s foot, the wind died. The sudden lack of support dropped Krai on his rear. He spun around.

The elv’in stood, staring back toward the door they had entered. Mogweed had been left at the entrance to guard their retreat, but there was no sign of the shape-shifter. Instead, a flow of demon rats poured through the opening.

He and Meric were surrounded.

Meric struggled to raise his arms, but the elv’in was caught in their spell. He backed a step, then fell to his knees. “Flee!” Meric called to him as he dropped. “Beware their eyes!” The elv’in collapsed to the dirt.

Ash rained down from the burning rafters. No longer blown back by Meric’s wind, smoke now choked through the warehouse. His eyes stinging, Krai shoved to his feet. He would not abandon his friends.

Nearby, a thunder of hooves startled Krai. He shied away as the girl’s terrified mare bolted from the shadows and flew through the rats that stood between it and the exit. One of its iron-shod hooves crushed a rat into a foul smear on its way out the door.

The horse vanished into the foggy night.

Overhead, a beam suddenly cracked from the heat, showering ash and drawing Krai’s attention. He made the mistake of looking up.

A huge rat clung to one of the intact rafters above. Its red eyes latched onto his own. Krai could not look away. The red eyes grew larger and larger in his mind until all he saw was the bloodfire that lit the core of the creature. In his ears, he heard the cries of the dying, pleading wails to end their agony. Death was the only escape. It was a song of despair, and it wound its way around Krai’s heart.

No!

Krai fought against it. The granite of his mountain home flowed through his blood and hardened his heart.

His magick fought the despair of the song. Yet still he weakened. Krai fell to his knees.

In his mind’s eye, he saw an ancient tower besieged by d’warf armies. He saw the bloodstained stones burn red from the siege fires.

Krai clamped his hands over his ears, but he could not muffle the screaming. He saw the tower’s guardians slaughtered and their blood poured over the stones.

J AMES

See, the song and images urged, even the strongest stone cannot resist the darkness. Resistance only prolongs the suffering.

Unable to break his locked gaze with the demon rat, Krai was forced to listen. Yet he ground his teeth.

Listening was not believing. He was not a tower! He was a mountain!

Krai crawled backward across the floor as flaming ash burned his skin and singed his beard. The rat followed him atop the rafter, refusing to let Krai escape its eyes.

Victory was impossible, the ancient dying cries sang to him. More rats joined this one. They circled Krai now. Why flee? Just lie down. Escape was just a cruel dream. Krai bit his tongue, using the pain to stay focused. No! The mare had escaped!

Drawing on the last of his ebbing strength, he grabbed for one final weapon. He raised up on his knees and whistled sharply with the last of his breath. Then he fell back to his hands in the dirt. The rats closed in on him. Was he too late?

Suddenly an explosion of cracking planks erupted behind him. Krai, locked by the black magicks, could not glance back. Sparks and embers blew in a swirl around him as a large shape dove in from the rear yard. It was Rorshaf, his war charger. Its huge black body galloped forward and shoved between Krai and the demon rat, breaking their locked gazes. The sudden collapse of the link between them sent Krai’s vision spinning. All around him was a blur of flames, hooves, and shadow.

Krai fought against this confusion. He felt teeth sink into his right hand. Bone cracked, and flesh tore. The pain drew his vision to a tight focus. He saw a large rat worrying his hand. He flung it off him with a swinging whip of his arm. The rat flew off, one of Krai’s fingers still in its sharp teeth.

Pain fired his hand, but he became rock and walled off the agony. Krai raised his bloody palm and grabbed Rorshaf’s thick tail, tangling his fingers in the coarse black hair. “Ror’ami nom, Rorshaf!” he yelled in the tongue of the crag horses.

Rorshaf reared, trampling two more rats under his hooves, then leapt forward, dragging Krai along behind him.

Krai fought to keep his bloody hold on the horse’s tail as he was bounced and rattled across the warehouse floor. He kept his eyes

Wit ch storm

closed. He could not afford the numbing weakness that accompanied the sick gazes of the rats.

Splintered wood ripped into his side as Rorshaf dragged him through the ruined doorway. He finally opened his eyes as he felt the cobbles of the town square strike his hip and heard his ax blade clatter on the stones. He allowed himself to be dragged a bit farther, then let go, too exhausted to hold on any longer.

He tumbled to the street and rolled a few times before stopping.

“Krai!”

The mountain man opened his eyes and found Er’ril leaning over him. Elena stood beside him, holding her gray mare by a lead. My-celle raised a sword in each fist, eyes aglow with the spreading flames of the warehouse. Other townspeople bustled behind the trio. Word of the fire had spread quickly through the foggy night. Somewhere a bell rang loudly.

“What happened?” Er’ril asked. “Mogweed came running. Something about rats—” Krai fought to free his tongue, lifting his torn hand. “Not rats,” he muttered just before his consciousness fled him. “Demons.”

Beneath the tower of Rash’amon, Lord Torwren crouched over the ebon’stone sphere, his splayed nose almost touching its polished surface as it lay cradled in his wrinkled palms. The d’warf lord’s eyes were wide in the dim chamber as he stared deep into the black orb. Images of fire and shadowy figures danced in the ebon’stone heart.

As he watched, one of the prey escaped the Pack. Torwren hissed his irritation. Three others still lay under the thrall of despair upon the floor of the warehouse: a wolf, a man, and—if he was not mistaken—

an og’re! He cared nothing for the dog, and though the og’re was a novelty, the misshapen creature was of no import. It was the silver-haired man who drew the d’warf’s attention.

A seeker for many centuries, Torwren recognized the white fire nestled near the heart of this thin man.

Here was one of the elemen-tals he had sensed in Shadowbrook in these last few days. The fire burned strong in this one, much stronger than in the foppish twins he used as tools in the city. This one could be forged into a potent ill“— guard, perhaps one of the most powerful. Maybe even strong enough to withstand—no, he would not let that thought grow full in his

|ames Clemens _-,,

mind, not while he was linked to the ebon’stone. His master listened often to these links, hanging like a spider above his web of talismans.

No, he dismissed his secret hope and concentrated on the Pack. He merged his will deeper into the stone talisman. The shadowy images became crisper as he delved for the minds of the twins.

Ryman. Mycof. Listen and obey.

Laughter answered his call. In the warehouse, the rats swept toward the fallen prey, ready to slake their blood lust.

No! The feast must wait. The town awakens. Bring me the man—

unharmed!

The twins ignored his call, the scent of blood too strong in the flaming room.

Torwren frowned. As a seeker, he despised the iU’guard, even those he helped create. They were wild, twisted beasts hiding in the skin of men. He spat his orders out to them. The master commands!

Disobey and I will rip the Sacrament from your hearts.

This gave the brothers pause. The rats stopped, tails slashing in agitation. Then slowly they backed away from their meal. Bring the man to the tower.

He watched the rats converge around the silver-haired man. Thin of limb and features, the man’s inner fire burned that much brighter, almost as if his scant flesh was but a feeble excuse to house the elemental magick. He was truly a strong one. Lord Torwren’s lips spread into a hungry leer as he stared into the ebon’stone sphere. Bring him to me!

The rats piled onto one another, becoming a squirming, hissing mound of fur and teeth. Forged of river mud and life force, the writhing bodies melded together, creating a living mass of raw flesh, the Pack in its pure form.

As the d’warf lord urged, the Pack transformed itself. Bone, fur, skin, teeth fought for form until a hulking creature arose from the fray—half rat, half man. Covered in black fur, it crouched on two thickly muscled legs and reached for the thin man with clawed arms. Its bestial head, snouted and covered in spiked whiskers, sniffed at its prey. Thick lips pulled back to reveal row after row of shredding teeth, and bloodfire raged behind its eyes.

Torwren sensed its rising lust. He drove his will into the stone. No! Harm him and suffer my wrath!

The beast raised its head and hissed at the flaming rafters, its claws digging at the empty air in frustration. It knew its master but fought against the restraint.

Obey!

With a final wicked swipe at the smoky air, it growled thickly and scooped up the thin man under one arm. Burdened, it loped across the burning warehouse toward the rear door.

A few of the demon rats stationed as guards had failed to merge to form the huge beast. As the creature passed, these stray rats shook, and leathery wings sprouted from their backs. They took flight after their leader, fluttering past its massive shoulders and into the foggy night. One rat, though, still dallied, working on something in its jaws.

Torwren looked closer. It was a finger. The prey who had escaped earlier had not gone uninjured. A spark of elemental fire marked the blood that seeped from the severed finger. Another elemental! The rat seemed to sense Torwren’s attention. Fearing the d’warf’s wrath, it dropped the finger and shook out its buried wings, ready to follow the others.

Wait, he sent to this quivering fragment of the Pack. Bring me your meal!

Hesitant, the demon creature retrieved its prize.

Good, good… Now follow the others.

With a small squeak, the rat spread its wings with renewed confidence and took to the air, carrying the prized object in its tiny jaws. A whisper of elemental fire traced its path out into the night.

Torwren watched the progression of the Pack through the back alleys and byways of Shadowbrook.

Satisfied that his orders would be obeyed, Torwren allowed his eyes to close. He settled the ebon’stone talisman into the mud of the tower cellar and removed his hands from the sphere. One finger traced an arc of silver along its smooth surface.

If only his people had never discovered the vein of ebon’stone under the mountains of their Gul’gothal homeland, then maybe…

Torwren shook his head. Foolish, idle thoughts. His people had made their choices—just as he had himself.

He lifted his finger from the stone and sighed. He pictured again the strength of the magick in the prisoner caught this night. And what of the one who had escaped? If he was just as strong? If Torwren could forge both to his will?

Torwren pictured two ill’guard with the brutality of potent magick. Dare he hope?

Elena watched with a hand over her heart as Er’ril examined Kral.

Er’ril wrapped a tight bandage around the mountain man’s

bloody fist. “He’ll live,” Er’ril said, pushing to his feet. He glanced at the huge war charger standing guard over its fallen master. “We don’t have time to move the man, but Rorshaf will watch over him.“ Er’ril tossed a copper coin to a boy gawking at the flames of the burning warehouse. “Keep a hand on our mare,” he told the child, taking Mist’s lead from Elena and holding it out toward the boy,

“and you’ll get another copper for your trouble.”

“Y-yes, sir!” The boy stared at the shiny copper in his palm as he blindly accepted the lead.

Around them, the square now bustled with men bearing buckets and women manning the two pumps in the square. A chandlery and a cobbler’s shop to either side of the warehouse were being soaked to protect them from the spreading flames and embers.

A large bearded man ran up to their group. It was the man who had rented the warehouse to them.

“What happened?” His eyes were fixed on the burning structure.

Er’ril straightened and drew his sword. “That’s what we are about to find out.” Er’ril turned his back on the man and led the way toward the warehouse.

The front of the building still resisted the fire, but from the roof, flames spat high into the night air, and smoke billowed out from the open doorway. The warehouse would not stand much longer. “Hurry,” Er’ril urged. Mycelle followed, hovering beside Elena.

Short of breath from both smoke and fear, Elena gasped as she ran. The heat coming from the building swelled like a sudden breeze off a raging bonfire. Her cheeks grew ruddy from the heat, and her eyes watered.

Er’ril stopped a man in an apron who had been hurrying by with a bucket. “Douse us!” he ordered.

The man, sweat and soot marring his face, stared at him as if he were mad, but the sword at his belly kept his tongue silent.

WIT un

“We have friends inside,” Er’ril urged. “We must help them.” The man’s eyes grew wide, and he waved a heavyset woman over to him. She bore a bucket in each hand. “Help us, Mab’el!” he called. “These folks are gonna try and see if anyone is alive inside.” The woman shambled to them, a frown on her lips. “Daft idea. They’re just gonna git themselves killed, too.”

“Hush, Mab’el!” The man took his bucket and dumped it over Er’ril’s head. “What if it were me in there?” he said.

The woman soaked down Mycelle. “I’d let you burn,” she said. “Be rid of your lollygagging ways, I would!” Still her eyes shone with concern for them all.

“The boy, too,” Er’ril instructed, indicating Elena.

The heavyset woman glanced in surprise.

Mycelle answered her unspoken question. “He’s a firebrand,” she said, naming Elena as an elemental who could control flames. “If our friends yet live, we will need his skill.” Mab’el nodded knowingly and poured her second bucket over Elena’s head. Elena shuddered at its frigid touch, but the well water instantly washed away the fire’s heat.

Er’ril studied her for a moment, as if judging Elena’s fortitude.

She stared him straight in the eye until he nodded and turned toward the warehouse.

Soaked and dripping, they ran toward the warehouse door. Smoke stung the eye and burned the nose, but the summer storm that had threatened at sunset finally arrived. A stiff breeze blew the smoke across the square, thinning it enough to breathe, and a crack of thunder split the sky.

Rain began pelting the cobbles. Behind Elena, cheers arose from the townsfolk.

With her back to the commotion, Elena slipped her glove from her right hand and exposed her ruby stain to the flames. It took her a moment to free her wit’ch’s dagger from its sheath at her belt, the rose-carved pommel catching on the mossy strands that bound her left hand. Once free, she notched her thumb and used the blood to mark her eyes.

Mycelle noticed her action. “Elena, what are you doing?”

“The blood allows me to see the weaves of magick around me,” she answered.

Satisfied, Mycelle nodded, as if this were a common statement for a young woman to utter.

As they arrived at the shattered doorway to the warehouse, Elena reached for the well of power in her heart. She felt the familiar surge of rich energies, her skin tingling. Ahead of her, Er’ril entered the warehouse, crouching low to avoid the worst of the smoke. Elena followed with Mycelle, who watched their rear, both swords in hand.

Coughing, Elena waved smoke from her face, the heat drying her cheeks to a burn in only a few breaths.

She looked around her.

The inside of the warehouse was a smoldering battlefield. Flaming sections of roof and rafters lit the chamber, and smoke curled like a living creature through the room. A portion of the rear wall had fallen in and crushed their wagon. It was a ruin. What had not been smashed had caught flame and burned.

But the loss of their supplies was the least of their concerns. “Over there!” Er’ril pointed to the large form collapsed on the far side of the building. “Tol’chuk,” he said. “And I think that’s the wolf beside him.“

Elena stared, willing her magick to grow in her fist. Her right hand began to glow with a nimbus of energy.

Elena’s vision shifted as the magick suddenly tinged her sight. Mycelle, beside her, bloomed like a white candle in the night, her elemental flame strong and clear. The seeker’s skill was strong in her.

Glancing across the chamber, Elena’s spell-cast vision seemed unaffected by the smoke and sting. “It is them,” she said, confirming Er’ril’s statement, “but I don’t see Meric.” Swinging in a slow circle, she scanned the room.

Nearby, she could make out faint areas of a reddish fire—not the red of a clean flame, but something more sickly. She crossed to one spot and discovered the remains of what looked like a huge rat, a hoofprint smashed clearly into its black flesh. But this was no ordinary rat. She leaned closer. Like an ember in a dying hearth, a foul fire glowed out from it. A part of her knew its name. “Bloodfire,” she whispered.

“Get back from that,” Mycelle warned. She sheathed one of her swords and pulled Elena away, her nose curling in distaste. With her elemental skills, Mycelle must have also sensed the corruption here.

Elena straightened, remembering Krai’s words. Not rats. Demons.

VV 1 I CM

“They’re gone,” Elena said, glancing about the smoldering room as she followed Er’ril. Rain began pelting through several new holes in the roof. Where the cool rain met the flames, sizzling steam arose around them as the fires were doused. The bloodfire also began to fade from the chamber. “They’ve fled.”

“Who?” Er’ril asked as he cautiously led them around piles of smoking debris. He had his sword raised, ready for a sudden attack.

Elena pushed past him, shrugging off even Mycelle’s restraining grasp. “The creatures of the ill’guard.

They’ve fled from here. It’s clear.”

“Are you certain?” Er’ril asked. Yes.

“I, too, sense their presence has faded,” Mycelle added. “They end their hunt this night. But by tomorrow’s light we must be gone.”

No longer fearing demons, the trio hurried to Tol’chuk and Fardale. Their companions lay sprawled on the dirt floor, eyes open but unaware. Quick attempts to revive them failed.

Er’ril grabbed one of Tol’chuk’s legs and nodded for Mycelle to grab the other. “Can you drag the wolf by yourself, Elena?”

She nodded, distracted. With her blood-tinged vision, she saw the brilliant glow shining forth from the og’re’s thigh pouch. Its light shone in tiny piercing rays through the stitching in the pouch’s hide: the magick of Tol’chuk’s heartstone talisman, she guessed.

“Elena?” Er’ril asked, noticing her pause. He and Mycelle had the og’re’s legs already in hand.

Elena straightened and swung in a circle. If her blood-tinged eyes could see all forms of magick—from Mycelle’s elemental fire to the glow of Tol’chuk’s heartstone—then why didn’t she see Meric’s fire? The shattering realization took hold of her. “He’s gone,” she said, her voice trembling and cracking.

“What are you talking about?”

“Meric. His elemental magick should be a beacon in here. I don’t see it!”

“Maybe he’s hidden behind one of these mounds of debris,” Er’ril offered. “The smoldering fires might be masking him.”

“Or he could be dead,” Mycelle said, coldly practical.

Er’ril glanced sourly at her. “We’ll search for the elv’in after we get these others out of here.” He began to drag the og’re across the dirt.

“We won’t find Meric here!” Elena suddenly declared. Somehow she knew this was true. “He’s been captured!”

A section of roof suddenly crashed off to the side, startling them all. Though the fire seemed to be losing its battle to the rain, the flames had weakened the supports to the warehouse. Posts groaned, and the roof bowed ominously.

“Captured or not, we need to get out of here!” Er’ril said fiercely. Elena glanced one last time around her, grabbed Fardale’s rear legs, and struggled to haul him after the others. The wolf was heavier than she had suspected. Groaning and straining, she fought his limp weight across the floor.

“Are you all right?” Er’ril called back to her. “I’ll manage!” she spat back at him. At least her burden kept her distracted from their missing companion.

By the time they neared the door, a few townsmen had braved the dwindling flames and pushed into the warehouse, led by the aproned man who had doused them with water. “Give ‘em a hand, gents!” The men helped haul Tol’chuk and Fardale out to the cobbled streets of the square. Elena slipped her ruby hand back into her glove and reined in her magick. Her vision returned to normal.

“What manner of beast is this?” one of them mumbled who handled the og’re.

“Some misbirth,” another hissed at him. “Poor creature’s only fit to be a carnival freak.“

“Maybe it were best if we’d left him to the fire.”

No one spoke against these sad words.

Once out in the clear air, Er’ril directed the men in hauling their injured to the Painted Pony.

“I’ll fetch a healer,” one of them offered.

“No need,” Er’ril said. “All they need is a day or two in a warm bed.“

Er’ril then left with a few other men to search the warehouse for Meric. Elena did not follow. She knew it was useless. She and Mycelle guided the men, burdened with her fallen comrades, to their rooms.

The innkeeper of the Painted Pony watched the parade of men with wide eyes. “If they be sick, I don’t want them in my inn!” he hollered at the men. “I won’t have no contagion in my establishment!”

“As if you’re concerned, Heran, about the health of your patrons!” scolded the aproned man, shoving crusts of bread from underfoot. Elena had learned the bold man was the town’s cobbler. He owned the shop next to the warehouse.

As the innkeeper grumbled, they continued up the stairs.

Mogweed met Elena at the door to their rooms. “I finished packing both—” His eyes grew wide at the number of men and their burden. His eyes settled on the limp form of his brother in the huge arms of the town’s blacksmith. The emotions that warred across the shape-shifter’s face made it seem almost as if he had regained his shifting skills. He backed to let them all in.

Once settled in their rooms, Elena thanked the men and offered them a handful of coppers from the troupe’s reserve.

The cobbler shook his head at her fistful of coins. “Here in Shad-owbrook, kindness does not have to be bought with coppers.”

The other men mumbled their agreement, then left.

Directed by Mycelle, Mogweed went to fetch hot water.

Alone now, Mycelle stepped up to Elena. “You should get out of those soaking clothes before a chill sets into you.”

Nodding, Elena slipped off her jacket. Her eyes were fixed on the trio of slumbering friends. Why did they not awaken? Not even the rain seemed to stir them.

Behind her, Mycelle gasped. Elena glanced back. Mycelle had frozen midway in removing her scabbards. Her eyes were on Elena, her expression shocked.

“What is it?” Elena asked.

“Your… your arm!” Mycelle pointed to the girl’s left side.

Elena raised her bare arm. Her own mouth gaped in horror. The mossy strands had spread from her hand, coiling and sprouting up to her shoulder. Her entire arm now ran with vines and tiny leaves. A small purplish flower even adorned her elbow. “What is happening?” she asked, her throat tightening.

Mycelle tossed aside her scabbards and crossed to Elena. She scrutinized her arm. “The boy who bewit’ched you on the street. He said he needed your magick.” Elena nodded.

“This is disastrous,” Mycelle said, picking at a vine near her shoulder. Her face grew dark. “I had thought it only a minor nuisance.”

“What?”

“When you loosened your magick in the warehouse, it must have given fuel for this bewit’ched growth.” She looked at Elena gravely. “The swamp vines feed on your magick.” Elena pulled back from Mycelle.

“The more you use it, the thicker it will grow. Until… until…” Mycelle’s lips tightened. She did not want to voice her thought.

“What? Tell me!”

Gripping Elena’s shoulders, she stared her square in the eyes. “You must not use your magick anymore.

Swear it!”

“But why?”

Mycelle released Elena and turned away. Her firm voice dissolved into tears. “If you continue to use your magick, the vines will kill you.”

Burdened with two crates, Er’ril pushed into the room to find Elena resting on a corner of a bed beside the limp form of the wolf. She had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, her eyes on Fardale.

Nearby, Mycelle was bent over Krai, working with needle and thread on his injured hand. Her scabbards leaned against the walls.

“I found no sign of the elv’in,” Er’ril said as introduction. “Were you able to revive any of the others?” His question was answered with a sullen shake of Elena’s head.

Er’ril’s eyes narrowed. Something was amiss here. “What’s wrong?” he asked as he dropped the two crates he had recdVered from the burned wagon. The horses, shaken and sweating, had all survived and were corralled behind the inn’s decrepit barn. A few more crates were stashed in the hall, carried here by a couple of helpful townspeople. All else was a ruin. “Where’s Mogweed?”

“He’s gone to fetch’hot water,” Mycelle answered from where she worked on Krai. “I’ve a few herbs in my supplies—raspberry leaf and dried rivenberries—stimulants that may perhaps draw them from this strange slumber.” Her words were halfhearted, with none of her usual heat. “I sent a man to fetch my gelding and bags.”

Mycelle worked a bandage around Krai’s fist, then faced Er’ril. “But we’ve more to worry about. I’m afraid I poorly misjudged Elena’s bewit’ching. The spell was cast with more skill then ”I initially suspected.“

JAMES

Before her words were finished, Er’ril was already at Elena’s side. He knelt where she sat on her bed.

Silently, Elena showed him her moss-encrusted fingers. “It looks the same—” he began to say. Then Elena drew the blanket up her bare arm. The vines and pea-size leaves ran a twisted course around her arm to her shoulder. He could not keep his eyes from widening in shock. “What does this mean?” Mycelle told him her suspicions.

Er’ril sat back upon his heels. “But if she can’t use her magick, how do we hope to reach A’loa Glen ?” Mycelle crossed to them. “We don’t. Not unless we can lift this bewit’ching.” Elena dropped the blanket back over her arm. Er’ril patted her on a knee. “How do we rid her of the spell?”

“Only the one who cast it can undo it,” Mycelle said. “We’ll have to take her to the wit’ch.” Er’ril stood. He recognized the worry in her eyes. “You suspect who cast this spell.”

“Yes, I do. The moss that grows on Elena’s arm is a type of vine named choker’s nest. It grows only in the In’nova Swamps.” Mycelle looked at Er’ril intently.

“But that’s almost a moon’s journey from here,” Er’ril argued. Mycelle frowned at him, clearly tired of his stating the obvious. Before further words could be spoken, Mogweed forced his way into their room, encumbered with a pail of steaming water and a set of riding packs over one shoulder. “I’ve your supplies and the water you wanted,” he said, seemingly oblivious to the tension in the room. “Where do you want them?”

“We’ll talk more of this later,” Mycelle said to Er’ril. “Right now, let’s see about your companions.” Before Er’ril could object, she waved Mogweed to the space between the two beds where the og’re and the mountain man lay. The shape-shifter set the pail down roughly, sloshing water across the pine floor planks. Mycelle took the packs from him. “I need mugs,” she said.

Mogweed stared blankly at her a moment. Then his brows lowered. “I’ll get them,” he said with an exasperated sigh.

As he left, Mycelle fingered through her packs. Finally, she Witch Storm

extracted two parchment-wrapped packages. She called Elena to her side. “Crush these leaves and berries,” she said, tossing her two tiny packages.

Er’ril realized he would get no further information from Mycelle, not until some attempt was made to revive their companions. “How can I help?” he said.

Mycelle tested the water in the pail with a finger. “See if you can raise Tol’chuk a bit. When I dose him, I don’t want the elixir to drown him.”

Er’ril nodded and slid to the far side of Tol’chuk’s bed. He pulled the blanket lower so he could get to one of the og’re’s arms. He freed the thick limb from the blanket. As Er’ril gripped Tol’chuk’s wrist, he noticed two things: Tol’chuk’s flesh was as cold as a day-old corpse, and the claws of the og’re’s hand clutched a large object in their sharp grip.

Er’ril immediately recognized the glinting object still stubbornly clasped in the sleeping giant’s fist. It was the Heart of his people. Though unconscious and half dragged here, the og’re had never let it drop.

Curious, Er’ril attempted to pry open Tol’chuk’s massive fist; perhaps here lay some clue to what had occurred in the warehouse. It took the strength of all his fingers to drag open a single claw.

“What are you doing?” Mycelle asked sharply.

Er’ril continued to fight the og’re’s grip. “Trying to free Tol’chuk’s heartstone.”

“Why?”

Er’ril glared up at her, swiping away a fall of his black hair from his face. “The stone might give us some clue to the threat we face.” Er’ril went back to freeing the stone. Finally, with sweat on his brow, he pried open the last of the claws. Fully exposed in the og’re’s palm, the facets of the heartstone seemed oddly subdued in the lamplight. Er’ril reached for it.

“Don’t!” Elena suddenly cried. She had stopped crumbling the dried herb and stared at Tol’chuk with a studied expression.

Er’ril’s hand froze. His fingers hovered over the stone.

“What is it, honey?” Mycelle asked, drawing nearer.

“The Heart usually glows with at least a trace of og’re magicks,” she said, waving at the stone. “In the warehouse, as he lay sprawled, I

saw his pouch ablaze with magicks. I guessed it was just the stone! But if he held the Heart in his fist, then it must… must be something else.“ She pointed to his blanket-covered waist. ”Something in his pouch.“

Er’ril pulled his hand back from the stone and grabbed the blanket’s edge. He swept down the woolen covering. The goatskin pouch was still tied around the og’re’s broad thigh. The pouch bulged with something other than its usual sacred object.

Glancing briefly to the others, Er’ril reached for the leather draws. He tugged them open just as something in the pouch suddenly thrashed. Startled, Er’ril yanked away his fingers, accidentally striking the heartstone with the edge of his hand.

As the stone knocked free of the og’re’s palm, the opening of the thigh pouch suddenly burst forth with a sharp brilliance. Blinded for a heartbeat, Er’ril backed a step. He blinked away the dazzle. The flare of radiance soon died down to a smoldering red glow. Yet the light was not quiet. The intensity of the glow rose and fell rhythmically like that of a beating heart.

“Stand back,” Mycelle warned, her voice suspicious.

Elena took a step closer. “Something’s coming.”

The contents of the pouch wormed toward the opening. As they watched, the strange object in the pouch suddenly poked free of its glowing cave. Its whiskered snout tested the air. Then its body slid from the pouch’s interior.

“It’s a rat,” Er’ril said.

“Krai had mentioned rats,” Mycelle said, placing a hand on Elena’s shoulder. “Spawn of the ill’guard.” Elena shook her head. “This is not one of them. It’s injured.” She pointed to the twist in the rat’s spine as it struggled free. The rat seemed unhampered by its injury. Its slow crawl from the pouch was more caution than disability. Its eyes seemed to watch everything at once.

“The glow…” Elena began to say.

Er’ril noted it, too. The radiance followed the rat from the pouch. No, that was not exactly right. As its tiny clawed legs drew the last of its body free, the source of the rich light became clear.

“The rat’s glowing,” Mycelle said, wonder etching her hard voice.

The rat was the usual mud brown of the common river rats. But WIT CH JTORM

from its lice-ridden fur, a rosy glow ebbed and flowed, a nimbus of light that gave the drab creature a certain beauty, as if the radiance highlighted all that was good and noble in the beast.

“What does it mean?” Elena asked.

Both Er’ril and Mycelle just stared.

Suddenly the door banged open behind them. All of them jumped, even the rat.

“That stingy innkeep would only give me one mug!” Mogweed said sourly as he entered the room.

“Quiet!” All three of them scolded him, freezing him in place.

The rat, startled by the sudden intrusion, fled up from Tol’chuk’s waist and scrabbled across the og’re’s barreled chest to hide under his craggy chin. It cowered there, its light flaring brighter with its fright.

The glow bathed Tol’chuk’s face, casting each rough plane and deep wrinkle of the og’re in sharp relief.

As the radiance had improved the aspect of the common river rat, the glow seemed to highlight the character and strength hidden within Tol’chuk’s coarse features.

“He is so much like his father,” Mycelle murmured, her voice so soft, so unlike her, that Er’ril did not know for a moment who had spoken. He glanced up to see a single tear shine in the swords-woman’s eye.

As they watched, Tol’chuk’s wide-splayed nose twitched. The glow, like pipe smoke, was drawn inside the slumbering og’re as he breathed in deeply. His lips began to move silently, as if he were speaking in some deep dream. His open eyes, which had been staring blindly at the thin rafters above, slid closed.

“What’s happening?” Mogweed asked.

Mycelle shushed him. She reached a hand to Tol’chuk’s shoulder. “I think he now slips into normal sleep. The spell is lifting.” She leaned closer to the og’re. “Tol’chuk, can you hear me?” Tol’chuk snored thinly for a few heartbeats, then spoke in a throaty whisper. “Mother? Mother, where be you?”

Mycelle patted his shoulder. “I’m here, Son. It’s time to wake.”

“But… but Father wanted me to tell you something.”

Glancing at the others, Mycelle’s expression was clearly worried.

Tol’chuk continued to mumble. “Father says to tell you that he be sorry he made you go away. His heart still hears your voice, and his bones still remember your heat. He misses you.” Mycelle’s voice cracked. She did not hide her tears. “I miss him, too.” She gripped Tol’chuk’s shoulder tighter. “But, Tol’chuk, it is time to come back here. There is still much to do.”

“I remember… I remember,” he said with rising heat. “The Banel” Tol’chuk’s eyes jerked open, a stifled cry escaped his lips, and his body spasmed as he came fully awake. He glanced around him.

“What happened? Where be I?”

He tried to rise, but Mycelle placed a hand on his chest, over his heart. “You’re safe.” The rat, though, seemed to realize that it was not safe and hobbled down one of the og’re’s arms.

Tol’chuk glanced at it, his fanged lips curling in disgust. He tried to fling it away, but Elena grabbed the rat with both hands and snatched it up.

“Tol’chuk, this little one just saved your life,” she said, cradling it to her chest. Its scaled tail wrapped around her wrist. It no longer glowed and seemed a normal rat again. It chewed absently at the tiny vinelets wrapping her fingers, then spat them out.

The og’re’s eyes grew clearer. “I know that rat,” he said. “That crooked tail. I put it in my pouch.”

“Why?” Mycelle asked intensely, as if her question were of utmost impact. “Why did you do that?” Tol’chuk pushed to a seated position. He shivered, finally feeling his chilled skin. “I don’t know. He was injured.” Tol’chuk shrugged.

“Hmm…” was Mycelle’s only comment.

“What?” Er’ril asked.

Mycelle nodded toward the floor. “Give him back his heartstone.” Er’ril bent and retrieved the priceless gem from where it had been knocked to the floor. It was heavy.

Er’ril could barely fit his fingers around it to grip it one-handed. He lifted it.

“The Heart…” Tol’chuk said. His expression was worried. He held out his palm.

Er’ril placed the stone in the og’re’s hand. As soon as it touched Tol’chuk’s flesh, the facets of the stone blew to fire. The light sparked and shone throughout the room.

“It’s come back to life!” Tol’chuk exclaimed. “I thought it dead. I felt it abandon me.” Mycelle nodded. “It did.”

All but Tol’chuk turned to stare at her.

“What do you recall of the attack of the ill’guard?” she asked.

Tol’chuk’s eyes rose to meet hers. “The who?”

Mycelle explained about what had happened to him and the others. Tol’chuk’s eyes seemed finally to focus on his two companions, slumbering and pale, on the neighboring cots. “Meric is gone?” he asked, his voice wounded.

“What do you remember about the attack?” Mycelle repeated.

Tol’chuk swallowed some hard lump in his throat. “They came in the form of demon rats. Their eyes shone with some sick inner fire.”

“Bloodfire,” Elena said and ignored the others’ stares. She nodded for Tol’chuk to continue as her fingers soothed the small rat.

“Their eyes drew me into them… into a world of pain and despair. I could not resist. I became lost and could not find my way back. I weakened with their song of screams and hopelessness. I tried to resist with the Heart, but it was dead, just a lump of stone in my fist.”

“No,” Mycelle said. “The magick was protecting itself. What you describe I have heard before. There is a form of ill’guard black magick that feeds on one’s life force. In this case, the demon rats sapped your spirit with their despairs—a most potent magick. And with the Heart storing the spirits of your dead, the ill’guard could have drawn off even these last stray bits of life force… stealing your ancestors away forever.”

Tol’chuk’s eyes widened with her words.

“So to protect itself, the spirits and their power fled into another vessel, something blocked from the spell-cast eyes of the ill’guard.” Mycelle nodded toward the rat in Elena’s arms. “It stayed there until it could return to you and share its energies to revive you.” No one said anything for several heartbeats.

Finally, Er’ril broke the silence. “But what of Krai and Fardale?” he asked. “Could the stone cure them, too?”

Mycelle stepped back and waved Tol’chuk toward the other two beds. “Let’s find out.” Lord Torwren crouched lower in the mud, listening. He heard the scrape of stone from one of the many tunnels that burrowed out from the cellar region of the tower. The Pack had returned. He reached and grasped the ebon’stone sphere. Pushing a fragment of

his spirit into the stone, he ignited the well of bloodfire within. Tiny flames began to skate over its surface, and the room brightened with its sick fire.

Near his feet, the pale forms of Mycof and Ryman lay sprawled in the mud. Their naked skin ran bloody with the light of the flames. They were twin shells, empty now, that awaited the return of their creations.

A scrape again sounded from a nearby tunnel. The d’warf lord raised his eyes.

Through the dark eye of a tunnel opening, the beast shambled into the cellar. Red eyes shone with baleful flames, while oiled black fur reflected the bloodfire of the talisman. A scattering of heavy bats flew in behind the creature to settle into the mud. Wings retracted, and the bats became rats again. One scurried over to offer its prize to its master. Torwren ignored the severed finger dropped at his lap. His eyes were fixed on the burden carried under a thick arm of the monstrous beast.

The captive was a wraith of a man, all limb and neck. Silver hair, tied in a braid, dragged in the mud as the demon beast lumbered into the room. The magick in the prisoner struck his senses like a wash of icy water. Over the many centuries he had served as a seeker for the Dark Lord, he had never come upon one so rich in elemental fire.

Torwren sniffed at the dank air. He smelled ocean breezes and the scent of winter storms. An elemental of wind and air! He had never chanced upon one skilled in this element. He wondered how the black magick of the ebon’stone would twist this unique power. What manner of ill’guard would arise from this man?

His heart beat faster than it had in ages. This one was strong! “Shackle him,” the d’warf lord ordered, pointing to the iron manacles bolted to one wall of the cellar.

The beast swung its whiskered snout toward Torwren and hissed, its blood lust bright in its eyes. But the Pack, even here in its strongest form, seemed weak and small compared to the power he had just scented.

“Do as I command!” Torwren raised the ebon’stone sphere, and bloodfire spat higher. Wicked flames reached for the creature.

It cowered away, subdued by his show of power. With its shoulders hunched against the brightness of the talisman, it stepped over

the pale forms of Mycof and Ryman. Crossing to the far wall, it roughly yanked and twisted the thin man’s limp form until his two wrists were clamped in iron bands. The beast stepped back.

The prisoner now hung from his wrists, his toes unable to reach the mud floor.

Satisfied his captive was secure, Torwren faced the black beast. “The hunt is done this night,” he hissed at it. “Return to your slumber!”

Resistance was plain in its hungry eyes. It took a step toward him, claws rising.

Torwren shook his head at its display. Such a poor tool for his use! He lowered the ebon’stone talisman, touching first Mycof, then Ryman. With the caress of the stone, their limp bodies spasmed tight as drawn bowstrings. Their backs arched from the mud, necks stretched back, jaws opened in silent screams.

The beast froze in its approach. Rows of yellow fangs glinted as it hissed its frustration.

“Begone!” the d’warf lord ordered. He ran a wrinkled palm across the polished surface of the stone. As his hand quelled the fire, the beast simply collapsed into a mound of squirming black worms. “Return to your hosts!”

The worms twisted and roiled in a mass toward Mycof and Ryman. They rolled over the taut bodies of the twins then bürrowed home, squirming into their mouths, up their noses, and into every opening in the pair’s bodies. The pale forms gagged and choked on the worms as the Pack returned to roost. Their bellies swelled with the worms until the two brothers appeared as bloated corpses.

Then their bellies subsided as the magick given substance returned to its original energies. The power ran again through the blood and bones of the twins. Mycof was the first to rise from the mud; again his features were those of a statue, all emotion drained away by the hunt. The young man’s colorless thin lips sighed. Ryman arose next, his red eyes glancing briefly at his brother, then at Torwren.

“Return to your rooms,” Torwren said.

“The hunt… ?” Mycof dared.

Torwren pointed to the wall where the prisoner hung. “You have done well. The master is pleased.” His words raised a shadow of a smile from each. Torwren knew this was an ecstatic response from the brothers after the Pack had drained them. “Go to your beds and rest.” Torwren retrieved the bloody finger from the mud near his knees. “We will hunt again on the morrow’s twilight.”

These words raised even a greater smile, a hint of teeth showing. Their blood lust had been denied this night, but the thought of another hunt promised another chance to slake their hunger.

The two brothers slowly climbed from the mud, helping each other up. With a barest bow of heads, they turned and retreated to the door that led to the tower stair.

Once gone, the d’warf lord raised the torn finger to his nose and sniffed at it. He scented caves of stone and the muskiness of mined ore. Rock magick! Even this small token promised another elemental of savage fire. He brought the finger to his lips and tasted the blood and tore into its flesh. Its taste and trace of magick would help guide him this night. Tonight’s hunt must not fail.

Not if he was to allow himself a hope.

Two ill’guard to be bent to his will. Two of such strength! His eyes closed as he imagined the power at his command. Power enough to defy the Black Heart and seek the Try’sil.

He put aside these dreams and raised his gaze to the captive hung in iron on the wall. First, he had a spirit to break and cast upon the bloodfire of his ebon’stone pyre. Like his d’warf ancestors, skilled masters of the forge, he would hammer and fold this one into a blade of the keenest edge and fiercest steel.

He raised the ebon’stone sphere whose hollow heart had been filled with the blood of the last defender of Rash’amon. Torwren still remembered the screams of the soldier as he had cut his beating heart from his chest and used the hot blood to fuel the ebon’stone sphere.

The d’warf lord reached for the power of the stone, sensing the soldier’s living spirit trapped in the stone along with his blood. Over the ages, the man’s bright spirit had been twisted and demented by the horrors in which Torwren had employed the fire of the soldier’s dying heart. Unable to resist, the stone blew ablaze with the fire and despair of this long-dead soldier. His screams sounded in Torwren’s ears as the d’warf lord climbed from the mud and approached his new prisoner.

What he had done to this soldier would be a kindness compared to his plans for the captive hung on the wall. Yet Torwren did not falter. He knew the lessons of his ancestors.

The hardest steel had to be forged in the hottest flame.

Pulled from a fiery nightmare, Kral opened his eyes to a red flame. Panicked, his heart thundering, he beat frantically at the threat, but his arms tangled in some clinging netting.

“Lie still, Kral!”

The mountain man recognized Er’ril’s voice, and the world snapped to focus. He lay on a cot in one of their rooms, snared in a woolen blanket. His side ached, and his hip throbbed. He groaned as he remembered his wild ride through the burning warehouse.

Tol’chuk lowered his glowing heartstone from Krai’s face. “He awakens.” Kral stared up into the og’re’s worried face. The last time he had seen Tol’chuk, the og’re had been sprawled out on the warehouse floor. He glanced to the neighboring bed. Fardale sat atop the next cot, leaning into Elena’s fingers as she scratched the wolf behind one ear. With relief, Kral realized they had escaped, too.

The mountain man found his tongue still thick in his throat. “What happened?”

“You were attacked by the ill’guard,” Er’ril said. “They drained your strength with a spell of despair, but the magick in Tol’chuk’s heartstone broke its hold on you.” The plainsman’s words were spoken without joy.

Recalling Meric’s collapse in the warehouse, Kral glanced around the room, expecting to see the elv’in.

“Meric?”

“He’s vanished,” Er’ril said with heat. “We were hoping you had some clue as to what might have happened.”

His thoughts still confused, Kral freed an arm from his blankets and discovered his right hand wrapped in a bloody bandage. It throbbed and ached. He remembered the rat gnawing away his finger. A shudder traveled through his limbs. He had never felt so cold, not even among the snows of his mountain home.

Mycelle stepped forward with a steaming mug. She frowned at Er’ril as she passed Kral the cup. She scolded the plainsman. “He’s

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still weak. Give Kral a moment to clear the dregs of the ill’guard’s spell before you interrogate him.“ Shivering, Kral accepted the hot mug with his good hand, his fingers wrapping tightly around the cup to absorb its heat.

“Drink it all,” Mycelle ordered, straightening. “The tea will give you strength.” Kral did not argue. At first, he just sipped the sweet tea, but as its warmth traveled from his belly out to his fingers and toes, he found himself gulping it greedily. He drained the cup and leaned back in his bed, closing his eyes. He held out the mug. “More?”

Mycelle took the mug from him with a grin. “There was enough rivenberry in that cup for a brace of stallions. Just give it a few moments to work through you.” Her words soon proved true. After a few breaths, a soothing warmth spread through Kral, and the blanket began to stifle him. He tossed it back. Even his aching side protested less sharply. He pulled himself up higher in the bed.

Er’ril weighed Kral with his eyes before speaking. “Now what do you recall about the warehouse?” Kral cleared his throat and started his story. As he related his tale, the expressions of the others grew grimmer. “… Then the demons surrounded us. Already tired from using his magick, Meric dropped quickly. Then the rats were upon me. It was only Rorshaf’s strong legs that saved me from further damage at the beasts’ teeth.” He held up his bandaged hand.

Mycelle pushed down Krai’s arm. “I’ve knit your torn skin with needled sheep’s gut and applied a balm of bittersroot to help it heal clean, but you must rest it.”

“Wounds heal,” he said, dismissing her warning. He knew from past injuries that his magicks would speed his healing. He was rock. Er’ril spoke next. “So after you fell, the rats attacked you.” Kral nodded. “I sensed a bloody hunger in their eyes,” he said, his brows growing dark. “If Meric is gone, I fear the worst.”

Mycelle sniffed dismissively. “Put aside those fears,” she said as she hauled a pail from beside the bed.

“Meric lives.”

“How can you be so sure?” Er’ril asked.

“They left Tol’chuk and the wolf. If they were simply after meat, they wouldn’t have left behind such a rich supply.”

Elena shifted on the neighboring cot. “So why take Meric and leave the others?” the girl mumbled.

Mycelle answered. “Because he’s rich in elemental magicks— excellent fodder for the Dark Lord’s ill’guard army.” Her voice grew grave. “But his abduction raises a larger fear.”

“What is that?” Er’ril asked.

“With their purposeful choice of targets, I now suspect that I’m not the only seeker here in Shadowbrook. Someone else hunts the city.” She glanced at Krai and nodded at his hand. “They’ve had a taste of you and will come after you again. Once the Dark Lord’s seeker has caught your scent, he will not give up the chase. You’re too strong an elemental, a prize trophy for any seeker.” Her words silenced the others.

Mogweed was the first to speak. “What of Elena? Can this seeker sniff her out, too?” Mycelle placed a hand on the shape-shifter’s shoulder. “Mogweed, you’re the only one who’s thinking straight. It’s tragic that Meric is lost, but Elena should be our priority. I don’t believe this seeker is aware of her. Elena’s magick is not elemental. It’s blood magick. She is invisible to my seeking, and I suspect to all others, too. But Krai will draw the hounds of the Black Heart like the blood of a wounded fox. That we must consider.”

“What are you suggesting?” Er’ril asked.

Krai found the woman’s hard eyes settle on him. “Krai must not come with us.” Stunned expressions spread through the room. Krai’s face, though, stayed rock. “She is right. I will only draw attention to Elena.”

Elena stood up from her bed, her face red, near tears. “No, we all must stand together. We can’t leave Krai behind.” The blanket fell from her shoulders.

Krai stared wide eyed at the spread of vines and leaves up her arm. He interrupted the girl’s declaration.

“What happened to Elena?”

The girl glanced to her enshrouded limb, and the fire seemed to leave her body. She sank back to the bed as Er’ril explained about the bewit’ched link between the vines and her magick. “She must not touch her magick,” he finished, “or the growth could overwhelm and kill her.” J AMtS

“Then that’s even more of a reason for me to leave,” Krai said firmly. “She can’t afford a confrontation with the minions of the Dark Lord. The best way I could help is to lead them astray, distract the hunt from her.”

“No!” Elena said, but her voice was now less sure.

Krai sat up straighter and threw his legs to the floor. He stared at the young lass. “Elena, I would die before I let my blood draw attention to your trail. You have no say in this matter. I will travel no farther with you.”

“But—?”

He placed his good hand on her knee. “No.”

Elena stared around at the others for help. None would meet her eye. Her shoulders slumped. “Then what is our plan?”

Mycelle answered, speaking a breath before Er’ril. “Daybreak nears. We must leave soon thereafter. To leave before dawn would draw too many suspicious eyes. We will leave while the town awakens and the river barges set sail.”

Elena turned teary eyes toward Krai. “And what will you do after we leave?”

“I will stay. Meric is somewhere here in Shadowbrook. I mean to find him and free him.”

“But we could help you.”

“No. Without your magick, you are useless.” Krai saw how his words pained her, but as a mountain man, he had learned that true words were often hard to hear. “You’d just be in my way, someone I would have to guard.”

Tol’chuk spoke into the pained tension. “You would not have to guard me, man of the mountains. I will stay with you.”

“What?” Krai swung on the og’re.

Tol’chuk held his chunk of heartstone. “The Heart can fight the spell-cast sleep of the ill’guard. If you find Meric, you may need my help.”

“No, Tol’chuk,” Er’ril said, mirroring Krai’s own thoughts. “Your words are noble, but your strong arms and your magick are best used to guard Elena.”

Krai nodded.

Mycelle stepped into the argument. “Elena is the important—”

“Enough!” Tol’chuk’s shout shook the thin, planked walls. He shoved the heartstone before him. He pointed it first at Elena, and

the stone grew dark, its bright facets dimming. Then he swung his fist toward Krai—and the stone blew to a blinding radiance! The mountain man leaned away from its brilliance. Tol’chuk’s arm trembled with his fervor. “As it has always done, the Heart commands me where I must go. I must stay with Krai.” His eyes defied anyone to question him further. The display silenced everyone.

“Then it’s decided,” Mycelle said, staring at her son with cold eyes. “Krai and Tol’chuk stay and draw off our enemies. Perhaps they may succeed in freeing Meric, but if not, their deaths won’t be in vain.” Mycelle turned to face the others. “But before we firm plans, is there anyone else who would like to stay?”

Krai saw one arm rise, and his mouth dropped in surprise. Mogweed stood behind Elena with his hand in the air.

Elena shut her ears from the raised voices around her. The small crook-tailed rat nuzzled deeper into the warmth of her embrace. She, too, wished to burrow somewhere away from all this commotion. She stared at the wrap of foliage on her left arm. Tugging at a coil of vine, she followed to where it burrowed into her flesh. Because of this mossy growth, the team was falling apart. As Krai had said, without access to her magicks, she was just useless baggage, a burden to those around her. She wiped back a tear.

In just a night, all she had practiced, learned, and accomplished was now nothing. The wit’ch was gone.

She was again only a child to be watched over and protected. She had thought the long journey here had forged her spirit into something more, honed her sharper than the scared girl who had fled through the burning orchards of Winterfell, but now that her powers had been stripped from her, what she discovered was that all her maturing had been only as a wit’ch. The woman was still the same scared girl.

Krai’s gruff voice drew her eyes. “Mogweed, there is no need for you to stay. Of what use are you?” The shape-shifter stood straight before the others’ stares. “Exactly! Of what use am I? Am I of any more use in accompanying Elena? I am not a warrior who can protect her. But I do have eyes and ears. And here in Shadowbrook I can be of use. I can search for

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signs of Meric just as well as either of you— Even better than Tol’chuk! Are you going to let this monstrous og’re wander through town making inquiries and searching for clues to Meric’s whereabouts by himself? I don’t think that’s a wise course. If Meric is to be found quickly, which he must if the elv’in is to have any chance of avoiding the corruption of the seeker’s touch, then as many eyes and ears as possible will be needed on these streets. You will need me. Elena will not.“ Mogweed trembled slightly, whether from the intensity of his conviction or simple nervousness, Elena was not sure. Elena sniffed back her tears. Though she may not have grown on this journey, the shape-shifter had. The cowering, mousy man had developed a certain pride and willfulness, even a nobility.

“Why?” Tol’chuk asked him. “Why risk yourself?”

Mogweed’s tight shoulders sagged slightly. His voice lost some of its firm resolve. “I claim no great brazenness of spirit. In fact if fighting is needed, I will most likely run. I am no warrior. It was my weakness and fears that drove me from my guard of the warehouse when the demon rats came. In some small way, it was my cowardice that allowed Meric to be captured. I would at least like a chance to correct my mistake. Meric is more than just a companion to me. Since saving his life, he and Elena are the only two who have shown me true friendship.” He smiled thinly at Elena. “And right now, I am of no use to the wit’ch. I never was.”

Elena opened her mouth to protest. The shape-shifter had offered her many a kind word, boosting her spirit when it was low.

Mogweed held a hand toward her and continued speaking. “But here in Shadowbrook, I can perhaps offer what is needed to save Meric—an extra pair of eyes and ears.” Er’ril stared at Mogweed with a measure of respect. “You argue your point well,” he said. “Maybe it is best for you to stay, Mogweed.”

The shape-shifter bowed his head slightly in Er’ril’s direction.

Elena saw Fardale’s amber eyes flash at Mogweed. She caught a part of the wolf’s sending: The runt of a litter faces the snahe without trembling. Fardale was proud of his brother.

Mogweed’s cheeks flushed. He turned away from the wolf, apparently embarrassed by the praise.

Mycelle finally spoke, ending the long discussion. “It is late. Dawn nears, and we could all use some rest before the day’s trials tomorrow.

For once this night, no one argued.

Lost in their own private thoughts, everyone began drifting to their own beds. Elena stood up, heading for her cot in the next room, but Mycelle’s voice stopped her. Elena glanced back at her.

Mycelle stood before Krai, her riding packs over one shoulder. “Take this. You may need it.” Krai stared sourly at what her palm held. He glanced up into her eyes. “Then I’ll need two,” he said. “In case I do find Meric.”

Nodding, Mycelle reached into a pocket of her riding pack.

Elena turned away, her heart shuddering. She recognized the pair of objects Aunt My was giving Krai: two jade pendants carved in the shape of tiny vials.

Later that night, as the other members were settled into their beds, Mogweed still fiddled with his bags atop his cot, checking to be sure he had what he would need for the days ahead. As he fished through the contents, he pushed aside a dog’s muzzle made of iron. Long ago, he had collected it from the remains of the sniffer that had attacked Fardale in the og’re’s mountain domain. The chains clinked as Mogweed moved it aside. He glanced up. No eyes turned in “his direction.

As he continued his search, his fingers brushed against the black stone of a shallow bowl buried deep in his personal pack. Mogweed had discovered the artifact among Vira’ni’s belongings in the foothill camp and had stolen it. At his touch, the bowl grew colder, almost icy. There was something strangely thrilling about its stone surface.

Still, he pushed the bowl aside. He did not know if the iron muzzle or the bowl would ever prove useful, but he was a pack rat and collected what interested him. He continued his search.

His fingers wormed through the other contents: a moldy acorn from the dead rimwood forest; a broken string from Nee’lahn’s lute; a sliver of windstone from Meric, given as a thank-you for saving his life.

Finally, he discovered what he wanted—a small hide satchel hidden in the deepest corner of his pack.

His fingers wrapped around the bulging pouch.

He had not lost it!

He clasped his prize a moment, not even daring to remove the satchel to confirm its contents. He could not risk someone seeing

him. He allowed himself a small smile in the darkness. His interminable wait was finally over. The time to act had finally come.

Though he didn’t know how his other collectibles would ever prove useful, here was something that would prove invaluable. With a seeker here in Shadowbrook, someone close to the lord of this land, Mogweed sensed a rare opportunity. If he could guide this seeker to Elena, give the wit’ch over to the Dark Lord while her magicks were choked by the vines, then perhaps as a boon, this king of black magicks might break the curse on Mogweed’s body, freeing his trapped spirit to shift again, to embrace his si’luran heritage—and finally be free of his twin brother!

For a moment, he thought of Fardale. He remembered his brother’s praise for his decision to stay. A flash of shame passed through his heart, but he hardened his will. Fardale was a fool. Time was running short. If they didn’t find a way to rid their bodies of the curse, then in less than four moons their forms would settle forever into their current shapes.

Mogweed stared down at his wan figure. That must not happen!

He let the satchel drop back into his pack. He must be brave these next few days. He must find this seeker hidden behind these demon rats and offer what he held in his pack: the shorn hair of Elena, proof of a wit’ch.

From the end of the longest pier, Elena stared at the river. The dawn was too bright and cheery for such a somber departing, mocking the heavy hearts gathered at Shadowbrook’s docks.

The night’s storms had washed away the early-morning fog, and sunlight sparkled on the wide expanse of the river, a green snake that twisted toward where the sun rose. Across the river, a pair of alabaster cranes took flight, the tips of their wide wings tapping the water as they flew low across the sluggish current. Tall, bobbing reeds waved in the calm delta breezes that traveled up from the distant coast.

Elena caught even a scent of sea salt in the crisp morning. She drew her cloak tighter around her. The morning still had an edge of the night’s chill, but from the clear skies, the summer sun would soon bake away the slight nip in the air.

Behind her, the town was already awake, intruding on the peace of the river morning. The gruff shouts of barge captains cracked across the waters as bales and crates were loaded. Snatches of work songs rose like vapors from the river as dock men hauled cargo and sailors secured the barges that were due to set sail today. The excited voices of passengers and families were like so many chirping birds around Elena.

Yet one voice broke through the cacophony. Krai was speaking to Er’ril. “So you’ll take the river to the coast? To the city of Land’s End?”

Mycelle answered him, interrupting any response from the plains-JAMES

man. “Our specific plans are best left to our own. If you’re captured… well…” She did not have to finish her statement. If captured, their plans could be tortured or magicked from Krai.

At these words, a sudden worry arose in Elena. She turned her back on the bright river and faced the others clustered on the dock. “If they don’t know where we’re going,” she said, drawing their attention,

“how will we ever meet up again?”

“I’ve been thinking on that,” Er’ril said. “If we—”

“We must travel separate paths,” Mycelle said dismissively. “It’s too risky. If we meet by luck, then we meet. If not…” Mycelle shrugged.

Elena stared at Krai, Tol’chuk, and Mogweed. Tears choked her words. “But—?” Er’ril placed a hand on Elena’s arm. “Hear me out first.” He stared at Mycelle, then fished a folded map from a pocket and knelt on the ironwood dock. Spreading the map, he pinned it to the wood with one of his throwing daggers. The delta breeze tugged at the parchment’s edges. “Gather around me.”

“Careful what you say, plainsman,” Mycelle warned as she came closer.

Er’ril scowled at her. He used a second dagger to gesture vaguely to his map. “I have a friend who lives on a lonely stretch of the coast; I won’t say precisely where. That is where I plan to take Elena. We will rest, then hire a boat to travel to the Archipelago.” He raised his eyes to the trio who would remain behind to search for Meric. With his dagger, he pointed to a small town on the coast, its name scrawled in tiny letters.

Elena leaned down closer to read the name: Port Rawl.

“If we make it to safety,” Er’ril continued, “this is our rendezvous. In exactly one moon’s time, I will send Mycelle to look for you in Port Rawl.”

“I know that place,” Krai said with a scowl. “Swamptown. Not an easy place to meet.”

“I’ve been there before,” Mycelle said. A hard glint entered her eyes, confirming the mountain man’s words.

Elena studied the map, understanding now how the town had earned its nickname. The city was nestled in the center of the Drowned Lands, a pie-shaped wedge of coastline that lay lower than the surrounding countryside. Fed by rivers flowing down into it from the higher lands, it looked to be a desolate, inhospitable region of bogs, fens, and swamps, bordered to the east by brackish coastal marshes and locked from the higher lands of Alasea by a ring of towering cliffs called the Landslip. From anything she had ever heard, only the foolhardy traveled those poisonous, snake-infested lands.

The only town that laid claim to this territory was Port Rawl. Even Elena had heard tales of Swamptown.

With its natural isolation and easy access to the maze of the Archipelago islands, it had become a haven for thieves, cutthroats, and those simply wishing to disappear from the world. It was less a town than a shabby gathering place for pirates and other hard men. Murderous tales of the warring castes that ruled the town and its ill-gotten bounties had thrilled many a cold winter’s night for Elena and her brother.

“Why meet there?” Krai asked sourly. He cradled his bandaged hand.

“No one asks questions in Port Rawl,” Er’ril answered. “Curiosity gets one killed in Swamptown.” It was an old adage. Those words ended many tragic tales about the town.

“And where should we meet?” Tol’chuk asked. “Do you know an inn?”

“None I would dare recommend,” Er’ril said. “Just find a spot and wait. Mycelle will search you out with her seeker’s instinct.” He glanced up at the woman to confirm his statement.

Mycelle nodded. “I’ll also be able to tell if any of you’ve been corrupted here in Shadowbrook. The stench of black magicks is easy to sniff on one who has been turned.” Elena straightened from her crouch over the map. “Then you’ll do it, Aunt My?”

“If I must. Er’ril’s plan is sound enough. If these others become tainted, I will know it from a distance and avoid contact. Even if they catch me in some trap—” She fingered the pendant through her thin shirt.

“—they will learn nothing from me.”

Her words both chilled and comforted Elena. Since she and Joach had been chased from their home in Winterfell, this motley band had become her family. She did not want to see them cast to the winds,

,t

separated forever. Still, as much as the thought of reuniting with the others bolstered her spirit, the way Mycelle clutched the poison pendant spoke of the danger that lay ahead for all of them.

Er’ril yanked free his dagger and refolded his map. “We should be loading on the barge now,” he said, staring meaningfully at the

others.

Krai nodded and stepped away. Even the name of their barge had been kept a secret from the others.

Tol’chuk and Mogweed began to follow Krai.

“Wait!” Elena ran up to Krai and wrapped her arms around his waist, hugging him tight. The mountain man was so wide that her arms could not reach completely around him. She leaned her cheek into his belly. “Come back to me,” she whispered to his belt.

Krai’s voice thickened. “No tears, Elena.” He patted her head with his good hand, then broke her embrace and knelt before her. “My people are nomads. When we break our winter’s camp, we don’t say teary good-byes to each other. We say ‘ To’ba/{ norisull corum.’ ” Elena wiped at the tears in her eyes. “What does that mean?” Krai placed a finger on Elena’s chest. “ ‘You are in my heart until the roads wind us back home.’ ” Sniffing, Elena could not trust her voice. She just nodded and hugged him again. Then she went to the others.

Tol’chuk whispered in her ear as she hugged him, his breath tickling her neck. “I’ll watch over them.

They will come to no harm.” Elena smiled gratefully at him. She left him so he could say his goodbyes to Mycelle. Mother and son had spoken alone for a good part of the night, and Mycelle’s eyes now shone brightly with threatened tears as they hugged.

Elena approached Mogweed. The shape-shifter was his usual awkward self, plainly uncomfortable with her attention. He squeezed her once and stepped back. He nodded to his brother, touching Fardale briefly on his head before retreating. Mogweed’s eyes met Elena’s for a brief moment. “We will meet again,” he said.

Though his words were meant to reassure, Elena had a sudden foreboding. Here on this dock was the end of something. From here, different fires would forge each of them. When next they met, none would be the same.

Fardale nudged at her hand, and she absently scratched him behind an ear. The wolf sensed her pain and wished to share it. Beside her, Er’ril and Mycelle stared as the others left the docks and headed into the streets of Shadowbrook.

“To’ba’t nori sull corum,” Elena whispered as she lost sight of her friends.

Er’ril supervised the loading of their horses onto the barge; once they reached the coast, they would need their mounts again. The barge was a wide, low-slung ship with a makeshift corral for the animals built in the center. At first, the captain was reluctant to allow the beasts on his ship, but the quantity and quality of Mycelle’s coin quickly changed his mind.

From the rail of the barge, Elena and the swordswoman watched as Er’ril and the dockworkers worried the horses up the planking onto the ship. Elena’s mare, Mist, went first with little trouble, easily led by a proffered apple in the palm of one of the workers. Mycelle’s golden-skinned gelding put up more of a fight until a stern word yelled from the rail by Mycelle quickly doused the fire in the horse. The beast was then led by halter up the planking to the corral.

Er’ril’s stallion, though, proved most stubborn. Collected from the hunters murdered by Vira’ni in the foothill camp, it had still not bonded well to Er’ril, even after the long journey across the plains of Standi.

He had selected the mount for himself because he knew good horseflesh. With its wide withers and thick neck, the bloodlines of this beast could be clearly traced to the great wild horses of the Northern Steppes, a most hardy and fierce breed. Its color also spoke its heritage: a dappling of golds, blacks, and silvers on a field of white, an inbred camouflage to blend with the snowy fields and rocks of the steppes.

While two dockhands hauled on a lead from the front, Er’ril took the risky position near the horse’s rear.

He had his hand wrapped around the base of its tail and was twisting the tail up, trying to drive the horse forward. Each step was hard-won, and when a step was lost as the horse retreated, the dockworkers swore their frustration.

“Use a whip on it!” the captain yelled from the bow of the ship. He was a squat man with short, muscular limbs who always seemed to be tossing his arms in the air at the antics of his crew. He was doing so now. “We lose the light with this fool’s pursuit!”

A crewman ran up with a switch in his fist.

“Strike my horse,” Er’ril said coldly, “and I’ll plant that whip so far up your arse you’ll be tasting that switch for years.”

The deckhand hesitated. When the man saw the serious glint in Er’ril’s gray eyes, he backed away.

Turning his attention back to his mount, Er’ril found the stallion staring back at him. It studied Er’ril for a moment, then snorted and tossed its head; with no further coaxing, the great beast clambered the planking onto the barge.

Er’ril led the horse to the corral and made sure that all the water buckets were full, that the hay was fresh, and that their grain buckets were not overflowing. It wouldn’t do to have the horses get colic while on board. Satisfied, he patted his mount on the nose and crossed to join the others.

“We’re all set,” he said as he approached the group by the rail. While Er’ril had bedded down the horses, the barge captain had joined Mycelle and Elena. Elena had one hand on Fardale’s neck, absently running her gloved fingers through his ruff.

“Then we can be off!” the captain said. His face was flushed as he stalked away. Obviously whatever discussion he had been sharing with Mycelle had upset him, but Er’ril imagined the woman had that effect on most people.

Er’ril nodded to where the captain was blustering for his deckhands to cast off from the pier, his arms already shaking at the skies. “What were you talking about?” Mycelle waved the question away. “He wanted full payment for the trip to Land’s End in advance.” She shook her head and turned to study the scurrying workers on the docks. “How dare he think me such a fool?”

“When you flash so much silver,” Er’ril said, “you’re bound to entice their greed.” Mycelle turned around to face Er’ril. She leaned against the rail as the crew began to use long poles to push away from the docks. “You think me such a fool, too,” she said, her gaze sharp. “It was with forethought that I was so generous with my purse. Here among the poorly paid workers, talk of a rich couple and their son—” She laid a hand on Elena’s shoulder. “—voyaging to Land’s End will have spread along the docks. It is a good disguise in which to hide Elena. Like your circus, it is sometimes best to hide in the open.”

Er’ril could not fault her logic, but tried anyway. “Then to maintain this ruse, shouldn’t we just pay this captain our passage in full?”

Mycelle frowned at him. “And pay him for a voyage we are not taking?” She snorted. “Now who’s the fool?”

Er’ril lowered his voice. “So then you’re still considering my plan, the one that we discussed last night: to swap barges along the way.” He repeated his arguments from the night before. “It’s over an eight-day journey to the coast, and though changing barges may slow us down, it will help shake any dogs from our trail.”

Mycelle just stared at him. “That’s a daft plan,” she finally said, ignoring Er’ril’s darkening expression. “I have no intention of ever taking Elena to Land’s End.”

“Then what— ?” His voice was sharp enough to draw the attention of a nearby deckhand.

:

“Watch your tongue, plainsman,” Mycelle warned.

Er’ril bit his lip to keep from another outburst.

Once the deckhand had wandered away and their corner of the ship was empty, Mycelle continued.

Wisely, she still kept her voice low. “In two days’ time, we will off-load from the barge and head south to the Landslip.”

“The Landslip? But to follow the cliffs to the coast will take almost an entire moon.”

“We’re not going to follow the cliffs. We’re going to descend them.” Er’ril’s hand clenched into a fist. Surely, this woman was mad! “You mean to take Elena into the Drowned Lands? Nothing lives among those treacherous swamps and bogs but creatures of poison. Not even trappers or hunters venture far into there.”

“You are wrong,” Mycelle said. “One person lives within the deep swamps: an elemental of strong magicks. I have sensed her in the past as I ventured along the Landslip. With the help of a swamp guide, I once tried to reach her, but she is sly and her lands confounding. After seven days, with my guide near death from an adder’s poison, I was forced to flee the swamps. I figured if I couldn’t reach her, then neither could the seekers of the Dark Lord. So I left her on her own, believing I would never need to search for her again.”

Mycelle paused as a pair of deckhands passed, hauling and rolling lines of rope.

JAMES

As they waited, Er’ril considered her words. He was no fool. He knew what Mycelle was thinking. Once their corner of the rail was mpty again, Er’ril spoke. “This elemental hidden in the swamp— vou suspect this is the one who’s bewit’ched Elena.”

Mycelle nodded. “And the only one who can lift the spell and free Elena’s magick.” She picked at the girl’s loose sleeve that hid the spread of vines on her left arm. “This is her message to us. Bring Elena to her or she will kill the child.”

“So we have no choice?” Er’ril asked.

Mycelle remained silent.

Elena, however, answered, speaking for the first time, her voice sullen and resigned to her fate. “I hate snakes.”

From the shadows of the dock, Mogweed watched the barge leave with his brother and the wit’ch. Oars rose and fell as the boat drove for the deeper channel of the river. He noted the name carved and painted on the stern of the ship: Shadowchaser.

Satisfied that no last-minute switch would occur, Mogweed slipped behind the edge of a blacksmith’s shack. The hammering from inside the establishment echoed in his head as he wandered back toward their inn. He rubbed at his temples as he walked, trying to erase the seed of a headache that threatened.

Still, he allowed himself the smallest smile as he reached the town square.

Er’ril thought himself so sly with all his secret maneuverings, yet Mogweed had found it simple to discover both the name of the barge and its destination. Almost all the dock workers knew of the haughty woman with her one-armed husband. Her generosity with silver had attracted many ears and eyes. A few whispered questions and an exchange of coppers had bought Mogweed all the information he needed.

Among the backstreets of Shadowbrook, gossip was a commodity traded as surely as baled tobacco leaf or casks of herb oil. Knowledge was a vital trade good, and Mogweed now possessed the most valuable tidbit of information in Shadowbrook.

He knew where the wit’ch was headed: to Land’s End.

With this knowledge and the satchel of shorn hair, Mogweed would buy himself a boon from the king of this land. He strode with a certain authority in his step across the threshold of the Painted Pony.

The innkeeper stopped him as he approached the back stairs.

“Them large friends of yours be gone already,” the pudgy man hollered to him. “They told me to tell you they would meet you for supper.”

Mogweed nodded and felt generous. He fished a copper from his pocket and tossed it toward the innkeep. The man snatched the coin from the air and made it vanish. Mogweed turned to leave.

“Hold on there!” the innkeep added. “Some messenger boy came runnin‘ in just after the others left and gave me this note for you folks that burned the warehouse.” He held out a folded scrap of parchment with a wax seal in place.

“Who’s it from?” Mogweed asked as he accepted the note. “It bears the seal of the lords of the Keep.” The innkeeper’s eyes shone with curiosity. “Who?”

“Lord Mycof and Lord Ryman. Them’s as live in the town’s castle. Odd birds, but their family’s been lords of the Keep since my great granddad was suckin‘ his mammy’s tit.” The innkeeper leaned closer to Mogweed. “Now what would the likes of them want with circus folk,hmm?” Mogweed hesitated, a spike of fear rising as he touched the seal. Would they have to pay for the warehouse? Should he wait until the others returned before reading the note? The hungry gleam in the innkeeper’s eye, though, reminded him of the important lesson he had learned in Shadowbrook this morning. Knowledge was a vital commodity.

He thumbed open the note and unfolded it. It took just a moment to read it.

“What’s it say?” the innkeeper asked, all but drooling on the scarred counter.

Mogweed folded the note. “They… they want us to perform at the Keep tonight, just at twilight.”

“A private performance! By gods, you must have caught them lords’ attentions. I’ve never heard of those birds asking for such a thing before. Quite an opportunity!” The news initially delighted the innkeeper; then the man’s piggy eyes narrowed. “If you think of moving to a richer inn after this, remember you booked your rooms for a whole quarter moon. You’ll still have to pay.” Nodding, Mogweed retreated on numb legs. He stumbled up the steps. Behind him, he heard the innkeep already spreading the news.

Mogweed keyed open the door to his room and slipped inside. He JAMES CLEMENS

leaned back on the door as it latched closed. He took his first deep breath since reading the note. He had expected to have a few days to plot and plan. He thought it would take some time to discover the whereabouts of the ill’guard and their seeker.

He opened the note again and looked at it—not at the words of invitation, but at the seal fixed in bloodred ink on the bottom of the paper. Mogweed had been in such a hurry to open the note that he had not paid heed to the same imprint in the wax. But he could not ignore the seal’s clear impression on the parchment.

The crest of the lords of the Keep was two creatures, back to back, scaled tails wrapped around each other, raised on hind limbs, teeth bared in menace.

Mogweed touched the crest with a trembling finger. “Rats,” he mumbled to the empty room.

He suddenly knew the identity of the two ill’guard in Shadow-brook.

He held their invitation in his hands.

As he leaned on the door, he took several deep breaths. A plot began forming in his head. He slipped a dagger from his waist sheath and carefully trimmed the parchment to remove the inked seal. He crossed to the lamp of the room and held the seal up to the flame. Its ink glowed bright red in the flame, as bright as the locks of Elena’s shorn hair.

He studied the seal. His fingers no longer trembled.

Though their circus troupe was divided, he must convince Krai and Tol’chuk to attend this command performance. Mogweed laid out his arguments in his mind. The lords of Shadowbroo’t would be powerful allies in their search for Meric. How could they possibly pass up this rare chance to gain access to the many resources available at the Keep? It could ma’te the difference between saving and losing Meric.

Mogweed grinned sharply at the scrap of parchment.

How could Krai or Tol’chuk refuse?

He held the paper closer to the lamp’s flame until it caught fire. Then he dropped the burning scrap to the floor and ground its black embers into the planks.

Only he would know the real invitation behind the words written on the note—an invitation to death.

Mogweed rubbed the ash from his fingers.

Knowledge truly was power!

“Do YOU THINK THEY WILL COME, BROTHER?” MycOF ASKED AS HE

lounged back on his reclining sofa, a pillow cushioning his head.

“How could they not? Even if they suspect us, they will still come nosing for their friend. Either that, or they’ll simply flee from the city and solve our problem anyway.” Ryman lay on a matching sofa of the softest silks and down of goose. His brother’s constant questions began to grate on him. “But I still believe they will come,” he added. “They fought hard and will not flee.” Mycof knew he irritated his twin, but he could not silence his concerns. “Do you think the… the d’warf suspects?”

“He is surely too busy with the new plaything we fetched him last night.” Ryman’s voice edged with exasperation. “He will think us too exhausted by last night’s hunt to plot against his goals.”

“Are you sure?”

“Our inquiries were discreet. Only we know the prisoner was the magician from the circus that rented the warehouse. Surely this other elemental whom the d’warf seeks is also among this troupe.” Ryman sat up straighter on his sofa and looked Mycof in the face. His brother’s smooth brow contained a single wrinkle of worry. Ryman’s heart went out to his younger brother. He had not suspected how deeply this scheme had unsettled his twin. He reached a hand to the neighboring sofa and touched Mycof’s silk sleeve. “This is just like a game of tai’man,” he consoled. “Moving pieces hither and yon to our best advantage. Because of our skilled hunting last night, we must now contend with another who will share our private Sacrament.” Ryman could not keep the disgust from his voice.

“That is,” Mycof offered, refusing to consider this horrible prospect, “if the thin man survives the ebon’stone.”

Ryman patted his brother’s sleeve. “Yes, that would be nice if he died, but if we mean to keep yet another from intruding on our nightly hunts, then we must take matters into our own hands.” Ryman leaned back into his couch. “Before the hunt is called tonight, all in the circus must be dead and disposed of. The d’warf will think his prey have been spooked and run off, and we will again have the hunt to ourselves.”

“As long as the prisoner from last night dies.”

Sighing, Ryman closed his eyes. “Even that is being taken care of. Remember how skilled I am at tai’man.”

Mycof remained silent. He did not voice his private concern. Just yesterday, he himself had beat Ryman at tai’man.

So might not another?

Sweat ran in rivers and streams across Lord Torwren’s naked flesh, a brackish swamp that stung his eyes and collected in the folds of his skin. In chest and belly, his two hearts hammered in discord as the ebon’stone sphere hovered in the air, spinning with furious fires. He wiped brusquely at his eyes and swore under his breath.

A seeker’s work required both strength of will and stubbornness of bone. To forge an ill’guard warrior out of a pure elemental was difficult work. Torwren, however, knew better than to complain. Being a seeker was far better than being an ill’guard. He, at least, had a measure of free will—unlike those bent to the stone.

Torwren studied his victim.

His prisoner hung in manacles upon the wall. The man’s shredded clothes lay in the mud under his hanging toes. With the first searing touch of the ebon’stone’s flames, the spell of sleep had been burned from the man’s eyes. In the prisoner’s gaze now, the d’warf lord sensed that the man knew what was happening. The prisoner’s silver hair had been singed from his scalp, and his lips had blistered from the heat. Even now his muscles spasmed and quaked from the d’warf’s last assault upon his inner barriers, yet he still stared with a cool indifference at Lord Torwren. He did not scream; he did not plead for mercy.

Scratching at his belly, the d’warf planned his next attack.

The thin limbs and sallow skin of the prisoner were deceptive. Where he should be weak, the d’warf lord found only strength. The man had a font of inner fortitude that had nothing to do with the richness of his elemental abilities. As Torwren worked on him, the flavor and depth of this man’s elemental fire was like a tantalizing prize dangling just out of his reach, but before he could possess this gift, he must dig free the prisoner’s spirit and give it to the stone where the dark magicks would twist it to his will. Then the magick would be his to possess, his to forge into the mightiest of ill’guard.

J 1 UKM

Torwren frowned at his prisoner. The man confounded him. His stubborn spirit still refused to burn with the bloodfire. Still, Lord Torwren knew the value of patience and persistence. A slow drip of water eventually wore through rock, and the power at his fingertips was much stronger than mere water.

Yet, to be so close to his centuries-long dream…

He pictured the Try’sil and let his thoughts wander to what he could do once he retrieved the lost treasure of his ancestors. He shook his head. He must cast aside these stray thoughts, especially as he worked so intimately with the ebon’stone talisman. He must not raise the attention of the Dark Lord.

He firmed his thoughts as he reached once again for the stone.

“Wh-who are you?” the prisoner mumbled, his cracked and blistered tongue forming words with difficulty.

The voice stopped Torwren’s fingers. Few of his subjects were ever capable of speech after the initial testing. Intrigued, he lowered his palms away from the sphere. Perhaps a bit of conversation might reveal a weakness in this prisoner. Besides, he had the time, and seldom did he come upon the pleasure of a true adversary.

He bowed his head slightly in greeting toward the shackled man. “I am Lord Torwren,” he said with a wave of a wrinkled hand. “And I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of your introduction.” Even though his scalp still curled with tendrils of smoke, the man’s eyes were cool. “Lord Meric,” he said, his voice stronger, proud. “Of the House of the Morning Star.”

“Hmm… of noble birth,” Torwren grinned, his thick lips revealing the wide teeth of his people.

“I know you,” Meric said. “You are a d’warf lord.”

Torwren bowed again. “You are keen. Few of my people still live, and I am the last of the lords. How do you know my people so well?”

The prisoner’s head began to sag with exhaustion. The pain had finally weakened him. “We were once allies,” he said with a trace of sorrow. “We once called your people friends.” His words crinkled Torwren’s brow. A knit of worry began to rise in his chest. “Who are you?” The prisoner’s sky blue eyes rose to stare at Torwren. “Have you forgotten your honor? Your allies? I am of the elv’in people.”

“A stormrider!” Torwren could not keep the name from his lips. Surely this man was mad. D’warves were long-lived, known to

reach an age numbered in centuries, yet none of his ancestors spoke of the elv’in as anything but fanciful tales, creatures of myth. And the most crucial story surrounding the stormriders concerned the gift that the elv’in had bestowed upon his people. Stunned, Torwren dared to speak its name aloud for the first time in centuries. “The

Try’sil.“

“The Hammer of Thunder,” the prisoner mumbled, his head again falling. “Its iron forged by lightning borne in our magick-wrought thunderheads.”

Torwren backed from the prisoner. The man knew the secrets of his d’warf heritage! Could what he claimed be true? Could he truly be one of the ancient elv’in?

The d’warf lord studied the scorched and blistered figure: the thin limbs, the delicate features. His twin hearts rallied as he began to believe. Hope surged through his bones.

The prisoner had to be a sign. It could not be mere chance. Surely this elv’in, so rich in raw elementals, had been delivered into his hands by destiny, crude material for him to forge into a baleful weapon.

In his ears, old memories of his home in Gul’gotha echoed up from the past: the strike of hammer on iron anvils, the sighing song of the bellows, the roar of a thousand forges. Since the rise of the Black Heart among his people, the forges of the d’warves had gone cold, the smithies now empty and silent. At the bidding of the Dark Lord, his people had cast their lives upon these foreign shores until only a scattered few still lived.

Now, as the last of the lords, it was up to him to reclaim his heritage—and to accomplish that he must first possess the Try’sil.

With the fervor of one who knew his task was righteous, Lord Torwren reached for the ebon’stone sphere.

As his fingers touched the talisman, he merged his mind into the stone. His will became bloodfire, and wild flames swept out from the stone’s polished surface toward the elv’in. Black magicks crackled in the flames. Torwren saw the flames reflected in the prisoner’s blue eyes.

It was destiny!

“No!” the prisoner screamed, seeming finally to recognize his fate. Torwren ignored his plea and swept his flaming will at the prisoner, forcing his way into the elv’in’s wracked body, working into his mouth, up his nose. The man spasmed with the touch of fire. With

TT 1 1 LH

its burn, the prisoner’s heels beat at the stone wall of Rash’amon. The flames flowed into the man’s body, burning their way inside of him, violating him, carrying Torwren into the heart of the elv’in.

Once inside, the d’warf lord began his forging. Flame and hammer were the tools of the ancient blademasters, and they would be his, too. With centuries of skill, he burned at the stubborn spiritual attachments of the elv’in and hammered away at his barriers and resistance. Somewhere far off, he heard the prisoner howling at the assault.

A tight smile stretched the d’warf’s lips.

Long ago, elv’in nobles had granted his ancestors the power of the Try’sil. And once again, it would be the hands of an elv’in that would return the sacred Hammer of Thunder to its rightful heritage.

Such a balance of fate could not fail!

Torwren renewed his attack, like a mad dog upon the flesh of a newborn. Somewhere deeper in the ebon’stone, something scented the d’warf’s new fervor. Something ancient and corrupt of spirit twisted in Torwren’s direction, drawn by the sudden blood lust. Blind to his task and wrapped in the surety of his action, the d’warf ignored the red eyes that cracked open to stare out from the stone’s blasted heart.

Buried in the volcanic creches under Blackhall, the Dark Lord stirred.

As THE SUN TOUCHED THE WESTERN HORIZON, KrAL LED THE OTHERS

toward the massive gates of the Keep. Tol’chuk followed, cloaked to hide his og’re form and burdened with their half-singed gear. Mog-weed hung behind.

With their approach, Krai’s eyes appraised the fortifications: The moat was too shallow with too many trees growing nearby. Archers could easily harry the battlements. The mortar that set the stones had too much sand and would poorly resist a good battering by catapults. The iron portcullis that protected the gate of the Keep was more decorative than substantial. He scowled at the construction. It would not stand against a determined assault.

Still, his party had not come to lay siege to the battlements. They had come under the ruse of entertainment to try to win a favor from the lords of this town. Surely these leaders would understand the danger that lurked and hunted their streets, and they would want to protect their people. Krai again eyed the fortifications of the Keep. Then again, perhaps not.

But what choice did they have?

Krai, accompanied by a cloaked-and-hooded Tol’chuk, had wandered the dockside bars and inns, seeking information about the demon rats. Met with laughter and ridicule, all they had learned was that the town of Shadowbrook, like most river cities, had always been plagued by rats. Yet, after a few coppers had exchanged hands, darker stories arose. Over the past seasons, bodies had been turning up half chewed by the vermin. Unusual activity, the townsfolk claimed, but the past winter had been both harsh and long. What hungry creature would not seek imaginative means of rilling its empty stomach ?

Krai had clutched his wounded hand under the table. He knew it was more than mere hunger that drove these ravenous beasts. With heavy hearts, Krai and Tol’chuk had returned to the Painted Pony. At the inn, their arrival had been met with strange well-wishes and pats on the shoulders. When Krai had asked about the source of the commotion, the innkeeper had given him a knowing wink and told him to speak to their mate upstairs.

Mogweed had been waiting with the news: Their troupe had been graced with an invitation to perform at the Keep tonight. Krai’s first response was to dismiss it. They had no time to waste clowning for some pair of lordlings. But Mogweed’s arguments proved wise. Another day spent in fruitless questioning would get them no closer to Meric. But here was a chance to gain strong allies in their search for the ill’guard. Perhaps the lords would even offer a battalion of armed guards to accompany them.

The shape-shifter’s reasoning had won him over, but now Krai questioned his decision. He shook his head as his boots stomped across the drawbridge over the moat. The two guards stationed to either side of the Keep’s entrance looked as decorative as the fortifications. He could only hope that the lords employed more hardy stock inside the Keep than these two fanciful, thin-limbed guardsmen.

Dressed in dark blue, with flourishes of tufted lamb’s wool and even a spray of crane feathers, the pair of guards began a synchronized dance that involved much clicking of boot heels and slapping of sword sheaths. They ended this play with their swords crossed before the entrance to the Keep, as if this would truly stop Krai or Tol’chuk from entering the castle. Krai suspected even Mogweed could give this dandified pair a good fight.

Krai cleared his throat and spoke to the guards. “We come at the request of the lords of the Keep,” he said as introduction.

The two guards repeated the dance in reverse until the way ahead ‘ lay unbarred. “You are expected,” one of the guards intoned with exaggerated grandness.

The other guard continued the memorized litany. “One of the castle’s housemen awaits you beyond the gate to take you to the Musician’s Hall.”

“¦”“¦¦

Krai nodded and led the way through the massive wooden gates of the battlements. Tol’chuk and Mogweed followed.

“They be like puppets playing at warriors,” Tol’chuk grumbled, waving back toward the twin guards.

“Only puppets be more real.”

Krai grunted his agreement as they passed under the battlements to reach the Keep’s yard. Paved in cobbles, the courtyard was at least neat and tidy. An orderly stable lay to one side, and a low-roofed stone barracks was on the other. Directly across the yard were steps that led up to the castle proper.

Like the battlements, the castle was clearly built for the comfort rather than the protection of its lords.

The balconies and balustrades that adorned the front of the castle would all but invite the hooks and ladders of a marauding force, and the windows were wide and many, making for easy access into the heart of the castle.

Krai shook his head. This was no keep as much as it was a pretty plaything, a bauble to please the eye.

Krai began to doubt the wisdom of this night’s plan. Surely there was no real support to be garnered from the lords of such a place.

Scowling, he met the tall, scrawny houseman who stood fixed in a half bow in the center of the yard. At Krai’s approach, the man straightened. Dressed in silks and slippers, the man’s perfume struck Krai’s nose before he was within three steps of the fellow.

Mogweed sneezed like a cannon.

The sudden noised seemed to awaken this lanky marionette. “Ah, you’ve come,” the man said graciously, one hand raised in solicitous greeting. His eyes ran over the three men. “We were perhaps expecting more performers?”

Krai kept his voice even. “I’m afraid a few are sick in bed. But we will manage.” The man’s brows rose a bit, eying Krai’s bandaged right hand doubtfully. “Ah, good. Yes, yes, resourcefulness is a virtue.” He spun on a heel. “My name is Rothskilder. I will be your liaison with Lord Mycof and Lord Ryman. If you will follow me, I will take you to the hall where you may set up—” He glanced over his shoulder. “—and clean up before the lords’ attendance this evening.” Mogweed had sidled forward. “You are most generous.”

Krai could not tell if the shape-shifter was honest or sarcastic. Mogweed’s tongue could be as slippery as the belly of an eel.

They followed Rothskilder to a small alley that lay between the barracks and the castle. Apparently circus folk did not use the main stair. They passed a wide side door propped open to the night. The familiar squabble and clink of a kitchen greeted them.

“Come, come,” their guide insisted, leading them into the commotion of this night’s dinner preparation.

Glancing around him, Krai wondered for a moment if dinner was included with their performance. The savory aroma of roasting beef and boiling potatoes almost made him forget about the true goal of this night. Even if they could not convince the lords to help, maybe they could at least get a meal of something other than their usual staple of salted fish.

Tol’chuk, too, seemed to drag as he passed through the kitchen. Krai caught the og’re staring at a rack of lamb spitted above glowing embers. Their eyes met, sharing their appreciation of the cooks’ skill. Too soon, they were led to a wide hall and away from the scents of the kitchen’s hearths.

With thoughts on his belly, Krai followed the slender figure of Rothskilder through the back halls of the Keep, the paths and byways of the servants who kept the castle running. The halls narrowed, and the ceilings lowered. Krai glanced to the poor construction of these dim halls. Apparently little was spent on the servant wings.

The man hummed and whistled as he led them deeper into the Keep.

“How much farther?” Mogweed asked, his breath sounding‘ winded from the single crate he carried.

“Just a bit. I’m afraid only noble guests and their manservants are allowed in the main halls, so I must take you on a circuitous route to the Musician’s Hall. I apologize for the inconvenience.” As they rounded a bend in the halls, the walls on the left side abruptly changed to rough blocks of stone.

These were not mortared together but hewn and stacked.

The houseman must have noticed Krai pause by the wall. “Yes,” Rothskilder said, slowing his step and frowning at the stones. “This is the most ancient section of the Keep. Such crude construction.” He waved dismissively at the wall. “I don’t know why the craftsmen didn’t just tear it down when the castle was built.”

Krai, though, could not keep his eyes from the stones. Even as their guide continued forward, Krai lagged behind. Tol’chuk and Mogweed were soon a few steps ahead of him.

James l-lemens

Krai raised a hand to the stone. His fingers trembled. His blood responded to the stones. He sensed the force throbbing forth from them. As a single finger touched the stone, his mind exploded with the ancient voices of dying men.

Man the fires, you good men!… The d’warves have breached the south wall!… Beware their lords!

They come with blac’t magic’ts!. .. Archers to the west!… The bloodstone! The bloodstone!

Krai weaved on his feet. He reached to the wall with his injured hand to support himself. It was a mistake. With its touch, his mind was taken from him.

The castle hall vanished, and Krai found himself alone atop a high tower. A sickle moon looked down upon him, offering little light. But a reddish glow lit the horizon on all sides as Krai spun around. He ran to the tower’s edge and leaned over the parapet. Below, a river glowed red with a thousand siege fires.

Cries of the tortured climbed with the smoke from the fires. Krai lifted his hands from the stone of the parapet. They were wet with blood. The whole tower was drenched in the blood of the slain.

A noise, a scrape of heel on stone, sounded behind him.

Dreading to look, but unable to resist, Krai turned.

In the center of the tower crouched a naked figure. It stood no taller than Krai’s belt buckle but was as heavy as the large mountain man. Krai knew this creature. Here squatted a monster from the past. He remembered the oft-repeated tales of the bloody D’warf Wars, like the story of Mulf, the ax master who had held the Pass of Tears for an entire day and night against the d’warf armies. It was said these sickly creatures had driven his ancestors from their homes in the far north, destroying and forever fouling their ancient mountain homeland, casting them forever as nomads among the lands of man. Legend around the clan fires was that only after the last d’warf was dead could Krai’s people ever return home.

Krai reached for his ax. He knew that these fires and screams were from centuries past, that this was all an ancient nightmare trapped in the blood-soaked stones and that only the magick in his blood allowed him access to this ancient tragedy. Still, dream or not, he would kill this d’warf.

On the tower, the d’warf leered at him. “Now who are you?” it spat out with a sneer. A black stone sphere spun in the air over the d’warf’s shoulders. Bloody fire crackled along its surface. In brighter spats of the stone’s flames, a different scene, ghostly and vague, cracked through the dream. A man hung in chains in some dungeon, his skin blistered, his body wracked with burns.

Somehow Krai knew this scene was not a part of the ancient nightmare. It was happening now! This d’warf was not a figment of the past, but as real as the mountain man himself—and Krai suddenly knew the man who hung in those chains. “Meric!” he gasped, raising his ax.

Krai’s outburst startled the d’warf. A moment of uncertainty crept into his sunken eyes. “Where are—?” Suddenly the scene was wrenched away. Krai found himself back in the castle’s hallway. Tol’chuk leaned over him and lifted Krai to his feet. Mogweed stood nearby, a hand raised nervously to his throat.

Rothskilder, their guide, hovered a step away. “Is he sick, too? Like those others in your troupe?” The fear of contagion was trembling in his voice.

Krai cleared his throat and pushed free of the og’re’s arms. He raised a hand to his feverish brow. “No,” Krai said. “I simply tripped and struck my head.”

Suspicion bright in his eyes, Rothskilder nodded and turned. “It is not far to the hall.” After a narrow-eyed glance at Krai, Mogweed followed their guide. Tol’chuk kept even with Krai, obviously concerned he might collapse again. “What happened?” he whispered as low as an og’re could manage.

Krai studied the rough-hewn stone wall. They passed a door of beaten brass that stood in the center of this ancient section of the tower. Krai nodded to it and walked past it without another glance. “Meric is beyond that door.”

Tol’chuk stumbled a step at his declaration but caught up to Krai. “What are we to do?”

“When the time is right, we’ll tear this place down to its roots,” he growled.

“What’s down there?” Tol’chuk asked cautiously. He seemed to sense the seething fury in the mountain man.

Krai pictured the squat toad of a creature. “Something blacker than the hearts of demons.” A GENTLE TAPPING AT THEIR DOOR DREW THE TWINS‘ EYES. A RAISED

voice spoke with measured respect from beyond the threshold. Their manservant Rothskilder knew better than to expect them to answer, but he was forbidden from entering uninvited. “As you requested, my lords, I have made your guests comfortable in the Musician’s Hall.“

Mycof glanced at his brother. “As usual, dear brother, you were right. They have not fled the city.” Mycof straightened the lay of his green silk robes. “Pity that we must foul our own fingers with such unpleasantness.“

Ryman snugged the sash of office over one shoulder, positioning the crest of their house over his heart.

One finger traced the two snarling animals. “It is our duty. House Kura’dom has always had to dirty their hands to keep Shadowbrook in the family. Once again, we protect what is rightfully ours.”

“And protect the purity of the hunt,” Mycof said, a trace of lust in his voice. Twilight was near, and the nightly ritual already called to

his blood.

“Yes,” Ryman said proudly, throwing his shoulders back, “it must stay in the family.“

Mycof loved it when his brother waxed noble. He touched his crest with two fingers. “To House Kura’dom.”

“To the blood of our people,” Ryman finished, mirroring his brother’s stance. It was an ancient family slogan.

Mycof’s mouth grew dry, and the slightest tremble shook his shoulders. The blood of Shadowbrook was their heritage! How dare the d’warf ask them to share the hunt with strangers! “To the blood of our people,” Mycof repeated. A bright bead of perspiration stood on his brow.

“Calm yourself, Brother. You mustn’t let fury rule you. The best plans are carried out with a cold heart.” Mycof sighed, releasing his anger. Ryman, as usual, was wise. He forced a relaxed pose. “All is prepared then?”

“Of course.” Ryman led the way toward the door.

Mycof followed behind his older brother. As they proceeded across their room, he studied the fall of the robe and cloak about

Ryman’s shoulders. His brother’s white hair was striking against the dark green of the cloak, perfect in form and movement.

Ryman opened the room’s door to find Rothskilder bowed before the threshold.

“My lords,” their manservant intoned, awaiting their order. “Lead the way,” Ryman instructed, his lips barely moving. Mycof knew his brother, like himself, found it distasteful to speak to another. Their voices were meant only for each other’s ears. When they must speak, they whispered, sharing as little of their voices as possible with their servants.

Rothskilder knew their manners and engaged them in no conversation as he led the way toward the Musician’s Hall. Still, nervousness kept their guide’s tongue wagging. “I have the guards posted, and the exits secured as you ordered.”

As the twins walked shoulder to shoulder, Ryman glanced to his brother as if to say I told you so.

Everything was in order.

In acknowledgment, Mycof bowed his chin ever so slightly. Still, Mycof asked their manservant, “We will not be disturbed?”

His whispered voice, unexpected, startled Rothskilder. The man almost glanced toward Mycof, then caught himself and continued down the hall. “Just as you requested, this is a private audience,” he said humbly. “You will not be disturbed.”

Behind Rothskilder, the twins glided like two silk ghosts, their slippered feet moving in step together, their green cloaks swishing in unison as they proceeded.

Neither twin spoke, but each knew the other’s thoughts. Mycof’s and Ryman’s eyes met briefly as they turned the last corner. Both brothers already had their fingers touching the hilts of the poisoned daggers hidden in sheaths strapped to their wrists.

The House of Kura’dom knew how to protect what was theirs.

Lord Torwren crouched in the mud of the cellar. Near his toes, the ebon’stone talisman lay half sunk in the muck. Its polished surface no longer ran with flames. After the axman’s blunt intrusion into the sphere’s dreamscape, Torwren had been unable to maintain the concentration necessary to keep the fires lit. Who was this strange hulking man? The d’warf had recognized him as the elemental who had escaped last night’s trap, but by the dancing gods,

how had he entered the stone? The talisman was bound only to Torwren. No one but he should be able to enter it freely.

Nearby, the elv’in prisoner groaned in his shackles.

“Yes, yes,” he waved in distraction at the wracked man, “I’ll get back to you in a moment.” He had only begun to forge the elv’in’s spirit. There was still much left to do, but the oddity of the intruder kept Torwren distracted.

“You… you will never have me,” the prisoner gasped weakly.

Torwren glanced in his direction. A seed of an idea began to form. “Meric, wasn’t it?” he said, stepping toward the prisoner.

The elv’in’s face darkened. His eyes grew colder, and blood dripped from his cracked lips.

“It seems that a friend of yours is prying where he shouldn’t,” he said.

Sullenly, Meric lowered his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The other elemental, the bearded giant.” Torwren saw the glint of recognition in his prisoner’s eye. “Tell me about him.”

“I’ll tell you nothing.” Meric spat in his direction.

“The stone can make you talk,” Torwren bluffed. “But the fire’s touch won’t be as pleasant as it has been thus far.” Once the elv’in was converted to the ill’guard, he would be unable to keep any secret from the d’warf, but the process took too long; Torwren wanted to discover this other elemental’s secrets now.

He smiled warmly at Meric, satisfied that his statement had paled the elv’in’s features. The threat of pain was often worse than the experience itself. He remained silent and let the elv’in dwell on his words.

Finally, in a trembling voice that lacked the fire of a moment ago, the prisoner gasped, “Take that cursed stone of yours and—”

“Now, now, is that any way to speak to your host?” Torwren ran a finger along the elv’in’s exposed ribs.

The prisoner’s skin shuddered at his touch. The elv’in could not keep a small moan from slipping past his lips. The display of weakness unmanned the prisoner; Torwren saw despair in the hang of his head.

He stepped back and went to reach for the stone half sunk in the mud: Just a push and the man would be singing like a split-tongued raven. But as soon as his fingers touched the sphere, Torwren knew something was wrong. He gasped and snatched his hands away. The stone’s surface, usually warm with its inner fires, was as cold as the dirt of a winter’s grave. It felt as if he had touched his own frozen and dead heart. The d’warf shuddered and backed from the stone.

As he stared, the dank mud around the sphere began to freeze, ice and frost sheening in the torchlight.

The mud cracked as it froze. Then the ice spread from the stone in ripples.

What was happening? Torwren retreated from the ice, his wide feet sinking into muck. Soon his back was against the wall.

The prisoner, hanging on the stones beside him, raised his head, his eyes suspicious and wary.

Torwren met his gaze. Was this some elv’in magick? Had he misjudged the extent of this elemental’s skill? Or did it have something to do with the bearded stranger’s intrusion within the stone? He glared back at his prisoner. “What do you know of this?”

Behind the glaze of pain, confusion was evident in the elv’in’s expression. “What… ?” Torwren turned away, realizing the elv’in was unaware of what was happening. The ebon’stone still lay in the center of the room, a pool of ice flowing out from it. As the ice finally reached the d’warf’s feet, the mud froze around his sunken ankles, locking him in its frigid embrace, the cold so intense that it felt more like fire. The shock of its touch drew a moan from the d’warf lord. He suddenly understood what was happening. Oh dancing gods of the Forge! He crashed to his knees in the mud. His left ankle, trapped deeper in the mud, cracked. Terror gripped his heart so fiercely that Torwren did not even feel the pain of his wailing ankle. With his lips pulled back in a rictus of fear, Torwren watched the ebon’stone rise from its nest in the cracked and frozen mud. It floated in the air and began to spin. This time, Torwren had nothing to do with the magicks that drove the stone’s flight.

“No,” he moaned. Not when he was so close! His hands scrabbled at his ears, as if trying to block his realization. Not after so long! Tears rose from eyes that had not cried in centuries. He knew his mistake, felt it in the ice that clutched his ankles. After discovering the elv’in heritage of his prisoner, he had engaged the stone without his usual caution. He had been so certain that the elv’in’s appearance was a sign of his destiny, a divine portent that the Try’sil would soon be his, that he had let his guard drop.

He ground his fists at his throat and groaned. After so long a vigil, ll had been lost in a single moment of hope. Despair ran like the mud’s ice through his veins.

a

The ebon’stone sphere slowly flew toward him.

Its black surface no longer ran with bloodfire. Instead its surface rew blacker; the faint lines of silver 2

impurities disappeared until the stone sphere was a hole in the world. It sucked the warmth and feeble torchlight from the room.

Torwren knew it was no longer a sphere of stone, but the pupil of the blackest eye, a pool through which a monster stared out from his volcanic lair.

It was now the eye of the Dark Lord.

Awakened to Torwren’s traitorous heart, the Black Heart had come to exact vengeance. The Try’sil, the Hammer of Thunder, was the only tool that could break the bond that held his people thrall to the Dark Lord. Torwren had been his people’s last hope. His elemental skill at seeking had kept him from the tight leash that bound the other d’warves to the Black Heart’s will. With only a narrow room in which to maneuver, he had plotted and waited centuries for his chance to reclaim his heritage.

He cried his despair to the stone roof of the cellar. As with the original defenders of Rash’amon, no one answered. But this time, the roles were reversed. He was not the one wielding the black magicks and smiling at his suffering victims. No, this time, he was the one crying to the blind heavens.

He stared at the black eye and despaired.

With his death, all hope was lost.

Resigned to his fate, he spread his arms as the ebon’stone approached. Death would at least end his pain. Once within arm’s reach, the stone stopped its flight and hovered before him. Torwren closed his eyes—and waited.

For several heartbeats, nothing happened. Torwren’s breath grew ragged, and his knees began to quake.

He remembered how he had toyed with the prisoner: Agony threatened was often a worse torture than the actual pain.

Frightened, Torwren opened his eyes.

The ebon’stone sphere still spun in the air before his chest, but now its surface was again afire—not with the red flames of bloodfire, but with the midnight flames of darkfire.

Before he could wonder at this, the fire burst forth to envelop him.

WITCH STORM

At its touch, every bone in his wrinkled body blew to flame. Tor-wren fell backward, welcoming his death at long last.

Yet, as the pain grew more intense, his hearts still continued to beat. He willed them to stop, knowing that the coolness of death lay just a thin curtain away. He let himself go, releasing his spirit to the grave.

Just as his last, weak grip on his essence loosened, he realized his error.

No!

His eyes whipped open. Blind to all but the darkfire that lapped and crested over his body, he still saw clearly what was happening. It was not death that welcomed his spirit, but the twisting magick of the ebon’stone.

He writhed and screamed, but it was too late.

The Black Heart was not destroying him. He was forging him, perverting his spirit as Torwren himself had done to so many others, changing him into one of the Dark Lord’s creatures—into one of the foul ill’guard.

As Tol’chuk and Mogweed unpacked their meager supplies, Kral glanced around the Musician’s Hall. A small raised dais decorated in gilded roses occupied the far wall. Two tall-backed chairs of oiled ramswood and silk pillows stood atop the dais, the two cushioned thrones of the lords of the Keep. The rest of the chamber was empty, just polished marble floors reflecting the many bright lamps along the walls. Overhead, a crystal-and-silver chandelier lit with a hundred candles draped across the arched ceiling like an intricate spider’s web sparkling with drops of morning dew.

Kral could imagine the lavish minstrels and parading guests who usually occupied this room. It was a chamber that called for extravagance and fanciful productions.

With a growing frown, Kral judged his own troupe. Dressed in road-worn clothes and gear singed black at the edges, the three circus performers seemed lost in the large hall. Something was wrong here. Kral sensed it in the same way he knew when the ice of a frozen lake would crack under him.

Tol’chuk came up to him. “We be about ready. Mogweed will start with a few of Meric’s tricks just to set the lords at ease.”

Kral nodded. They had no intention—or even the ability—to

perform a complete show. The crates of gear were just decoration, a thin guise in which to gain access to these two lordhngs.

“Tol’chuk,” Kral said, “be wary this evening. Something rings false here.“

The og’re nodded. “I now wonder, too, why we truly be called here. Did you see the guards at the doors?“

Kral nodded.

Nearby, Mogweed was fishing through a crate. Kral saw him slip a small goatskin satchel in a pocket.

Then he pulled forth a small bowl of the blackest stone and set it upon another crate. Krai’s brow crinkled. He did not remember ever seeing such an item among Meric’s magickal paraphernalia. Just the sight of the stone made his skin crawl. Kral rubbed his arms to collect himself. He was too edgy.

It was just a bowl.

Suddenly, the large wooden doors near the main entrance were swept open by two stately armsmen.

Standing in the threshold was Rothskilder, the man who had led them here. Behind their thin-limbed guide stood two men of shocking visages.

Like a trick of mirrors, the two men were identical reflections of each other. Draped in matching green cloaks and silks, the pair moved in synchronous step as they entered the Musician’s Hall. Their faces were disturbingly foreign, and Kral could not help but stare. Hair whiter than virgin snow and eyes a reddish pink, like those of cave newts, told Kral the birthright of this pair. Among his people, an occasional babe was born with such features. It was considered a bad omen. In the past, such babes had been considered to be touched by ice demons and were often abandoned on the snowy mountaintops to die. Such ingrained superstitions were slow to fade; even now Kral could not help but shudder slightly at the sight of the twin lords. He stared at their skin, pale as bleached bones. It was bad enough to birth one such cursed child, but to birth an identical pair of them struck Kral as a bad omen for the lineage of the Keep.

Tol’chuk grumbled beside him, keeping his voice low. “I do not like the scent of these two.” The og’re’s nose was keener than his. Kral did not argue. Rothskilder bowed. “The Lords Mycof and Ryman,” he announced in a formal nasal cadence, “viceroys of Shadowbrook and princes of the great Keep, inheritors of the House of Kura’dom.” Without a word, the two lords crossed to their pillowed chairs.

The guards stood straight backed, with swords in hand. Rothskilder stood just inside the doorway.

The pair ascended the dais. As they sat, one of the two raised a single finger from where it had settled on the throne’s carved wooden arm. With this signal, Rothskilder backed out of the room in an extended bow. The guards followed, sweeping the doors closed behind them, and soon the two lords were alone with Krai’s group.

From across the hall, the eyes of each group studied the other.

Around them, the sounds of bars dropping into place sounded from behind all the doors. They were being locked in with the two lords.

Finally, one of the two pale figures spoke, his words quiet but reaching Krai quite clearly. His words were soft and did not attempt any false pretenses. “Thank you for coming. Now which of you circus performers is the elemental who escaped our hunt last night?” MOGWEED HEARD THE SHARP INTAKE OF BREATH FROM KRAL. THE

shape-shifter had sensed Krai’s edginess after his strange faint in the back halls. Since then, the mountain man’s suspicions had been high. Mogweed had feared for a while that he might call off this evening’s meeting. Luckily, the man had a fool’s courage and had continued forward.

“Now come,” the lord continued from the dais, “if you step forward, we’ll let the others live.” While Krai and Tol’chuk recovered from the shock of the lords’ casual revelation of their ill’guard status, Mogweed thought quickly. He had a dozen plans worked out in his head. None of them supposed the lords would speak so boldly and openly. He had expected artifice and trickery. Still, Mogweed twisted a way to use this to his own advantage. He cleared his throat. He would have to be just as bold. He stepped forward. “I am the one you seek,” he stated simply. “If you know of our troupe, then you must know of my talents in controlling our wolf. It is my magick. I can beast-speak.” He placed his fists on his hips. “Now let the others go free.”

The twins glanced to one another briefly, the smallest smile thinning their lips.

Krai hissed beside him, “Don’t do this, Mogweed. Their tongues lie. They mean to kill us all.” Mogweed, with his back to Krai, rolled his eyes. The fool thought he meant to sacrifice himself. Such honorable men as Krai were quite blind to any subterfuge under their noses. He ignored the mountain man’s further protests. “Let the others free,” he said, “and I will give myself to you freely, without a fight.” Tol’chuk snatched at his sleeve, but Mogweed shook loose and took another step toward the dais. He needed to convince these two minions to take him to their master. Once there, he could reveal the whereabouts of the wit’ch and gain not only his freedom but the gratitude of the king of this land.

Mogweed saw the amusement in the twins’ eyes at his veiled threat. This pair would need more convincing. As he stepped forward, he snatched up the black stone bowl from where it rested on a nearby crate. “Do not be deceived. I escaped you before when you had the advantage of surprise. Don’t think that I can’t harm you now.” Shuddering at the touch of the foul stone, he held up the bowl like a trophy. “This I took from one of your ill’guard brethren— after I destroyed her and ground her bones to dust. Be warned!” He thrust the bowl toward the pair.

With satisfaction, he saw fear dampen their frozen smiles. “Ebon’stone,” one of them mumbled to the other in recognition.

Mogweed pushed his slim advantage. He needed to get this pair of lords alone. When he spoke his betrayal, he wanted it to be a private conversation. He did not know where this evening would end and wanted to maintain the ruse of his loyalty to Elena for as long as possible. “Let the others go, and you will have what you want without bloodshed. This I swear.”

Krai had crept up behind him. “Don’t do this,” he whispered. “We will fight our way from here together.” Mogweed watched the lords lean toward each other. Their lips moved but no words reached him.

Mogweed had a few moments. Just as it was necessary to trick the lords into freeing the others, he had to convince Krai and Tol’chuk to leave. If they tried to fight these demons, there was a likelihood Mogweed could get killed in the melee. He swung toward Krai. “If these twins are the ill’guard,” he whispered to Krai, “then I’m sure Meric must be held somewhere here in the Keep.” Krai nodded. “I know where he is.”

This revelation shocked Mogweed. He blinked a few times and almost lost the weave of his lies. “You… How?…” He clenched his teeth and collected himself. “Then all the better. I will distract them as long as possible. You two go for Meric.”

“What about you?”

Mogweed allowed himself a small smile. He knew better than to lie to Kral. “I will manage. I have a plan.”

Kral studied him a moment, his voice full of respect. “You surprise me, shape-shifter.” Mogweed’s cheeks blushed. “Free Meric,” he urged, then faced the lords. !

As he turned, the lords rose from their private counsel. One of the lords used a polished fingernail to brush back a strand of white hair. “We accept your generous offer,” he said.

The other slipped a small silver bell from a hidden compartment of his chair and rang it twice. Before the echo of the ringing chime faded, the main door was unbarred and swung open.

Rothskilder stood in the threshold, head bowed. “You called, Sires?”

“The two larger performers have fallen ill,” the lord with the bell stated softly. “Guide them from the Keep and back to their inn, please.

“Of course, my lords. Right away.” Rothskilder waved two guards from deeper in the hall forward. “Do as our lords command,” he instructed with a snap of his fingers, then quickly faced the chamber again.

“And the third performer?”

“Once the others are gone, we will be enjoying his company in private.” Mogweed caught the twitch of a leer on the other lord’s face. Then his features settled back to calm.

Mogweed’s knees trembled. For several heartbeats, he had to restrain himself from calling the others back to him. Tol’chuk must have sensed his discomfort and glanced toward him. The shape-shifter offered the og’re a weak smile. Tol’chuk touched a claw to his heart and then to his lips. Mogweed knew the sign. It was an og’re’s good-bye to a friend.

Mogweed found his own fingers repeating the sign.

As much as it suited his schemes to free the others from this trap, somewhere deep in his heart, Mogweed felt a twinge of relief that Tol’chuk would live.

Mogweed pushed aside these feelings. He must be strong. Now he would need all the skill and cunning he had learned along the difficult road to this room. In his mind’s eye, he pictured a mustached man dressed in a red-and-black uniform. Silently, he mouthed the name of his initial teacher in the ways of trickery: Rocfyngham. But even such a skilled practitioner as Rockingham was finally destroyed by the black magicks of the Dark Lord. If Mogweed was to survive, he would have to surpass his teacher.

As the doors to the hall swung slowly closed, Mogweed set the stone bowl on a nearby crate. Alone with the two nTguard demons, he reached to his tunic’s pocket for the pouch hidden inside. No coins lay within the goatskin satchel, but he prayed its contents would buy him his heart’s desire.

Swallowing hard, he pulled free the pouch. “What do you have there?” one of the lords asked. “What the Black Heart hunts,” he said calmly. He had somehow thought his betrayal of Elena would be more difficult, but he discovered no remorse in his heart. He smiled at the lords of the Keep. He had their full attention now. Their pale faces had blanched further at the mention of the Dark Lord.

Opening his satchel, he drew forth several strands of red hair. “I can lead you to the wit’eh.“

Kral stood up from where he crouched over the two collapsed guards. “They’ll live,” he said, hitching his ax to his belt. He had used the haft to club the men unconscious. He flexed his bandaged hand. It ached, but he had still managed the ax well. “Now let’s go.” He led the way along the hallways at a half run.

They passed the occasional startled servant. One young girl burdened with an armload of folded linen screamed, threw her work in the air, and ran. Kral could only imagine the picture the two of them made: a bearded mountain man barreling through the halls with an ax in hand followed by a loping og’re, fangs bared and claws scraping at the scatter of rushes on the floor.

Kral had no time for niceties or subtleties. He had to reach the brass door that led into the old tower before—

Suddenly a loud ringing echoed through the halls. Though unacquainted with the ways of the Keep, Kral knew an alarm when he heard one.

“They know we be loose,” Tol’chuk grumbled behind him.

“It’s just a bit farther,” Krai answered. “Hurry!” By now, the halls had narrowed, and the ceilings were lower. They were close. Half crouched, they sped down the passages.

Crossing a side hallway, a voice yelled from down the intersecting corridor as they passed. “This way, men! They flee toward the old tower! Cut them off!” The sound of booted feet thundered toward them.

Krai swore under his breath. It was not far, but they needed time to get past the brass door. He prayed it was unlocked but knew better than to put much hope in this, especially since he knew who and what lay below. It was doubtful a prisoner would be kept behind an unlocked door.

Tol’chuk called to him just as they rounded a corner and found themselves racing along the crumbling stone of the ancient tower. “They come from both directions!” As if the og’re’s words had cleared his ears, Krai suddenly heard the clatter of boots and yelled orders arising from both behind and in front. Troops were working to pin them in the passage.

Krai shifted his ax in his bandaged palm. “There!” he yelled as he spotted the glint of brass. They rushed to the door as the calls of the men grew clearer around them. Krai tried the latch. Locked. He backed and raised his ax. “No,” Tol’chuk said. “Let me.”

The og’re took a few steps back. Then, with an earshattering roar, he flew at the door. His legs, thick as tree trunks, shot his rocky shoulder like a battering ram at the door. The collision sounded like thunder in the narrow hallway.

Krai gasped a bit. He had not thought an og’re could move so fast. Tol’chuk bounced off the door.

Dented, the brass door had bent but still held fast, crooked on its hinges. The og’re pushed back to his feet, rubbing his shoulder. “Stubborn door,” he muttered as he stood. The hallways now lay silent around them. Both the inhuman roar of the og’re and the loud crash had given their pursuers pause. But for how long?

Throwing back his shoulders and shaking the kinks from his neck, Tol’chuk crouched for another run at the door.

“Hold on there,” Krai said. He grabbed the iron handle with both hands, and rather than pushing, he yanked on the handle. The door

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had dented inward enough that the locking bar was bent and loosened from the frame. Krai struggled with it, iron scraping stone. “Lend me your back,” he groaned as he pulled. Krai’s boots began to slip on the stone.

Tol’chuk wrapped his claws around the top of the handle beside Krai’s fingers. Together, they hauled on the door, arms trembling, backs arched as they fought the stone’s hold on the door.

Finally, with a loud screech of metal, the door popped open, throwing both of them to the floor. Just as they fell, an arrow shot over the tops of their heads, almost grazing Krai’s scalp. It struck the wall and clattered to the floor. Krai and Tol’chuk glanced at each other, then rolled through the open portal to the tower stairs beyond.

The armsmen were wary, but the arrow was a sign that their fears were fading. They would soon be upon the intruders.

“I’ll guard the door,” Tol’chuk said as he reached and yanked the bent door back in place. Iron again scraped stone. “It be their strength of arm against mine to open it.” Tol’chuk took a wide-legged stance, the handle gripped in both his claws.

Krai clapped the og’re on the shoulder. Knowing his back was well protected, he raised his ax and started down the stair.

Tol’chuk called to him. “Be wary. This tower stinks of blood and fear.”

“I’ve my ax and my arm,” Krai mumbled. “They’ll cut me a swath to Meric.” His stride ate up three stairs with each step as he rushed toward the root of the tower. As he ran, the stones called to him with ancient cries and the clash of swords. He ignored their song, refusing to be overwhelmed again. Only despair lay behind the tower’s music.

He reached the bottom of the stairs, his boots splashing in water, and ran toward the flickering light from a chamber ahead. Only when he was a few steps away did he slow and ready himself. He ran the haft of his ax up and down his palm, heating his grip and his blood. He remembered his ancient teacher Mulf and the stories the old man would tell when well into his tales of his own battle with the d’warf armies. Amid drunken flourishes, Mulf had instructed the young Krai in the ways of battling d’warves. He could still hear the old man’s slurred words. “They have two hearts. Belly and chest. Difficult to kill with a sword’s thrust. But an ax, my boy—ah!—now that is a weapon to fight a d’warf.” The old man had then lifted his long white beard and made a slicing motion across his exposed throat.

“Cut his head from his body, then two hearts make no difference.” His ancient master’s laughter carried him forward into the cellar chamber.

Krai burst into the room, boots sinking quickly in the icy mud. The roar on his lips died to a squeak as he saw what lay within the cellar chamber.

Meric, burned and bloody, hung from shackles on the wall. The elv’in’s eyes did not even turn in Krai’s direction; they were fixed on the play of forces in the center of the chamber. And Krai quickly found his attention drawn there as well.

Half sunk in the mud stood the d’warf from his dreams, a wrinkled pale slug of a creature. Ice hung from the folds of his flesh, and his feet were trapped in frozen mud. His arms were raised in supplication above his head—not to the gods in heaven but to an inky stone sphere that hovered above his raised fingers.

Flames of darkness crackled over the sphere’s surface.

Krai stared, frozen, unable to move, as if he too were trapped in ice. Just the sight of such mindless evil numbed his body. If he could have moved his limbs, he would have fled; but unable even to breathe, he just stood with his ax half raised.

It was as if a black sun had risen from some netherworld. As he watched, the sun began to set, lowering toward the raised hands of the d’warf. Black flames blew lower, lapping along the d’warf’s skin. Krai saw his nemesis’ face contort with fear and agony. Then the sphere swelled with darkness and descended upon the d’warf, swallowing up the pale creature.

Krai knew it was not just magick that lay within the darkness, tormenting the d’warf, but something so foul that the mountain man’s spirit quailed against its mere shadow. If he could have closed his eyes, he would have.

As he stared, the darkness swirled and tightened around the d’warf, seeming to sink into his wrinkled flesh. In only a few heartbeats, the blackness had drawn fully into the toadish figure, leaving only a few wisps of darkfire dancing along his foul skin. The sphere was gone, and in its place stood the same squat d’warf, no longer pale of flesh, but black as the darkest midnight, a shadowy statue carved by a depraved hand.

Somehow Krai knew that the d’warf was no longer flesh, but some type of foul stone—the same ore as composed the bowl Mogweed had stolen from Vira’ni. He remembered the twin lords’ name for it.

Krai’s lips formed the word: ebon’stone.

As if his silent word was heard, the d’warf’s eyes snapped open. The eyes raged red with an inner fire.

Lips of stone parted to reveal yellow teeth. “How nice of you to join us,” a voice whispered up from the statue’s throat. Stone flowed again, and a beckoning arm raised. “Come join your friend.” Krai recalled the few words he had shared with the d’warf lord atop the dream tower. He knew the creature that spoke through that stone throat was not the same d’warf. Something else had merged with the creature as surely as the stone had merged with the d’warf’s flesh.

Raising his ax, Krai heard his own voice tremble. “Who… who are you?” Meric seemed finally to notice the mountain man’s appearance. “Flee, Krai! You cannot fight this… this creature!”

The elv’in’s voice, though, freed something within Krai. His heart, weak with fear, suddenly hardened to rock. His fists clenched the haft of the ax, his knuckles whitening. A d’warf, black or not, was still a d’warf—and could surely die like one!

Giving no warning, Krai rushed the foul creature. His ax swung in a deadly arc. The d’warf could not even raise a stone arm in time to block his blow. Mulf had taught him well, and Krai knew where to strike.

With all the strength of his shoulder and back, Krai swung his ax into the neck of the d’warf. The shock of the impact jolted up his arm, numbing his limb and raising a gasp of surprise from the mountain man.

Krai rolled to the side and twisted his ax for a second strike.

The d’warf still stood where he had been. In streams of darkness, stone flowed, and the creature raised an arm to rub at its neck. “Thank you. That felt good. My stone skin is still hardening, and a few more strikes like that will temper my ebon’stone flesh quite well.” Krai raised his ax, determined to hammer his way through the magick stone, but as the numbness in his arm finally faded, he noticed the change in balance of his weapon. He glanced at his ax. The blade was gone. He held only an empty haft. Near the feet of the

WIT CH STORM

d’warf, he spotted where his ax head lay shattered in fragments upon the thawing mud. Its hard-forged iron and finely honed edge were now just shards.

The d’warf lord smiled at Krai’s shocked face. “It seems your usefulness in this matter has ended. Oh, well, we will have to make do with what we have.” The creature’s arm began to rise.

Meric called weakly to him. “Krai, run!”

It was too late.

The d’warf pointed his arm at Krai, and darkfire burst forth like a black fountain from his hand. As if the flames themselves were fingers, the fire clutched Krai’s neck and lifted him off his feet. He was thrown to the wall and pinned with his toes dangling above the mud. The fingers of flame dug into his flesh, reaching for his bones.

“No!” Meric yelled.

“Enough of your noise!” the d’warf scolded.

As Krai’s vision dimmed, he saw the stone d’warf raise his other arm and point it at the elv’in. Darkfire burst forth to grip Meric’s neck just as tightly as Krai’s.

“Now let’s finish what I began earlier,” the d’warf said, his eyes flaming with burning blood. “The Black Heart has shown me the foolishness of hope, burning away my ridiculous notions of resistance. I shall teach you each the same. You both shall serve the Dark Lord faithfully as his newest ill’guard soldiers.” His rasping laughter chased Krai into oblivion.

“Do YOU BELIEVE HIM?” MyCOF ASKED, UNABLE TO RESTRAIN A TREMble from his whispered voice. Even the mere uttering of the Black Heart’s name struck a chord of terror that shook his placid demeanor. Ryman glanced to his brother, his neck slightly bent in Mycof’s direction.

“Surely he lies to save his skin,” he answered, but Mycof heard the hesitation in his twin’s voice and saw Ryman’s left eye

twitch.

This nervous display further set Mycof’s teeth on edge. “Still, it is one thing to slink behind the d’warf’s back, but to betray the… the…” Mycof could not even speak his name. “What if the man does not lie?

Do we kill him and risk it?”

Ryman’s hand fingered the hidden dagger in its wrist sheath. How he itched to plunge it into thir sallow-faced elemental’s heart. He stared at the little man holding a goatskin satchel in one hand and a few strands of red hair in the other. How dare this rabble ruin his finely crafted plot to eliminate any rivals to the hunt! Whether this man could lead them to the wit’ch or not, he refused to share the Sacrament with such filthy vermin. The man’s clothes were drab and worn, to say nothing of his tangled hair, crooked teeth, and cracked, yellowed fingernails. Ryman suppressed a shudder. To share the inti-‘

macies of the hunt with one such as this! Ryman pulled free his dagger. Never!

Mycof placed a finger on Ryman’s arm, fearing any rash action from his brother. “Remember your words earlier. The best plans are carried out with a cold heart.” Ryman remained silent for several heartbeats, then lowered his dagger. “Yes, you are correct. My words were most wise.” Still, Ryman did not sheathe his dagger. Shifting his position on the pillows, he leaned toward the man standing before the dais. “Now how are we to know these old hairs are from the wit’ch, as you claim?”

His question had been meant to upset their adversary’s tight resolve. It failed. The man just maintained his half smile. “Take me to your master here in the Keep,” he answered. “He will judge the truth of my words. He is a seeker, is he not, one skilled at sensing the magick in others?” The dagger in Ryman’s hand trembled. How he wanted to carve that grin from that foul face. Yet he forced his wrist to steady. This one may be a skilled tai’man player, but Ryman was a master of the board. “Give us a few strands, and we will take it to the seeker.”

“I would prefer to show him the proof myself. Only I know where the wit’ch hides.”

“And what do you wish in exchange for this knowledge?”

“Only my life and a boon from the Black Heart: a small reward of magick as payment for my work, a small pittance of the vast magick he wields.” The man then lowered his voice. “And it is a mighty magick, too. I have seen those who have gone against the wishes of the Dark Lord… even in minor matters.” The man shook his head sadly. “I can only imagine how he would treat a greater betrayal.” Mycof again touched his brother’s arm. “Perhaps it’s best if we take him to the d’warf,” he whispered.

Ryman’s fingers clenched on his dagger. “If we take him to the d’warf, then Torwren will know we were planning to thwart him. Either way, we put ourselves at risk of punishment.” Ryman sensed that the trap he had so artfully set was now closing in on him.

“I would rather suffer the wrath of the d’warf,” Mycof countered, his shoulders shuddering, “than face the ire of the Black Heart.”

Ryman sat undecided on his pillows. Was there another way out of this tangle? In the past, he had been in worse situations upon the tai’man board and, through sly plotting, had eventually achieved a victory. Of course, then he only risked his pieces. Here, he played with his life. Now he would need all his skill.

Ryman’s eyes searched the room for some answer. They settled on the ebon’stone perched on a crate.

His left eye twitched. He sensed an answer might lie within that bowl. If they could bypass the d’warf JAMES LLEMENS

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and take this matter directly to the Black Heart himself, then by the time the d’warf learned of the twins’

betrayal, they would have the Dark Lord’s sanction as a barrier between them and Torwren’s wrath.

Ryman’s lips thinned. “I have a new plan,” he said, his usual humor returning. “We have no need to disturb our master here in the Keep.” He nodded toward the bowl. “With that, we can take the matter directly to the Black Heart.”

The slightest gasp escaped Mycof’s lips. Ryman allowed his grin to grow a bit wider. He always enjoyed it when an unexpected move on the tai’man board shocked his younger brother. But even more, Ryman relished the surprised look on his adversary’s face. The fool did not know with whom he matched wits.

“H-how?” the man stammered. “How do we use the bowl to speak to him?”

“Blood,” Ryman answered, again delighted by his opponent’s look of horror.

“Whose?”

“Any elemental’s blood will suffice.” He raised the dagger. “Yours will do nicely. Since, as you so boldly announced, you are an elemental.”

The profoundly sick look on the man’s face actually raised a chuckle from Ryman. How he loved a good game of tai’man—especially when he won.

No FURTHER YELLS ROSE UP FROM THE DEPTHS OF THE TOWER. Tol’cHUK

was certain he had heard Meric’s voice a moment before. Grinding his teeth in frustration, he stood by the brass door. Should he go investigate the fate of his companions or maintain his post?

The Keep’s troops had long given up attempting to draw the door open. After only a few failed tries at yanking the door loose, they had pulled back, swearing and yelling that the door was soundly locked and would not budge. Someone had called for a battering ram. Someone else had called for them to wait the thieves out since the tower had no other exit. “Starvation will drive their sorry arses out of there or kill

‘em for us,” someone had finally declared—and so the matter had been decided. It seemed none of the troops were all that anxious to chase the armed men into the crumbling tower anyway.

As Tol’chuk had waited, his keen ears had occasionally heard WIT CH OTORM

some murmuring or spats of raucous laughter from beyond the brass door, but no further assault was made.

He slowly unwrapped his claws from the iron latch. He saw no good reason to maintain his post, and the silence from below wore on him like the gnawing beak of a mountain vulture. Tol’chuk started down the curving stairs. He had promised Elena to watch after her companions. He would not fail her.

He sped silently down the steps, fearing to alert whatever lay below. As he reached the last step, his wide-splayed feet splashed in the water covering the floor. He paused, his ears cocked for any evidence he had been heard. Faintly, a moaning arose from the chamber ahead. Steeling himself against what he might find, he continued forward. The air had grown colder, more than the darkness and the sunless halls warranted.

He edged toward the opening and peeked inside. It was best to know what he faced before he burst into the room. His eyes grew wide at the sight.

A squat figure painted in black oil stood in the center of the chamber with its arms raised. Twin fountains of dark flames flowed from the creature’s hands to pin his two companions to the wall. Meric and Krai writhed under the grip of the black magick’s touch. Horrified, Tol’chuk pulled back around the corner.

He had to stop this somehow. This he knew! At the sight of his companions so foully trapped, he needed no tugging from the Heart of his people to call him forward—yet the fiery hooks had again blown to flame in his chest.

One claw clutched his thigh pouch. The Heart seemed to burn through the hide. What was he to do?

Would the magick of the heartstone vanish as it had before?

Suddenly, as if to chide him for his doubts, a rat ran across his foot, half swimming in the brackish waters covering the floors. Out of instinct, he began to kick it away when he noticed its crooked tail. As it swam away toward the cellar door, Tol’chuk saw it was the same rat that had carried the Heart’s magick for a brief time. Frowning at it, he wondered if it had somehow followed him.

Seeming to sense the og’re’s scrutiny, the rat glanced back at him. Its eyes glowed in the dark hall, the ruby red of the heartstone. With a shock, Tol’chuk realized the rat still harbored a trace of the Heart’s magick. The animal chittered at him, scolding him, then swung around and crawled into the cellar chamber.

Tol’chuk waited a heartbeat. He did not know the meaning of the rat’s appearance, but he would not let the little beast contest his own bravery. He swung into the opening. The rat, even injured, was quick on its tiny feet. It flew across the mud, already half the distance toward the black demon.

As Tol’chuk stepped into the room, the toadish creature swung its gaze toward the og’re. Eyes of flame stared at him briefly, then turned away as if Tol’chuk were no threat. “Another guest,” the demon said in a voice that seemed to echo out of stone. “Come join us. I’m just about finished with these two.”

“Leave them be!” Tol’chuk bellowed. He stepped farther into the light so the creature could see him fully: few were undaunted by an og’re. Tol’chuk bared his fangs, exposing their full lengths.

Yet it was not his fangs that drew the black figure’s eyes. The tiny crooked-tailed rat, now almost near the legs of the demon, suddenly screeched wildly. Glancing at the small attacker as it reared on its hind legs, the demon’s expression was at first mildly amused; then its eyes suddenly flared with fire. It pulled back from the rat, and the twin fountains of darkfire collapsed back to their foul source.

Freed of the flame’s grip, Krai crashed to the mud, and Meric slumped on the wall, hanging from iron shackles. Neither companion moved.

Tol’chuk did not have time to go to their aid. The demon pulled its thick legs from the mud and retreated from the rat. Tol’chuk knew that there was no way this tiny creature had panicked the demon. It had to be the trace of magick in its beady eyes. The black demon must fear his Heart’s magick!

Reaching to his pouch, Tol’chuk freed the chunk of heartstone and pulled the blazing Heart forth. Even Tol’chuk was blinded for a moment by the radiance. Its bright light burst through the room. The flickering torches on the walls seemed like the mere glow of fireflies before the brilliance of the heartstone.

The demon raised its black arms before its face and fled the light. Tol’chuk followed it farther into the room. He sidled toward Krai to see if he still lived. The demon made no approach to stop him. It matched Tol’chuk’s pace as he crossed the chamber, keeping its distance.

“Stay back, or I will destroy you!” Tol’chuk growled with as much threat as he could manage. He had no idea why the Heart

J 1 UKM

intimidated the demon or how to use it, but the demon was unaware of his ignorance, and Tol’chuk meant to keep it that way. “Back!” he said, thrusting the stone forward.

He did not need to maintain the ruse for long. Once the doorway was clear, the demon bolted for the exit. It had to pass closer to Tol’chuk, but the og’re made no move to stop it. Let it flee. He had his injured companions to worry about.

The demon paused at the doorway, glaring back at Tol’chuk. Its black lips pulled back in hatred. “We are not finished,” it said.

Tol’chuk lowered the stone, knowing the demon had no intention of attacking. It meant simply to flee.

“I will not forget this—or you!” The demon’s raging eyes stared Tol’chuk full in the face as if memorizing his features. Then the hatred in its black face shifted like molten stone. Its eyes grew wider, and it stared with a mixture of horror and awe at Tol’chuk. It stopped and took a step toward the og’re. “You! It cannot be. How… ?”

Unnerved by the demon’s strange attitude, Tol’chuk raised the stone. “Begone!” he thundered. Still the demon hesitated.

Suddenly the small rat was again at the demon’s toes, harrying him with squeaks and squeals. The fierce intrusion of the little beast broke the demon’s gaze on Tol’chuk. It glared at the rat, then in a fury of motion, it vanished out into the hall. Tol’chuk listened to the splashes of its footsteps as it ran off, then waited to be sure the demon had truly fled. After a few breaths, a flurry of screams suddenly rattled down from above. The guards stationed by the door were obviously quite surprised at what lurked at the root of their tower stronghold. Seemingly satisfied, the rat groomed its muddy paws. Satisfied too, Tol’chuk lowered his heartstone and returned it to its pouch. He bent to Krai. At his touch, the mountain man groaned, and his eyes opened. “What happened?”

“The demon has fled. If you be living, I must check on Meric.”

“I be living,” Krai said sourly, sitting up with a coarse groan. “But I’m not sure that’s a good thing.” Tol’chuk nodded and crossed to Meric. He yanked free the shackles and settled the elv’in’s limp body in the mud. The reek of burned hair and flesh clung to his wracked form.

“How is he?” Krai called to him, climbing to his wobbly feet.

James Llemens

“He be weak and sorely injured. But he breathes!”

His voice must have reached Meric. The elv’in’s eyes fluttered open. “I more than breathe, og’re. It would take m-more than a few burns to kill elv’in royalty.” Even these few words split Meric’s burnt lips, and blood welled at the corners of his mouth. Pride or not, it would take a long time for the elv’in to heal.

“Rest, Meric,” Tol’chuk warned. “I will carry you from here.” Meric protested at first, but even his attempt to sit up on his own failed. The elv’in’s face darkened with embarrassment.

Tol’chuk scooped him up. “It be no weakness to ask a friend for help.” Meric reached and squeezed the og’re’s wrist, silent thanks clear in his touch.

Standing up with the elv’in in his arm, Tol’chuk faced Krai. “Can you manage on your own?” Krai was retrieving fragments of iron from the mud. “Just point me toward that d’warf and see how fast I move.”

Tol’chuk nodded, relieved at the strength in the other’s voice. “For now, let the demon flee. We have one more friend still to rescue.”

Krai straightened. “Mogweed. I almost forgot.”

Suddenly, the tower walls groaned, and dust billowed down around them in choking clouds. The walls themselves began to quake.

“What’s happening?” Meric muttered.

“The d’warf,” Krai said, waving them toward the exit. The mountain man explained as he led them in a rush up the steps. “I saw it in a dream. He led the savage troops that besieged this tower long ago and slaughtered its defenders. He used the men’s dying blood to bathe the stones and perform arcane acts. I wager the blood magick of the ebon’stone was the only mortar that kept the tower standing all these years. When the d’warf lord fled, he took his magick with him. At long last, the tower will fall, and its defenders can finally rest.”

The rat, now finished with its grooming, noted the tremoring of the tower and dashed away through a crack in the wall.

Tol’chuk appreciated its wisdom. “If we don’t hurry,” he said, “we be resting forever with those long-dead defenders.”

Krai grunted acknowledgment and hurried up the steps. Stones began to crash behind them, and the stairs shook, trying to betray their feet.

They fled faster. Behind them, amid crumbling stones and clouds of dust, the ancient battle for Rash’amon finally ended.

MOGWEED FELT THE FIRST TREMBLE OF THE CRUMBLING TOWER AND

thought it was his own fear wobbling his feet. Certain his death was near at hand, he watched Lord Ryman rise from his chair, dagger in hand. In the candlelight from the chandelier, the blade’s surface glinted an oily green. Mogweed could almost smell the poison on the dagger.

Lord Mycof whispered from where he sat. “Brother, did you feel—?” Then the hall rocked with a grating groan. Mogweed had to wave his arms to keep upright. “What’s happening?” he cried out, giving up any pretense of hiding his fear.

But Ryman’s eyes were also wide with fright. He turned to his brother as if an answer could be found in his twin’s pale features. “Check with the guards,” he ordered.

Mycof fished out the silver bell. He rang it and waited. Nothing happened. He looked to his brother with a confused expression. Apparently a summons had never been ignored before. Mycof picked the bell up again and shook it violently. “Ryman?” he called over the ringing chime.

Ryman strode on his thin legs to the main door and pounded a fist upon it. “Guards! Attend your lords!” A small voice answered him. “My lords, the guards have fled!” Mogweed recognized the voice of their foppish manservant. “I can’t lift the bar on my own!”

“Then go to one of the smaller side doors, Rothskilder, where the bars are lighter.”

“Yes, Sire. Right away!”

“Wait!” The floor again shook. Overhead, the chandelier danced, raining hot wax from the drip pans of the many candles. “What is happening out there?” Ryman yelled.

Mogweed yelped as a large drop of wax struck his cheek. He dashed from under the chandelier, placing himself closer to the dais.

“Rothskilder!”

No answer was forthcoming from beyond the door. The manservant had already run to obey his lord’s order.