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DO NOT READ THIS BOOK OF YOU DO NOT OWN/POSSES THE PHYSICAL

COPY. THAT IS STEALING FROM THE AUTHOR.

--------------------------------------------

Book Information:

Genre: Epic Fantasy

Author: James Clemens

Name: Wit’ch War

Series: Banned and the Banished 3

======================

Wit’ch War

Book 3 of the Banned and the Banished

-James Clemens

FOREWORD TO WITCH WAR

(NOTE: The following is an open letter from Professor J. P. Clemens, the translator of The Banned and the Banished series)

Dear Students,

As the historian of this textbook, I welcome you back to this series of translated texts and beg a moment of your time to comment on my work and some of the rumors surrounding it.

As is well known, the original scrolls were lost to antiquity, and only crumbling handwritten copies discovered over five centuries ago in caves on the Isle of Kell yet remain of this most ancient tale. Because this language has been dead for over a millennium, hundreds of historians and linguistic experts have attempted to tackle the reconstruction and translation of these Kelvish Scrolls. Yet under my supervision at the University of Da‘ Borau, a team of distinguished colleagues finally accomplished the impossible: the complete and truest translation of the tale of Elena Morin’stal.

In your hands is my life’s work. And I wanted to state that I believe my translations should stand on their own merits.

Yet, over my objections, my fellow scholar, Jir’rob Sordun, had been assigned to write forewords to the first two books, to warn readers about the devious nature of the scrolls’ original author.

Now were these doleful warnings truly necessary? As much as I respect Professor Sordun, I believe these ancient histories of Alasea’s “black age” do not need embellishments or extravagant introductions. Though this ancient age of our land is cloaked in mystery and muddled by conflicting accounts, any person of sound mind will know the tales herein are just the twisted fictions of some ancient madman. Do we really need Sordun to point this out to us? Let’s look to the facts.

What do we truly know of this “black age”? We know Elena was a true historical figure—there are too many contemporary references to deny this—but her role during the uprising against the Gul’gotha is obviously a whimsical tale. She was not a wit’ch. She did not have a fist stained with blood magicks. I wager that some charlatans had painted her hand crimson and propped her up as some anointed savior, milking the simple village folk of their hard-earned coppers. Among this troupe of tricksters was obviously a writer of some modest skill who created these wild stories to bolster their fake leader. I imagine he regaled the farmers with these fabrications, which he passed off as real events—and so the myth of the wit’ch was forged.

I can picture the gap-toothed farmers staring slack jawed as the story teller related tales of highland og’res, woodland nymphs, mountain nomads, and silver-haired elv’in. I can imagine their gasps as Elena wielded her magick of fire and ice. But surely in today’s enlightened Alasean society, there is no need to warn readers so vocally that such things are fictions.

So with that said, I must make one confession. As I translated these series of scrolls, I began to believe them just a bit. Who wouldn’t want to believe that a young girl from some remote apple orchard could end up changing the world? And what she accomplished at the end—what the author claimed occurred—who wouldn’t want to believe that to be true?

Of course, being a scholar, I know better. Nature is nature, and what the author proposes at the very end of the scrolls is obviously a falsehood that can only weaken our society. For this reason, I have also come to accept that my translations should be banned and kept only for the few enlightened, for those who won’t be duped by its final message.

However, even with these tight restrictions, I’ve begun to hear absurd rumors surrounding the required fingerprint that binds each text to its reader. It is whispered in certain circles that some readers— those who have marked each of the five textbooks with their fingerprints and bound the compiled series in silk ribbon, or so the story goes—have found themselves beguiled by ancient magicks that have reached out from my translated words. I believe the fault for this ridiculous notion lies with the university press that produces this series. The requirement to mark each of the five volumes with the print from a different finger of the right hand only fosters such foolishness. For a publisher to require such a thing, especially when the story in these books suggests that powerful magick can be wielded by a wit’ch’s hand, is downright negligent on the part of the publisher.

Though I am flattered at such supposed power behind my work, I can’t help but be shocked and befuddled by such blatant foolishness.

So perhaps I judge too harshly my illustrious colleague. Maybe it is best after all to warn all potential readers.

So let me repeat Jir’rob Sordun’s final word of caution as printed in the foreword to the first text: Remember, at all times,

in your waging hours and in your dreams,

The author is a liar.

Sincerely and humbly,

J. P. Clemens,

Professor of Ancient Histories

Assignation of Responsibility for the third scrott

This copy is being assigned to you and is your sole responsibility. Its loss, alteration, or destruction will result in severe penalties, as stated in your local ordinances. Any transmission, copying, or even oral reading in the presence of a nondassmate is strictly forbidden. By signing below and placing your fvnger-print, you accept all responsibility and release the university from any damage it may cause you— or those I aroundyou— by its perusal.

Signature

Date

Place inked print of the middle jmger of your right hand here:

*** WARNING ***

If you should perchance come upon this text outside of proper university channels, please close this book now and alert the I proper authorities for safe retrieval. Failure to do so can lead to your immediate arrest and incarceration.

TOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

WITCH WAR

Heralded by a dragon d roar

an? born in a maebtrom of ice and flame,

this is the way the war began.

Through my open window, I can hear the strum of a lyre’s chords and the tinkle of a minstrel’s voice rising like steam from the streets below. It is the height of the Midsummer Carnivale here in the city of Gelph. As the searing heat of the day winds down to the sultry hours of evening, townspeople gather in the square for the Feast of the Dragon, a time of merriment and rejoicing.

Yet I can’t help but frown at the gaiety of the celebrants. How much the fools have forgotten! Even now as I sit with pen and paper and prepare once again to continue the wit’ch’s tale, I can hear the screams of the slaughtered and the blood roar of dragons behind the music and happy voices outside my window.

The true meaning for this celebration has been lost over the ages. The first Midsummer Carnivale was a somber affair, meant to cheer the few survivors of the War of the Isles, a time for wounds to heal and for spirits torn by blade and betrayal to be restored. Even the meaning behind the ritual exchange of fake dragon’s teeth and baubles painted like precious black pearls has been forgotten by the present revelers. It was once meant to signify the bond between—

Ah… but I get ahead of myself. After so many centuries, with my head so full of memories, I seem constantly to find myself unhooked from time’s inevitable march. As I sit in this rented room, surrounded by my parchments and inks, it seems like only yesterday that Elena stood on the bluffs of Blisterberry and stared out across the twilight sea at her dragon army. Why is it that the older one gets, the more valuable the past becomes? What once I fled from is now

what I dream about. Is this the true curse that the wit’ch has set upon my soul? To live forever, yet to forever dream of the past?

As I pick up my pen and dip it in the ink, I pray her final promise to me holds true. Let me finally die with the telling of her tale.

Though the day’s heat still hides in my room as the evening cools, I close my window and my heart against the songs and merrymaking below. I cannot tell a tale of bloodshed and treachery while listening to the gay strains of the minstrels’ instruments and the raucous laughter of the Carnivale’s celebrants. This part of the story of Elena Morin’stal is best written with a cold heart.

So as the Feast of the Dragon begins outside among the streets of Gelph, I ask that you listen deeper. Can you hear another sort of music? As in many grand symphonies, the opening soft chords are often forgotten in the blare of the horn and the strike of the drum that follow; yet this forgetfulness does insult to the composer, for it is in these calm moments that the stage is set for the storm to come.

So listen and bend your ear—not to the lyre or the drums outside my window—but to the quieter music found in the beat of a morning surf as the tide recedes with the dawn’s first light. There lies the beginning of the grand song I mean to sing.

With only the crash of waves for company, Elena stood by the cliffs edge and stared out across the blue seas.

At the horizon, the sun was just dawning, crowning the distant islands of the Archipelago with rosy halos of mist. Closer to the coast, a single-masted fishing trawler fought the tide to ply its trade among the many isles and reefs. Over its sails, gulls and terns argued while hunting the same generous waters. Nearer still, at the base of the steep bluff, the rocky shore was already occupied by the lounging bodies of camping sea lions. The scolding barks of mothers to their pups and the occasional huffing roar of a territorial bull echoed up to her.

Sighing, Elena turned her back on the sight. Since the seadragons of the mer’ai had left fifteen days ago, the routines of the coastline were already returning to normal. Such was the resiliency of nature.

As if to remind her further of the natural world’s strength, a stiff morning breeze tugged at her hair, blowing it into her eyes. Irritated, she pushed back the waving strands with gloved fingers and attempted to trap the stray locks behind her ears, but the winds fought her efforts. It had been over two moons since Er’ril had last cropped her hair, and the length had grown to be a nuisance—too short to fix with ribbons and pins, yet too long to easily manage, especially with her hair beginning to show its curl again.

Still, she kept her complaints to herself, fearing Er’ril might take the shears to her once again.

She frowned at the thought. She was tired of looking like a boy.

Though she had readily accepted the necessity of the disguise while traveling the lands of Alasea, out here in the lonely wilds of the Blisterberry bluffs, there were no eyes to spy upon her and no need to continue the ruse as Er’ril’s son—or so she kept telling herself. Yet she was not so sure her guardian held these same assumptions.

As a caution, Elena had gone to wearing caps and hats when around Er’ril, hoping he wouldn’t notice the growing length of her locks or the fading black dye that had camouflaged her hair. The deep fire of her natural color was finally beginning to reappear at the roots.

She pulled out her cap from her belt and corralled her hair under it before hiking back up the coastal trail to the cottage. Why the appearance of her hair should matter so much to her she could not put into words. It was not mere vanity, though she could not deny that a pinch of pride did play a small role in her subterfuge with Er’ril. She was a young woman, after all, and why wouldn’t she balk at appearing as a boy?

But there was more to it than that. And the true reason was marching down the path toward her with a deep frown. Dressed in a wool sweater against the morning’s chill, her brother wore his fiery red hair pulled back from his face with a black leather strap. Reminded of her family by Joach’s presence, Elena was ashamed to hide her own heritage under dyes any longer. It was like denying her own parents.

As Joach closed the distance between them, Elena recognized the character of the young man’s exasperated grimace and his pained green eyes. She had seen it often enough on her father’s face.

“Aunt My has been looking all over for you,” he said as greeting. “My lessons!” Elena darted forward, closing the distance with her brother. “I’d almost forgotten.”

“Almost?” he teased as she joined him.

She scowled at her brother but could not argue against his accusation. In fact, she had completely forgotten about this morning’s lesson. It was to be her last instruction on the art of swordplay before Aunt Mycelle left for Port Rawl to rendezvous with the other half of their party. Krai, Tol’chuk, Mogweed, and Meric were due to meet with Mycelle there in two days’ time. Elena wondered for the hundredth time how they had fared in Shadowbrook. She prayed they were all well.

j’ts she and her brother marched back up the trail toward the cot-2e Joach mumbled, “El, your head’s always in the clouds.” She turned in irritation, then saw her brother’s quirked smile. Those were the same words her father had used so often to scold Flena when time had slipped away from her. She took her brother’s hand in her own. Here was all that was left of her family now.

Joach squeezed her gloved hand, and they walked in silence through the fringe forest of wind-whipped cypress and pine. As Flint’s cottage appeared on the bluffs ahead, Joach cleared his throat. “El, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

“Hmm?”

“When you go to the island…” he started.

Elena inwardly groaned. She did not want to think of the last leg of their journey to retrieve the Blood Diary from the island of A’loa Glen—especially given Joach’s own accounting of the horrors that lay in wait.

“I’d like to go back with you. To the island.” Elena stumbled a step. “You know that’s not possible. You heard Er’ril’s plan, Joach.”

“Yes, but a word from you—”

“No,” she said. “There’s no reason for you to go.” With a touch on her arm, Joach pulled her to a stop. “El, I know you want to keep me from further danger, but I have to go back.” Shaking free of his hand, she stared him in the eye. “Why? Why do you think you need to go? To protect me?”

“No, I’m no fool.” Joach stared at his feet. He still would not meet her gaze. “But I had a dream,” he whispered. “A dream that has repeated twice over the past half moon since you arrived from the swamps.” She stared at her brother. “You think it’s one of your weavings?”

“I think so.” He finally raised his eyes to hers, a slight blush on his cheeks. Joach had discovered he shared their family’s heritage of elemental magicks. His skill was dreamweaving, a lost art preserved by only a select few of the Brotherhood. It was the ability to glimpse snatches of future events in the dream plane.

Brother Flint and Brother Moris had been working with Joach on testing the level of his magick. Joach nodded toward the cottage ahead. “I haven’t told anyone else.”

“Maybe it’s just an ordinary dream,” Elena offered. But the part of her that was a wit’ch stirred with her brother’s words. Magic’t. Even the mere mention of it fired her blood. With both her fists fresh to the Rose, the magick all but sang in her heart. Swallowing hard, she closed her spirit against the call of the wit’ch. “What made you think it was a weaving?” Joach scrunched up his face. “I… I get this feeling when I’m in a weaving. It’s like a thrill in my veins, like my very being is afire with an inner storm. I felt it during this dream.” An inner storm, Elena thought. She knew that sensation when she touched her own wild magick—a raging tempest trapped in her heart screaming with pent-up energy. She found her two hands wringing together with just the remembrance of past flows of raw magick. She forced her hands apart. “Tell me about your dream.” Joach bit his lower lip, suddenly reluctant. “Go on,” Elena persisted.

His voice lowered. “I saw you at the top of a tall spire in A’loa Glen. A black winged beast circled the parapets nearby—”

“Black winged? Was it the dragon Ragnar’k?” Elena asked, naming the ebony-scaled seadragon who shared flesh with the Blood-rider, Kast, and who was blood-bonded to the mer woman, Sy-wen. Joach’s fingers wandered to an ivory dragon’s tooth that hung from a cord around his neck; it had been a gift from Sy-wen. “No, this was no dragon.” His hands fought to describe the figure, but he gave up with an exasperated shrug of his shoulders. “It was something more shadow than flesh. But that’s not the important part of the dream. You see…” His voice died, and his eyes drifted away to stare out at the ocean. Her brother was hiding something from her, something that scared him deeply.

Elena licked her dry lips, suddenly wondering if she truly wanted to know the answer. “What is it, Joach?”

“You were not alone on the tower.”

“Who else was there?”

He turned back to her. “I was. I stood beside you bearing the poi‘-wood staff I stole from the darkmage.

When the creature dove toward us, I raised the staff and smote the creature from the sky with a spellcast bolt.”

“Well, that proves it was only a nightmare. You’re no practitioner of the black arts. You’re just dreaming that I need your protection. It’s

hably worry and fear that ‘thrilled’ your blood in the dream, not Saving magicks.“

prowning, Joach shook his head. “Truthfully, after the first dream, posed the same. Papa’s last words to me were to protect you,

i tnat has weighed heavily on my heart ever since. But when the , m came to me again, I was no longer so sure. After the second dream yesterday, I crept out at midnight—out here alone—and I… T sooke the spell from the dream while holding the staff.“

Elena had a sick feeling in the root of her stomach. “Joach… ?” He pointed behind her. Elena turned. Only a handful of steps away stood a lightning-split pine, its bark charred and its limbs cracked. “The spell from my dream worked.” Elena stared with her eyes wide, suddenly weak in her legs, not just from the thought that Joach’s dream might be real, but also from the fact that Joach had called forth black magicks. She shivered. “We must tell the others,” she said in hushed tones. “Er’ril must be warned of this.“

“No,” he said. “There’s still more. It’s the reason I’ve kept silent until now.“

“What?”

“In my dream, after I smote the beast from the sky, Er’ril appeared from the depths of the tower, sword in hand. He ran at us, and I swung the staff toward him and… and I killed him, like the beast, in a blaze of darkfire.”

“Joach!”

Her brother could not be interrupted; the words tumbled from his mouth in a rush. “In the dream, I knew he meant you harm. There was murder in his eyes. I had no choice.” Joach turned pained eyes toward her. “If I don’t go with you, Er’ril will kill you. I know it!”

Elena swung away from Joach’s impossible words. Er’ril would never harm her. He had protected her across all the lands of Alasea. Joach had to be wrong. Still, she found her eyes staring at the charred ruin of the nearby pine. Joach’s black spell—a spell he learned in a dream—had worked.

Her brother spoke behind her. “Keep what I’ve told you secret, Elena. Do not trust Er’ril.“

Not far away, Er’ril woke with a start from his own trouble^ dreams. Nightmares of poisonous spiders and dead children chased him from his slumber. They left him restless and sore of muscle, as if he had held himself clenched all night long. He tossed aside the blanket and carefully eased himself from the goose-down bed.

Naked chested, dressed only in his linen underclothes, he shivered in the chill of the early morning coast.

Summer waned toward autumn, and though the days still warmed to a moist heat, the mornings already whispered of the cold moons ahead. Barefooted, Er’ril crossed the slate floor to the washbasin and the small silvered mirror hanging on the wall behind it. He splashed cool water on his face as if to wash away the cobwebs of the night’s dreams.

He had lived so many winters that his nights were always crowded with memories demanding his attention.

Straightening up, he stared at the black-stubbled planes that were his Standi heritage. His gray eyes stared back at him from a face he no longer knew. How could such a young face hide so completely the old man inside?

He ran his one hand over the boyish features. Though he looked outwardly the same, he often wondered if his own long-dead father would recognize the man in the mirror now. The five centuries of winters had marked him in ways other than the usual graying hair or wrinkled skin. He let his fingers drift over the smooth scar on his empty shoulder. No… time marked men in many ways.

Suddenly a voice rose from the corner of the room. “If you’re done admiring yourself, Er’ril, maybe we can get this day started.”

Er’ril knew the voice and did not startle. He merely turned and stepped to the chamber pail. He ignored the grizzled gray man seated in the thick pillowed chair in the shadowed corner. While relieving himself of his morning’s water, Er’ril spoke. “Flint, if you’d wanted me up earlier, you had merely to wake me.”

“From the grumbling and thrashing as you slept, I figured it best to let you work out whatever troubled your slumber without interruption.”

“Then you had best let me sleep another decade or two,” he answered sourly.

“Yes, yes. Poor Er’ril, the wandering knight. The eternal warden of A’loa Glen.” Flint nodded toward his old legs. “Let your joints grow as hoary as mine, and we’ll see who complains the louder.” p ‘ril made a scoffing sound at his words. Even without magick, had eroded little of that older Brother’s strength of limb; in-i pint’s many winters spent on the sea had hardened his frame , storm-swept oak. “The day you slow down, old man, is the I will hang up my own sword.”

“W ll h b

y I will hang up my own sword.

Flint sighed. “We all have our burdens to haul, Er’ril. So if you’re i ne feeling miserable, the morning is half over, and we still have the Seastvift to outfit for the coming voyage.”

“I’m well aware of the day’s schedule,” Er’ril said bitingly as he dressed. His night’s disturbed rest had left him short-tempered, and Flint’s tongue was rubbing him especially raw this morning.

The Brother sensed Er’ril’s irritation and softened his tone. “I know you’ve borne a lot, Er’ril, what with hauling that lass across all the lands of Alasea while pursued by the hunters of the Gul’gotha. But if we are to ever free ourselves of that bastard’s yoke, we cannot let our own despair weigh down our spirits. On the path ahead, the Dark Lord will give us plenty to plague our hearts, without the need to look to the past for more.”

Er’ril nodded his assent. He clapped the old man on the shoulder as he passed to the oak wardrobe in the corner. “How did you grow so wise among these pirates and cutthroats of the Archipelago, old man?“

Flint grinned, fingering his silver earring. “Among pirates and cutthroats, only the wise reach a ripe ol‘ age.“

Retrieving his clothes, Er’ril pulled on his pants and began working his shirt over his head. With only one arm, the chore of dressing was always a struggle. After so many centuries, time had not made some things easier. Finally, red faced, he accomplished his task and tucked his shirt in place. “Any word from Sy-wen?” he finally said, searching for his boots. “No, not yet.”

Er’ril raised his eyes at the worried tone in the old Brother’s voice. Flint had grown protective of the small mer’ai girl since plucking her from the sea. Sy-wen, along with the mer’ai army, had been sent to the oceans south of the Blasted Shoals in search of the Dre’rendi fleet. Also named “Bloodriders,” the Dre’rendi fleet were the crudest of the dreaded Shoal’s pirates. But old oaths bound the mer’ai and the Dre’rendi, and Flint hoped to gain the Bloodriders’ aid in the war to come.

Flint continued. “All I hear from my spies upon the seas is foul rn_ mors of A’loa Glen. Perpetual black clouds cloak the island, sudden vicious squalls beat back boats, storm winds scream with the cries of tortured souls. Even farther out from the island now, trawlin» nets are pulling up strange pale creatures never seen before, beasts of twisted shapes and poisoned spines. Others whisper of flocks of winged demons seen far overhead—”

“SkaPtum,” Er’ril spat, his voice strained with tension as he picked up one of his leather boots. “My brother gathers an army of dreadlords to him.”

Flint leaned forward and patted the plainsman’s knee as Er’ril sat down on the bed. “That creature masquerading as the Praetor of A’loa Glen is not your brother any longer, Er’ril. It is only a cruel illusion.

Put such thoughts aside.”

Er’ril could not. He pictured the night five centuries ago when the Blood Diary had been bound in magick.

That night, all that was just and noble in his brother Shorkan and the mage Greshym had gone into forging the cursed tome. But all that remained of the two—the corrupt and foul dregs of spirit—had been given to the Black Heart, to use as pawns in the Dark Lord’s dire plans. Er’ril’s jaws clenched. Someday he would destroy the foulness that walked in the shape of his beloved brother.

Flint cleared his throat, drawing Er’ril back to the present. “But that is not all I have heard. Word from down the coast reached me this morning by pigeon. It’s why I came to fetch you from your bed.”

“What is it?” Er’ril worked his boots on, his brow dark. “More dire news, I’m afraid. Yesterday, a small fleet of hunting boats put in at Port Rawl, but the fishermen on board had been corrupted. The men were like wild dogs, attacking townsfolk, biting, slashing, raping. It took the entire garrison to fend them off.

Though most of the berserkers were killed, one of the cursed ships managed to break anchor and escape, carrying off several women and a few children.”

Er’ril laced his boots, his voice strained. “Black magick. Perhaps a spell of influence. I’ve seen its like before… long ago.”

“No, I know the magick you speak of. What was done to these fishermen was worse than a simple spell.

Ordinary wounds would not kill these berserkers. Only decapitation would end their blood lust.” gr’ril glanced up, his eyes hooded with concern. “A healer examined the slain and discovered a thumb-sized hole bored into the base of each skull. Cracking the skulls open revealed a SITiall tentacled creature curled inside. A few of the beasts were still alive* squirming and writhing. After that horrible discovery, the carcasses of the dead were immediately burned on the stone docks.”

“Sweet Mother,” Er’ril said sullenly, “how many new horrors can the Black Heart birth?” Flint shrugged. “The entire town reeks of charred flesh. It has the townsfolk edgy and jumping at shadows.

And in a town as rough as Port Rawl, that’s a dangerous mix. Mycelle’s journey there to search for your friends will be fraught with risk.”

Er’ril worked silently as he finished tying his boots. He pondered the news, then spoke. “Mycelle knows how to take care of herself. But this news makes me worry if perhaps we shouldn’t set sail on the Seaswift earlier than planned.” He straightened to meet Flint’s eyes. “If the evil of A’loa Glen has reached all the way to the coast, perhaps it’s best to leave now.”

“I’ve had similar thoughts. But if you want your friends to rejoin you, I see us leaving no earlier than the new moon. Besides, it’ll take at least until then to man and outfit the Seaswift, and who can say if the seas will be any safer than where we are right now?”

Er’ril stood up. “Still I don’t like just sitting here idle, waiting for the Dark Lord to reach out for us.” Flint held up a hand. “But if we rush, we may find ourselves placing Elena right into his foul grip. I say we stick to our plan. Sail at the new moon, and rendezvous with the mer’ai army in the Doldrums at the appointed day. With the growing menace at A’loa Glen, we must give Sy-wen and Kast time to reach the Dre’rendi fleet and see if their old oaths will be honored. We need their strength.” Er’ril shook his head.

“There is no honor among those pirates.” Flint scowled. “Kast is a Bloodrider. Though he now shares his spirit with the dragon Ragnar’k, he was always a man of honor, and his people, worn hard by storms and bloodshed, know the importance of duty and ancient debts.”

Er’ril still doubted the wisdom of the plan. “It’s like putting a wolf at our back when facing the Dark Lord’s army.”

“Perhaps. But if we’re to succeed, any teeth that can rip into the flank of our enemy should be welcome.” Er’ril sighed and combed his stubborn hair into order with his fingers. “Fine. We’ll give Sy-wen and Kast until the new moon. But whether we hear word from them or not, we sail.” Flint nodded and stood. With the matter decided, he fished his pipe from a pocket. “Enough talk,” he grumbled. “Let’s find a hot taper and welcome the morning with a bit of smoke.”

“Ah, once again proof of your wisdom,” Er’ril said. A smoke sounded like a perfect way to set aside the foul start of the morning. He followed willingly after the grizzled Brother.

Once they reached the kitchen, Er’ril heard a familiar scolding voice echo through the open window next to the cooking hearth. The shouted complaints were accompanied by the occasional clash of steel. Apparently, the swordswoman, Mycelle, was finding her pupil’s last lesson to be less than exemplary.

It seemed everyone was having a sour morning.

Mycelle batted Elena’s short sword aside. Then with the flick of a wrist, she sent her pupil’s blade flying through the air. Stunned, Elena watched the small blade flip end over end across the yard. The move was so swift that Elena’s gloved hand was still aloft as if bearing her sword. Elena slowly lowered her arm, her cheeks red.

The swordswoman gave her pupil a sorrowful shake of her head, fists resting on her hips. Mycelle stood as tall as most men and as broad of shoulder. Her coarse blond hair hung in a thick braid to her waist. Dressed in leathers and steel, she was a formidable swordswoman. “Fetch your sword, child.”

“Sorry, Aunt My,” Elena said, chagrined. Mycelle was not truly Elena’s blood relative, but the woman had been as much a part of her life as any real relations. The woman’s true bloodlines traced back to the shape-shifters of the Western Reaches, the si’lura. But Mycelle had given up her birthright long ago when fate and circumstance had convinced her to “settle” into human form, abandoning forever her ability to shift.

“Where’s your mind at this morning, girl?”

Elena hurried over to her vagrant sword and grabbed its hilt. She knew the answer to her aunt’s exasperated question. Her mind was still on Joach’s earlier words, not on the dance of blades. Returning to her position, Elena held the sword at ready.

“We’ll try the Scarecrow’s Feint again. It’s a simple move, but when mastered, it’s one of the most effective methods to lure an opponent to drop his guard.”

Nodding, Elena tried to push back the nagging doubts that Joach had raised in her mind—but she failed. She could not imagine Er’ril ever betraying her. The Standi plainsman had been steadfast in his loyalty to both Elena and the quest. They had shared many a long afternoon together, heads bowed in study, as she learned simple manipulations of her power. But beyond their words and lessons, there was a deeper bond unspoken between them. Through sidelong glances, she occasionally caught the trace of a proud smile on his usually dour features as she concentrated on some aspect of her arcane arts. And other times, though his lips were frowning at some mistake of hers, she spied an amused glint in his gray eyes. Though he was a complex man, Elena suspected she knew his heart. He was a true knight in spirit as well as word. He would never betray her.

Suddenly Elena’s fingers stung with fire, and she found herself again staring at an empty glove.

“Child,” her aunt said in a tone that bordered on fury, “if your attention is not on this lesson, I could be saddling my mount for the journey to Port Rawl.”

“I’m sorry, Aunt My.” She crossed once again to her fallen sword. “Magick is unpredictable, Elena, but a well-oiled sword will never lose its edge when you need it. Remember that. You must become proficient at both. Once skilled in magick and sword, you will be a two-edged weapon. Harder to stop, harder to kill.

Remember, child, where magick fails, a sword prevails.”

“Yes, Aunt My,” Elena said dutifully. She had heard it all before. She raised the sword and cast aside any further doubts about Er’ril.

Mycelle approached across the packed dirt of the yard, feet poised, sword balanced easily in her left hand.

Her aunt’s other sword was still sheathed in one of the crossed scabbards on her back. When armed with both her twin swords, Mycelle was a demon of steel and

muscle.

Still, her aunt’s single sword was threat enough. Elena barely managed to stop a sudden feint and parry, and her aunt’s follow-up thrust tipped Elena off balance. The girl struggled to keep upright, determined to show Mycelle that the fortnight of lessons had not been for naught.

Her aunt continued her furious assault. Elena dragged her sword up to block the next thrust. Mycelle’s blade sang down the length of her pupil’s steel to strike the sword’s guard with a resounding blow. Every bone in Elena’s hand felt the impact, her fingers numbing.

Elena watched Mycelle’s wrist flick, a move meant to disarm her once more. Biting back her frustration, Elena forced her weak fingers to match her aunt’s movement just in time, catching the edge of Mycelle’s weapon across the meat of her thumb. Elena felt the blade slice through glove and skin, stinging like the bite of a wasp.

Ignoring the minor cut, Elena kept her sword up as Mycelle retreated a step before her next assault. “Very good, ch—” Mycelle started to say when Elena brought the attack back to the master, taking the offensive for the first time.

Elena’s blood suddenly sang with energies flowing from her wound. Holding her magick in check, Elena fought with renewed vigor. If her aunt wanted her to be a two-edged sword, so be it! Magick and steel now mixed in her blood.

Mycelle tested Elena’s mettle for a few strikes, clearly surprised with her pupil’s sudden skill and daring.

Then the master set to break the pupil’s attack and force her back to a more defensive posture.

Elena met each attack with a blow of her own. Steel rang clear across the yard. Elena, for the briefest twinkling, felt the true rhythm of the dance. For a crystalline moment, nothing else mattered in the world. It was a battle of perfect clarity, a poem of motion and synchronization. And behind it all, her wild magick sang in chorus.

Elena finished with a double feint and dropped her sword’s point. She saw her aunt hesitate, then follow the bait. Elena turned her wrist and spun her sword’s tip, trapping the other’s blade at the guard. Elena flicked her wrist. In a flash of steel, it was over.

An empty hand was now raised between them—but not Elena’s this time.

Mycelle lowered her outstretched arm, shaking the sting from her wrist. Her aunt bowed her head ever so slightly. “Elena, that was the most perfect Scarecrow Feint that I’ve ever had the pleasure of witnessing.

Even while knowing you were doing it, I couldn’t resist.”

Elena grinned foolishly at her aunt’s praise. Sudden clapping brought her attention to the others who had gathered at the sound of the clanging blades. Er’ril stood with Brother Flint in the rear doorway to the cottage. Both men’s eyes were wide with appreciation. Even Joach stood speechless near the woodpile. “Good show, El!” he finally blurted as the clapping subsided.

At her brother’s feet crouched Fardale, the si’luran shape-shifter in his wolf form, his black fur showing its rust and copper highlights in the bright sunshine. He must have just come back from his usual morning hunt for rabbit and meadow mice. He barked his consent to the others’ praise and sent a brief image in a flash of amber eyes: A wolf pup wrestles its littermate to become pac’t leader.

Elena accepted their praise while keeping a firm grip on her sword’s hilt. The siren’s song of her magick still rang in her ears, almost drowning out the others. “Again,” Elena said lustily to Mycelle.

“I think this is a good place to stop,” Mycelle said with a small laugh. “When I get back from Port Rawl, we’ll take your lessons to

the next level.“

Elena had to bite her lip to keep from begging for more. Magick had flamed her blood and urged her to continue. Elena felt ready to take on a battalion of swordsmen.

“Elena, you’re bleeding,” Joach suddenly said. “Your hand.” Elena glanced down. Thick red drops of blood rolled from her sliced thumb and slid down the length of her lowered blade. She pulled her hand from the eyes of the others. “It’s just a scratch. I didn’t even notice it.” Er’ril crossed over to her. “Those are the most dangerous injuries— the ones you ignore as minor. Let me see.”

Reluctantly, Elena passed her sword to her aunt, then pulled free her fouled glove, unsheathing her true weapon. Rich with wild mag-icks, ruby whorls slowly spun across the skin of her hand.

Er’ril held her palm and examined the thin slice. “Just the skin. No muscle. Let’s get inside, and we’ll clean it up and bandage it.”

Elena nodded and followed the plainsman into the kitchen. Seated on a stool, she endured his ministrations quietly. He pressed a dab of sweetwort ointment to the wound, but even now her thumb was beginning to heal, her flow of magick knitting the wound together.

For a heartbeat, Er’ril studied the healing cut with narrowed eyes, then put a light wrap over it. By this time, the others had finished with their congratulations and had left to finish various chores of the day, leaving the two of them alone.

“With the bandage, you’ll not be able to wear a glove for a few IT CH vv A K

days,“ Er’ril mumbled. Even with only one hand, he skillfully secured her wrap with a final snug pull, then sat back on his heels to stare her in the eyes. ”Pass me your other glove.“

“Why? I didn’t injure that hand.”

“Your glove.” He held out his palm, his eyes suddenly dark.

Elena slowly slid her left hand free of the lambskin glove. She passed it to him, keeping her hand hidden.

“Show me.”

“I don’t see what—”

“Your sword cut was already healing. That only happens when you’ve touched your magick.” Iron entered his voice. “Now show me both of your hands.”

She would not meet his eyes as she reluctantly displayed her palms on her lap. She stared at the twin ruby hands. They were no longer mirror images of one another. Her right hand—her sword hand— was slightly less rich in whorling dark dyes. The magick spent during the swordplay had slightly drained the full richness of the ruby color. In the sunlight streaming through the window, her subterfuge was plain. Elena had used magick against Mycelle to sharpen her swordsmanship against her teacher.

“It’s called a blood sword,” Er’ril said tiredly. “A form of magick that I wish you’d never learned.” Elena pulled away her hands back from his scrutiny. “Why? It cost only a trace of magick.” Placing a hand on her knee, Er’ril moved closer to her. “It costs much more than that. I saw it in your eyes.

You didn’t want it to stop. In my time, mages also heard the siren’s call of wild magicks. But it was only darkmages who heeded the cry without care for the harm it might cause.” He nodded toward her two hands. “And you are doubly marked. I can only imagine how fierce this call must be in your blood. You must fight its temptation.”

“I understand,” Elena said. Since first using her magick, the song of the wit’ch had been a constant melody.

She knew the danger in listening too closely and resisted the wit’ch in her, never relinquishing the woman. It was a fine line she walked. Over the past year, she had learned the art and importance of balance.

“That’s why a blood sword is so dangerous,” Er’ril continued. “You offer the magick a tool by which to escape your control. With enough blood, the sword itself becomes host to your magick—

almost a living thing, a wild thing. It has no conscience, no morals, only an insatiable blood lust. It will eventually overwhelm its user. Only the strongest mage can master a blood sword and tame its will.“

Elena listened with horror at what she had almost done. “But that is not the worst,” Er’ril said. “Once fully blooded, the sword is forged forever. The magick fuses permanently with the steel. It can then be borne by anyone, and its magic-wrought skill is available to any wielder. There were tales of darkmages passing blood swords to ordinary men and women, people unable to resist the magick’s call. They quickly became enthralled to the swords, slaves to their blood lust.”

Elena’s face paled. “What happened to them?”

“These swordslaves, as they were named, were hunted down and killed, and the blades were melted to raw ore, driving off the twisted magick. It cost many lives. So beware what you so casually forge, Elena. It may cause more sorrow than you can fathom.”

Elena slipped her one glove back on and fingered the wrap on the other hand. With her wound bandaged and healing, the call of the wit’ch subsided. “I’ll be more cautious. I promise.” Er’ril studied her a moment as if testing her sincerity. Satisfied with whatever he saw, his eyes softened their stern glint. “One other item, Elena. About that final exchange with your aunt, blood sword or not, it was not all magick that guided your arm. You’ve grown in skill.” His voice grew firmer. “Never forget that there is a strength in you that has nothing to do with blood magicks.” His quiet words, more than all the boisterous exclamations of the others, touched her deeply. Sudden tears welled up in her eyes.

Er’ril stood up, seeming to sense her emotions, and grew quickly awkward. “I must be going. The sun is already high, and I promised Flint to take a look at the Seastvift’s outfitting. If we are to leave with the new moon, there is still much to be done.”

She nodded and scooted off her stool. “Er’ril,” she said, sniffing a bit and forcing his eyes back to hers.

“Thanks. Not just for this—” She raised her bandaged hand. “—but for everything. I don’t think I’ve actually told you how much you’ve come to mean to me.”

Er’ril’s cheeks colored, and his eyes were suddenly shy. “It’s… I…” He cleared his throat, and his voice grew hoarse as he stumbled out of the room. “You need not thank me. It’s my duty.” Elena stared at his back as he strode away.

Whether Joach’s dream was prophetic or not, Er’ril was a knight she could never mistrust. Never.

By the time Mycelle was ready to leave for the coastal city of Port Rawl, the afternoon sun had warmed the bluffs to a moist heat. Clothes clung to damp skin, and a shimmering glare shone off the ocean. Mycelle was anxious to be under way, cinching her saddle one final time and adjusting her packs.

Squinting and shading her eyes, Mycelle turned to the group gathered to bid her fair travels. Living mostly a solitary life, Mycelle did not care for these emotional partings. Sighing and determined to finish it quickly, she crossed to Elena and gave her niece a brief but firm hug. “Practice while I am away,” she said. “I expect you to perfect your Feather Parry by the time I’m back.”

“I will, Aunt My.”

Elena seemed to want to say more, but Mycelle crossed to Er’ril. “Watch after my niece, plainsman. A storm is growing, and I’m trusting you to shelter her.”

“Always,” Er’ril said with a terse nod. “And you watch your own step in Port Rawl. You’ve heard Flint’s news.”

She nodded. “I’m familiar with Swamptown,” she answered, using the nickname of the port city.

Landlocked by vicious swamps and guarded from the sea by the tricky currents of the thousand isles of the nearby Archipelago, the town was a haven for those who skirted the law. Governed by a corrupt and cruel caste system, justice was an obscene word in Swamptown. Only one rule was obeyed by all in Port Rawl: Guard your bac’t .

Before she could turn away, Er’ril stopped her. “Are you sure you’ll know if any of the others have been corrupted by the Dark Lord?”

“For the thousandth time, yes!” she said in surly tones, ready to be off. “Trust my talent! My elemental sense will judge if they are tainted by black magick. I am a seeker. It is what I do.” She scowled at the plainsman.

Er’ril bridled against the sudden anger.

Elena spoke in the plainsman’s defense. “Er’ril is just being cautious, Aunt My. If one of them has become an ill’guard—”

“I will kill him myself,” she said, turning away and ending the discussion. She knew her duty. For hundreds of years, the Black Heart had been twisting the pure elemental magicks in innocent folk, creating an army of loathsome ill’guard. In Port Rawl, Mycelle would search for their other mates—Krai, Mogweed, Meric, and her own son, Tol’chuk. She would judge if any of the four had been twisted by black magicks. Only if they were all clean would she reveal Elena’s hidden location. If not… She settled her crossed scabbards more firmly in place. She would deal with that problem, too. But in her mind’s eye, she pictured her son’s craggy face. Even though half-bred with si’luran blood, he had grown to appear much like his og’re father.

Could she slay her own son if he had been corrupted ?

Mycelle put aside those worries for now. There was one last member of their party who still awaited a farewell.

Joach stood nearby, shifting his feet, the black poi’wood staff clutched in one fist. Mycelle frowned at the scrap of gnarled wood. Over the past few days, the boy seemed to be always carrying the foul talisman.

She crossed to her nephew and hugged him quickly, avoiding the touch of the staff. Mycelle’s skin crawled whenever she neared it, and she did not like Joach’s newfound fascination with the talisman. “You’d best keep that… that thing out of sight,” she said with a nod. “It’s bad luck.” Joach moved the staff back from her. “But it’s a trophy from our victory over the darkmage Greshym.

How is that bad luck?”

“It just is.” Scowling, she turned back to her mount, a piebald gelding with nervous eyes.

Well to the side of the horse, her companion on the journey ahead sat on his haunches, trying to keep his wolf scent from spooking her mount. Still, the piebald danced slightly as Mycelle approached, clearly anxious about its proximity to a huge treewolf. Mycelle pulled the lead taut. “That’s enough now. Settle down.” Since Fardale was coming along, the horse needed to get accustomed to the wolf’s presence.

Fardale stretched and stood, clearly indicating his readiness to depart. Amusement shone in the slitted amber eyes that marked his

true heritage as a shape-shifter. Though Mycelle had settled into human form voluntarily, forsaking her blood right forever, Fardale had had the choice stolen from him. It was a curse that had trapped Fardale in his current shape and his twin brother, Mogweed, in human form. They had ventured forth from the forests of the Western Reaches in search of a cure for their affliction, becoming entangled with the wit’ch on their way to A’loa Glen.

It seemed everyone, for varied reasons, was being drawn to the sunken island city.

Mycelle mounted the saddle and twisted to face the others. “If all is well, I should be back before the new moon. If not…” She shrugged and turned to face the road ahead. There was no reason to finish her sentence: If she was not back within six days, she would either be captured or dead.

“Be careful, Aunt My!” Elena called behind her.

She raised a hand in salute. Then, with a click of her tongue, she nudged the gelding down the coast road.

The wolf trotted a few horse lengths to the side, passing through the meadow grass like a shadowed shark in a green sea. Mycelle did not look back at the others.

Soon horse and wolf passed around a high bluff, and the cottage was out of sight. Mycelle relaxed her shoulders slightly. The road was her true home. With the wolf trotting well to the side, it was easy to imagine herself alone. For most of her life, she had traveled the lands of Alasea, searching the countryside for those rare folk gifted with elemental magicks. It was a harsh, lonely life, but one to which she had grown well accustomed. A sword and a horse were enough companionship for her.

Putting aside her worries, she let the horse’s easy, rolling gait lull her, settling into her old routine. The wagon-rutted road wove in and out of groves of cypress and pine. Occasionally small herds of tiny red deer darted away from their approach. Otherwise, the road remained empty.

Her plan was to reach the seaside hamlet of Graymarsh before dark. From there, it was an easy day’s journey to Port Rawl.

As they traveled, the day wore on in easy strides. The roads remained empty, and the afternoon grew more pleasant as the midday heat faded to twilight breezes. Sooner than she had expected, the sun neared the horizon, and if her map was accurate, she suspected

Graymarsh was only another league or two ahead. They had made good time that day.

Around them, the bluffs became more forested, and the hills became a little steeper. Suddenly a low growl from the wolf arose to the left of her path. Fardale came racing back to the road. Mycelle pulled her gelding to a stop. The si’luran wolf could speak to other shape-shifters mind to mind through locked gazes; but since Mycelle had settled in human form, she could no longer communicate in this manner. The only human she knew who could speak the si’luran tongue was Elena—another gift of the child’s blood magicks.

The wolf growled again and turned to stare ahead down the forest road.

“Is someone coming?” Mycelle asked.

The wolf nodded his head.

“Danger?”

Fardale whined warily. He was not sure, but he warned her to be careful.

Mycelle clucked her tongue to the horse and tapped the mount forward. She shifted so that the crossed scabbards on her back were free and the two sword hilts within easy reach. The wolf disappeared back into the wood. Fardale would stay hidden to attack if any threat arose, using the element of surprise. From the corner of her eye, Mycelle searched for any sign of the wolf. Earlier, she had easily been able to spot his dappled form trailing beside her, but now it was as if the huge treewolf had simply vanished. Not a twig snapped; not a shadow moved.

Mycelle began to hear a soft singing from up ahead. She edged her gelding around a curve in the rutted road. The trees grew denser, and the road ran straight for a good span. The singer stood to the right of the trail, half shadowed by the thick limbs of an old wind-carved cypress. The fellow traveler gave no acknowledgment of My-celle’s appearance and kept quietly singing an old ballad in an unknown language.

Wrapped in a motley cloak, seemingly sewn as a patchwork from rags, it was impossible to tell if the stranger was a man or a woman. Mycelle searched the surrounding woods. There was no sign of any others. As Mycelle slowly approached, clopping along on the packed dirt of the road, the singer’s song changed rhythm so subtly as almost to add the cadence of the horse’s hooves to the music.

Once near enough, Mycelle raised up an arm in greeting, empty palm open, offering no threat. The singer still did not acknowledge her, just continued the haunting melody.

Now closer, Mycelle should have been able to tell what manner of traveler this was: man or woman, young or old, threat or friend. Still, the hood of the patchwork cloak hid the singer’s face. Not a speck of skin showed from beneath the motley attire.

“Ho, traveler,” Mycelle said. “What news of the road ahead?” This was a standard roadside greeting from across almost all the lands of Alasea. It was an offer to share tidings of the land and swap both information and wares.

Still, the singer continued the song. But now the measure of the melody changed. It slowed and faded as if the voice drifted far from here. Yet, oddly, the effect of the music grew stronger in Mycelle. She seemed drawn to each fading note and strained for meaning behind the foreign words. Just as the song finally finished, Mycelle would have sworn she made out three whispered words there at the end: “See^ my children

…”

Squinting her confusion, Mycelle drew nearer. Had she truly heard those words, or was it a trick of her own mind?

Mycelle pulled her horse even with the stranger, meaning to query the singer further. What had the stranger been trying to tell her? As her horse drew to a stop, the stranger vanished with her song. The patchwork cloak collapsed to the forest floor, as if the singer had never existed. And what Mycelle had thought was a mantle made from quilted rags was now seen to be just gathered leaves of various hues, a patchwork of autumn foliage and spring greenery.

A sudden ocean breeze gusted through the wood and scattered the leaves out onto the path. What manner of magick was this?

Needing some proof that she had not slipped off into some world of phantoms, Mycelle called out.

“Fardale!”

The wolf proved his worth and appeared at her side, solid in muscle and dark fur. Mycelle climbed down from her horse, and the two of them sorted through the scattered leaves. Mycelle picked up a few: mountain oak, northern alder, western maple. Such trees grew nowhere near these lands. She let the strange leaves flutter from her fingers.

Nearby, Fardale nosed through the pile and worried something forth from the heart of the leafy mound. He rolled it out onto the

road. Staring at it with his head cocked to the side, an odd mournful whine escaped his throat.

“What is it?” she asked, bending to inspect Fardale’s discovery. She could not fathom what had so upset the wolf. It was just a plain thumb-sized nut, much like many others found commonly littering forests. This one, though, had sprouted a tiny green shoot.

Fardale gently picked up his treasure in his jaws and held it out toward Mycelle. She opened her palm to accept it. The wolf then nosed her pocket, indicating he wanted her to keep it safe.

Perplexed at his odd behavior, Mycelle did what he asked, and with a final frown she remounted her horse.

Tapping her gelding forward, she continued down the road and wondered about the pinch of magick demonstrated here. She had sensed no evil in the apparition, no touch of black magick. So what did it mean? She shook her head and dismissed it for now. She had a mission to finish and no time to dwell on this mystery. As she continued toward the hamlet of Graymarsh, Fardale followed, but Mycelle noted that he kept glancing back down the path toward where the singer had stood.

Frowning at the wolf’s behavior, she patted her pocket and felt the hard, firm nut. What was so important about an ordinary acorn?

The sixth drak’il slid from the surf and crawled across the still-warm sand of the midnight beach. With the sun long set, there were no eyes to watch as the last of the drak’ils joined the five others on the narrow strand between sea and cliff. He stood upon his clawed rear legs and stretched to his full height. Only slightly taller than their goblin brothers, the sea-dwelling drak’ils were a distant relation to their underground brethren, choosing instead to live among the sea caves of the remote Archipelago islands. Though crudely intelligent, the drak’il seldom had dealings with other creatures, preferring their isolation.

But necessity warranted their journey here to the coastline— necessity and old goblin oaths. Word had reached their clan that near here hid a wit’ch who had murdered hundreds of rock’goblins, their mountain brethren. She had brought the hungry light, the stealer of spirits. She was to be cobbled, blinded as the old ways

spoke, and her magick taken back to their queen. It was the duty of the drak’il to seek vengeance for all the various goblin clans.

The honor of the drak’il, the blood of the goblins, would be satisfied.

It was the way.

The sixth drak’il joined the others, tail twitching and coiling around his ankles, nervous at these foreign shores. He greeted the dominant female of their pod, touching his forked tongue to the poisoned barb at the tip of her tail, and stayed bowed. Only the female drak’ils bore the poisonous rhyst upon their tails, the shark killer, the bringer of burning death. The other four males were already bowed before their leader, awaiting her bidding.

The female, larger and more massively muscled than the males, growled and hissed her orders. Her fangs reflected the moonlight, and her red eyes shone with the fire of her hatred. The males trembled at her words. None dared disobey one of the she-lords.

Once instructed, they hurried to the cliff wall and scurried up to take their positions, each male digging claws into rock, locking himself into place. The female still waited below. The male drak’ils could feel her burning eyes pass over them; none dared even to tremble, lest he draw her attention further. A low growl rose like steam from below.

In response, a familiar fire excited the skin of the five males. Soon each form blended perfectly with the rock face, disappearing so thoroughly that even the coming light of day would not reveal them from the surrounding reddish orange sandstone.

The males were to be the eyes and ears of the drak’il war party. Other pods and other she-lords were spread up and down the shoreline for hundreds of leagues. The coast would be watched by thousands of slitted black eyes, and thousands of sharp ears would listen for word of the wit’ch. Once this she-demon was found, the drak’il clan would move and claim their enemy. Her hungry light would die, and the magick would be theirs to wield and draw upon.

Even from his place on the cliff’s face, the male drak’il sensed the lust for magick in the female below. His nose caught the scent of her excitement, a wisp of musk and spoor. It made him want to grovel before her, beg for her touch. So he kept himself perfectly still; only by obedience did a male win the favor of a female.

He would show her how motionless he could remain. Even when the hot sun came to sear his skin and dry his flesh, he would not move.

Below, he heard the female return to the surf’s edge. He cracked one eye open and rotated it back to watch the thick-muscled she-lord scrabble across the rock. Her back was arched so seductively, and her full rump moved so invitingly. He imagined she displayed herself so handsomely just for him, but he knew better. The male drak’il knew who came next. It was the one who had first brought them word of the wit’ch’s atrocities among the rock’goblins, he who walked with dread magicks in his heart. His power incited all the she-lords to flaunt for him, their flinty rhysts tapping the stone caverns hungrily, their eyes alight with lust. Even the drak’il queen could not resist the allure of this stranger’s magicks. The foreigner had been assigned as war leader by their queen and was due to inspect their pod as he passed along the coast.

As the male drak’il hung on the sandstone wall, an ember of rage smoldered in his heart. It was wrong that a male not of their clan— not even of their heritage!—should lead them. Still, he knew better than to disobey.

Below, the female suddenly became even more excited. Her scent moistened the air with her thickening musk. The leader must be close.

The male’s insight proved correct. A silvery bubble rose from the surf and rolled to shore, opening to reveal the man in its empty heart. Dry as if he had never been in the waters, he stepped onto the rocky shore. He ignored the squirming female at his knee, not even noticing the eager invitation of the she-lord’s drumming rhyst. Instead, he stepped past the female to inspect the sandstone wall.

“She’s close,” the man said in the common tongue.

Just hearing this language hurt the male drak’il’s ears. How foul and twisted a language! The man opened his loose, billowing shirt and revealed his magickal heart. His pale chest was split open like a burst seapod, skin puckered and raw at its edge, cracked ribs poking forth. It was not the man that inspired the groveling female, but what lurked inside that dark chest—a thing of pure dire magicks.

From inside the dank cave of the ruptured chest, bloodred eyes stared out into the night. Magick flowed forth from the old wound, rich and twisted like the tangled tentacles of a deep-sea octopus. It quested up the cliff face. So powerful, so fetid.

A voice of the blackest, coldest seas echoed out from the chest wound. “Be prepared. My ill’guard soldier, the one I named Legion, will flush her into our snare. Be ready, or suffer my wrath.” The man suddenly convulsed with inner fires, gasping like a fish on hot sands. His tongue fought out words of renewed allegiance. “I… I will not fail you… again.”

Then suddenly the magick was gone. The male drak’il glanced to the beach.

The man moaned and clutched his shirt closed and stumbled back to the sea. As his feet touched the surf, the bubble of dire magicks flowed up to surround him once again.

As it closed, the female drak’il made one last desperate attempt to attract the man. She spoke his name, using the foul common tongue. Her voice was rough with lust, and the split tongue of their people complicated the attempt. As the bubble and the man vanished below the waves, she struggled out the single word, his name: “R-r-rockjngham .”

“You’re just going to have to grow accustomed to it,” Er’ril said as he led Elena down the stone-and-timber dock.

The morning sun was just cresting the waves at the horizon, casting its meager light toward them.

Ahead, the Seaswift rocked at the end of the stone quay. The winds had grown stiffer overnight, and the ship rolled back and forth in thick swells, its sternlines and bowlines creaking as oiled rope rubbed iron cleats. Sheltered in a shallow cove, the ship’s twin masts and reefed sails were all but hidden from sight by the tall walls of sandstone that circled the tiny bay. Only if another boat, traveling close to shore, passed by the narrow inlet would the Seaswift ever be discovered. It was a safe and secret harbor, one of hundreds that dotted the coastlines. In this region of pirates and brigands, such bays were carefully groomed and valued.

With trepidation in her heart, Elena followed Er’ril down the long dock. While watching the ship tilt and rock, she again felt the queasy sensation that the dock was moving. The flow of bobbing waves past the stone pilings amplified this sensation. To further unsettle her belly, the reek of the dock’s oiled planks competed with the overpowering stench of salt and algae. Elena swallowed hard, and ler cheeks paled.

tShe had battled demons and monsters, wielded mighty magick, ven traveled a poisonous swamp in a tiny punt, but she dreaded the oming sea voyage. Born and raised in the foothills of the mighty Teeth, lands built of granite and hard-packed soil, Elena had quickly

learned during a short excursion to visit the seadragons that the rolling motion of the ocean swells sickened her stomach and weakened her balance. She had no defense against this assault, no magick to give her sea legs. Here was an obstacle she had to face on her own.

To assist her, Er’ril had decided to move them both down to the boat and set Elena up in a neighboring cabin on board. He meant to get her over her sea weakness by simple exposure. “A few days be-lowdecks,” he had instructed her, “will harden your stomach against the sea’s motion.” She had reluctantly agreed.

Aboard the Seaswift, a huge man dressed in a dark sealskin jacket, his skin the color of burnished mahogany, raised a hand in greeting as they approached the boat’s gangplank. As he turned to face them, his silver earring glinted in the first rays of the morning sun. It marked him as a member of Brother Flint’s order. But where Brother Flint spoke with wry humor and scolding jests, Brother Moris was taciturn and stoic. Elena had never felt completely comfortable around the brooding, dark-skinned stranger. His hulking size, his strange complexion, his perpetually penetrating stare—all made Elena feel like shrinking and slipping away.

Even now, as Er’ril waved her first onto the gangplank, Elena found Moris studying her intensely, as if he were trying to peer into her bones. Elena glanced away but only found her eyes settling on the surging swells. She stumbled a step as her balance was rocked. Er’ril caught her from a fall into the choppy waves.

“Elena, what did I tell you?”

Her cheeks reddened as she reached the deck. She raised a gloved palm and rested it on the oak rail. “Grip a firm handhold at all times.”

Moris interrupted any further lecture from the plainsman. “Er’ril, I have two rooms in the foredeck aired out with fresh linens prepared. Once you’ve settled the child in, we must finalize the plans for the approaching new moon.”

Er’ril nodded. “Where’s Flint?”

“In the galley preparing porridge and cured potfish. We’re to meet down there when you’re ready.” Elena’s stomach churned at the thought of salty fish and thick porridge. Under her legs, the boat heaved in slow rolls; the two masts swung back and forth as if pointing out the sweep of seagulls overhead. Elena kept her grip on the ship’s port rail, but her palms grew clammy.

Er’ril nudged her from her reverie of the ship’s movements. “Let’s get you to your bunk where you can lie down. Let your belly calm.”

“That’s not very likely,” Elena mumbled, but she trudged after the plainsman across the middeck.

Underfoot, coils of thick ropes threatened to betray her steps, but she followed Er’ril’s instructions and traveled from handhold to handhold.

Once they reached the raised foredeck, Er’ril held open a heavy ironwood door. Lantern light beyond revealed a short passage leading to the upper cabins and a set of dark stairs descending steeply to the lower decks. As Er’ril nodded her inside, Elena noted there were no windows in the hatch, and three heavy iron crossbars lined the inner surface. It reminded Elena of a portal to some dank dungeon.

Er’ril must have noted her nervous glance. “During storms, heavy waves can crash across the deck. The iron bars can be thrown to batten down the door and keep the lower decks dry.” Elena stared at how high the middeck sat above the waters. She could not imagine the size of waves that could crest tall enough to swamp the ship. With her heart beating in her throat, she ducked through the portal into the foredeck.

Immediately, the sharp odor of kerosene and oak resins assaulted her senses. In the dim passage, the rocking lantern and tilting floor dizzied her further. Leaning on the wall for support, Elena followed Er’ril toward a small door near the passage’s end.

“Here’s your cabin,” he said, pushing the door open. It bumped into the tiny bed bolted to the far wall.

Elena’s heart sank. The room was no larger than a medium-sized wardrobe. Even with just a narrow bed, a small chest, and a single lantern, the cabin seemed cramped and crowded.

“We’ll have your things brought up from the cottage this afternoon.”

“Where would I put them?” she mumbled.

Er’ril nodded to the bed. “Have a seat. There’s something I want to talk to you about.” Elena dropped to the creaking bed. The lantern swung gently overhead, dancing their shadows on the walls.

Though seated, the motion weakened her stomach. She concentrated on the tips of her sandals.

Before her, Er’ril stood stooped, his head bowed away from the low rafters. He kept his legs slightly apart and used his knees to keep easy balance in the rocking cabin. “It’s about Joach,” he started. “Last night, he approached Flint again about accompanying us.”

This news drew her eyes back up. Even though she had pulled Joach aside and had insisted that his dream had to be false, her brother obviously persisted in his belief and would not leave the matter be.

Er’ril waved his hand at the room. “As you can see, the Seaswift is not generous of space. Flint has arranged for a handful of seamen loyal to our cause to man the boat’s rigging. Otherwise, the ship has no room to spare for a boy who’s worried about his sister.”

“It’s more than that,” she mumbled, hesitant about betraying Joach’s trust concerning the dream.

Er’ril knelt beside her and rested his hand on her knee. “Then what? Are you afraid to leave him behind?

Are you encouraging him?”

“No!” she said, aghast. “I’d rather he stayed at the cottage, too— well away from me.” She smiled wanly at the plainsman. “My family members don’t fare well around me.” Er’ril squeezed her knee. “So we’re agreed. Perhaps if you spoke to him.” She stared the plainsman in the eye. Though she knew Joach’s dream of betrayal could not be true, her brother believed it. His heart would not let him stay, and no words of hers would sway him and calm his fears. “I’ve already tried talking him out of coming,” she said in a tired voice. “He won’t listen, and I don’t think—”

The boat suddenly lurched under a heavy wave, churning Elena’s stomach violently. She barely made it to the chamber pail before her belly emptied its contents in a sloppy splash. Still bent over the pail, Elena breathed heavily. Once her gut had calmed sufficiently, she pushed back, red cheeked and unable to meet Er’ril’s eyes.

The plainsman had moved back a bit. “It’ll take time to get your sea legs,” he offered as consolation.

“I don’t care about sea legs. I just hope the Mother above will soon grant me a sea belly.”

“I’ll fetch you some water and bread crusts. It helps. We can talk more of Joach later.” F ‘ ril turned to leave, but Elena stopped him. “No, this worry of h’s has gone on long enough.” Elena was suddenly tired of all ’ secrets. Whom to trust? It was nonsense, and before the voyage SC she wanted this matter settled. With her stomach temporar-eased she firmed her resolve and spoke bluntly. “Er’ril, Joach A n’t trust you. He had a dream in which you betrayed me.” gVril swung back to face her, a combination of anger and hurt flashing in his eyes. “What! What is this foolishness?”

“He believes his dream was a weaving, a prophecy of the future.” Elena related all that Joach had told her the previous morning. “ ”He called forth black magick from the staff?“ Er’ril asked under black brows.

“Using words from his dream,” Elena added. So now you know why he is so convinced of his dream’s prophecy.“

Er’ril shook his head. “The staff is a foul talisman. I would never trust black magick as proof of anything.

Even the most able mind can be fooled by the dark art’s trickery.”

“But how do we convince Joach of that?”

“I don’t know. I know little of dreamweaving, but Flint and Moris are experts. We must let them know of your brother’s dream.”

Elena winced. She had already betrayed her brother’s trust by telling Er’ril and was reluctant, but the truth of Joach’s dream must be tested by more than the use of black magick. She nodded her agreement.

“I’ll have Moris fetch Joach to the ship this evening. We’ll settle this matter then,” Er’ril said and turned to the door. As he slipped out of the cabin, he added, “You were right to tell me, Elena.” Once the door closed, Elena studied the twisting grain of the wood. Was the plainsman correct? Was she truly right in betraying Joach’s confidence? As she bit her lip, the queasiness again rose in her gut, but this time her churning belly wasn’t entirely the result of the ship’s motion. Since when had her faith in Er’ril overwhelmed the trust in her own family? She pictured Joach’s face when he had first spoken of his suspicion of Er’ril and had sworn her to secrecy: the urgency and love in his eyes, the wordless trust of a brother for a sister. For the second time, Elena rushed to the chamber pail.

“Stand fast, traveler!” the gatesman called. He stood atop the wall, half hidden by a stone parapet.

Mycelle stepped her gelding back to better eye the guard. Fardale stood tense at her horse’s side, seeming to sense Mycelle’s wariness.

After spending a night at a Graymarsh inn, Mycelle had left with the first rays of the sun, knowing it best to reach Port Rawl in daylight. Now here, she was surprised to find Port Rawl’s south gate closed and locked.

To the west, the late afternoon sun was still well above the horizon—and in a town notorious for its nightly carousing, the southern and northern gates were seldom barred before the moon rose, if at all. The two-story stone barricade, nicknamed the Swampwall by the natives, encircled the entire city, except for the section of the town that fronted the bay. The wall’s function was not to protect its inhabitants from marauders but simply to act as a stone dike between the town and the poisonous denizens of the nearby swamps. As such, the gates were seldom lowered and rarely manned. In Port Rawl, the townspeople did not like locked doors between them and a quick escape when needed.

Mycelle leaned back in her saddle. “I’ve business to attend and need to enter,” she called up. “Why are the gates secured?”

“What business have you in Port Rawl?” the guard called back. He was a portly fellow whose hard-earned coppers apparently were spent quickly on ale and good food. A wicked scar—another feature most likely earned in those same hard pubs—trailed from his right ear to his nose. “Which caste vouches for you?” His inquiry surprised Mycelle. In Port Rawl, no one asked another’s business, not if one meant to live until the day’s end. Curiosity was not a healthy pastime in Port Rawl.

“Of what concern is my business to the town’s garrison?” she returned, putting proper threat in her voice.

“Since the attack on the docks two morns ago,” the guardsman answered, “all who seek entry must be registered and vouched for by one of the town’s sixteen castes.”

“This is news to me,” she said. “I’ve been hired as a guide by a group of travelers due to arrive in the city, and I am here to meet them.”

“A hired guide?” He seemed to check a list near his elbow. “That would put you under the mercenary caste. You’ll need to register with their caste’s leader as soon as you enter and agree to their authority.“

“I belong to no caste. I seek only to—”

“Without a caste’s allegiance, you’ll be jailed if found on the streets without the proper papers.” Mycelle frowned. Such a requirement went against all that Port Rawl once upheld. The sanctity of anonymity was one of the unwritten rules that guided all commerce in the port city. The attack by the possessed fishermen had shaken the town worse than Flint or Er’ril could have suspected. Her eyes narrowed as she considered her options. She suspected the new laws were not for the safety and protection of the citizenry but were devised simply as another way to eke bribes and tariffs from travelers.

Knowing she had no choice, she straightened in her saddle. “Fine,” she called back up. “Open the gates!” The man nodded and signaled someone hidden below. The clink of chains and creak of rope marked the raising gate. As soon as the bars had risen high enough, Mycelle tapped her gelding forward. Fardale followed, padding in the shadow of her mount.

Two other guards flanked the inside of the gate. The one closest to the wolf backed a step and began to unsheathe his sword.

“Harm my dog,” Mycelle warned, “and you’ll find the point of my sword buried in your belly before my dog can howl.”

The man lowered his blade back into its scabbard and took another step away as Fardale passed.

The guard to the other side of her mount cleared his throat. He had the bowed legs of a sailor, but his missing left arm and sullen features suggested the injury had grounded him from decent work aboard any ship. He now earned his coppers with whatever duties he could scrounge, like manning the city’s gates.

The guard’s gaze wandered appreciatively over Mycelle’s physique. “I belong to the mercenary caste,” he said with a thick tongue, his eyes slightly hooded. “You’ll find Master Fallen on Drury Lane in the Eastern Quarter. For a fee, I can guide you there.” He held out papers toward her.

Mycelle suspected any coin offered would only get her led to a blind alley where other of his ilk would jump her. “I know the city,” she said, taking the papers. “I can find my way.”

“That’s only a temporary pass. By twilight, it’ll expire.” His voice lowered in conspiratorial tones. “If you’ve not found Master Fallen by then and gained his seal on your papers, you’ll be taken by the watchmen. But with my help, I can get you to the mercenary’s lodge in plenty of time.” Sure, Mycelle thought silently, he’d get her there—but bound in chains and ready for sale in the slave pits.

She grinned at the man. Only menace shone from her lips. “I’ll manage.” She kicked her horse and entered the Southern Quarter of the city. Here, the craftsmen and artisans took up their residence. Even in Port Rawl, certain basic needs had to be met. She passed a small cobbler’s shop on the right. Her nose was greeted with the familiar smell of leather dyes and curing hides. It seemed even pirates needed sound footwear.

Farther along, the ringing of hammer on anvil announced the presence of a smithy well before the open doorway revealed the smoldering forge and the burly blacksmith. Other shops included a chandlery with candles of every size and shape displayed in the window, a tailor’s shop with bolts of cloth leaning in the doorway, and even a silversmith whose work most likely involved melting ill-gotten gains into untraceable new contours.

Yet as common as these shops appeared, no one could mistake this for any ordinary town. Here the shopkeepers all carried conspicuous swords, and their expressions were anything but inviting. Even the slender tailor, whose tiny hands were well suited for his craft, had a muscled guard posted by his stoop. It seemed trust was not offered with the wares sold here. And from the demeanor of the patrons who frequented these fine establishments, trust was in little demand.

A clutch of gaunt women gathered their cloaks about them as she neared. Then seeing the rider was a woman, they dropped their guarded stances and stared openly at her. A few whispered behind palms at each other and pointed at the huge treewolf at her side. Mycelle knew the townswomen must think her daft to travel alone through the streets of Port Rawl, even here in the tamest section of the town. Few women dared risk the streets without someone to guard their backs. Mycelle suspected each woman here was armed with a dagger or a crooked dirk under her cloak. And if any were attacked, all would come to the victim’s aid in a mutual bond of survival.

As Mycelle passed, she stared at the feral eyes of these hard women. Pact or not, Mycelle also knew that for the right price any of the women here would turn on another. In Port Rawl, truces were short-lived and only born of immediate necessity. The solidarity shown here was as insubstantial as the morning’s fog.

Mycelle continued on through the Southern Quarter, aiming for the central bazaar named Four Corners, where all four sections of the city converged. As she rode, no one gave her much attention besides the occasional furtive stare. Mycelle, though, kept up her guard. She knew the presence of the huge wolf and her two crossed scabbards were giving any attackers momentary pause.

Still, Mycelle kept both eyes and ears attuned to the flow of traffic around her. Even Fardale’s hackles were raised in wary attention. Occasional growls flowed from his throat when anyone approached too near.

Walking her horse past an apothecary, Mycelle’s senses were suddenly struck by a melange of elemental magicks. Her seeking skill thrummed strongly. She slowed her mount. Through the doorway, Mycelle spotted shelf after shelf stocked with tiny jars and bottles of various herbs and medicines. This was no ordinary apothecary dispensing willow’s bark and dandelion tea. Whoever ran this shop was skilled in the elemental art of healing. And from the way Mycelle’s own senses were responding, the healer here was a strong one. Mycelle pulled her horse to a stop, intrigued. Inside, the practitioner could be seen in the shadowed interior behind a counter. A cluster of candles lit her features. Dressed in a simple gray frock and black shawl, she was an old woman of wrinkled visage. Her snow-white hair was bound in a single braid and coiled like a nesting serpent atop her head. Though the small woman was old, Mycelle sensed that the winters had hardened her like a wind-burned cypress. Even her skin was the hue of burnished wood.

From behind the counter, the healer seemed to be staring back at Mycelle, apparently curious of the stranger on horseback by her door. But Mycelle knew this was only a trick of light. There was no way the woman could see her. The healer had no eyes. Under her brows was only smooth skin. No empty sockets nor thick scars marred her face. Mycelle guessed that the healer must have been born this way. Poor woman.

To add to the illusion that the woman could see her, the old healer straightened and waved to her, indicating that Mycelle should come inside.

Fardale suddenly growled, drawing Mycelle’s attention away from the woman. From the top of the door frame, a small face appeared, hanging upside down. The beast’s head was the size of a ripe pomegranate.

Though framed in fur the color of a dying fire, its face was as bare as any human’s, dominated by two bright black eyes and wide grinning lips. It chittered at them and crawled lower down the door frame, revealing small clawed hands and feet that gripped the wood as efficiently as its hands. Even a long tail, furred in rings of black and gold, helped hold its place in the doorway.

“His name is Tikal,” the old woman behind the counter said. She had a melodious accent that Mycelle could not place. “He is from my jungle country of Yrendl.”

Mycelle’s eyebrows rose. She had heard tales of the thick jungles far to the south of the Wastes but had never met anyone who claimed to have traveled there. Even by sea, it was easily an entire winter’s journey.

“What brought you so far from your homelands, healer?” she asked. She knew she must get to the mercenary caste soon, but curiosity detained her.

“Slavers.” Her reply was matter-of-fact, not bitter or angry. “A long time ago.” Mycelle, embarrassed by her prying question, was ready to bid the woman a good day and be on her way, but the old woman again waved her inside, more persistently.

“Come inside.”

“I have no need of a healer.”

“And I don’t have all day.” The healer turned her back on Mycelle and began running her fingers along the shelves behind her, as if searching for something. “I know about the friends you seel{.” The healer stressed the last word, making clear she knew Mycelle was a seeker.

What was this? Wary but curious, Mycelle climbed from her horse. She felt no taint of black magick here.

Just what did this old healer know? “Fardale, guard the gelding.” The wolf moved to stand between the street and the horse, hackles raised. Satisfied, Mycelle slipped through the doorway. The fiery -maned beast still hung from the frame by its tail and chittered at her as she passed. Mycelle checked the corners of the room for anything suspicious before she approached the counter. She sensed no other presence. “What do you know of my business?” Mycelle asked as she stepped forward.

The woman did not answer.

Behind Mycelle, the door to the apothecary swung closed and latched with a loud click. Mycelle suddenly remembered that curiosity was not a healthy pastime in Port Rawl and recalled the tiny tailor with the hulking guard. Since when in this city did a blind woman operate a shop all by herself?

A gruff voice rose behind her. “Touch your sword and die.”

“TOO OFTEN AN ORDINARY DREAM IS CONFUSED WITH A WEAVING,” THE

huge ebony-skinned Brother explained to Joach, “even by those skilled in the art.“

In the galley of the Seaswift, Moris and Er’ril sat on the bench across the pine-planked table from Joach, both wearing dour expressions. Joach was not going to let the presence of the plainsman sway him. “It was a weaving,” Joach said with determination. “Er’ril will

betray us.“

By the galley’s hearth, Flint tasted the stew’s broth. He sighed with satisfaction, then spoke. “Joach, you’re a blasted fool.”

Joach’s cheeks burned at the bluntness of the fisherman.

Flint gave his stew one final stir and settled the lid on his brewing pot. “You should have come to us first.

Bringing this to the attention of your sister and burdening her with your secret was just damn wrong. She has enough to bear without you worrying her with false

weavings.“

Joach’s blood still burned with the knowledge that Elena had broken her promise to him and spoke of his dream to the plainsman. Elena had not even come to this meeting, too sick to leave her bunk, but Joach suspected shame also kept her hidden. His fists clenched on the poi’wood staff that lay across his knees.

Here was all the proof he needed. Under his palms, he felt the dire magicks in the wood flow like oil on skin. “The spell from the dream worked,” he argued. “How could thisTJor be a true weaving?” Er’ril answered. “At its heart, black magick deceives. That foul staff of Greshym’s should’ve been burned long ago.”

“You’d like that,” Joach spat, “since in my dream, it was the staff that kept you from my sister.” Er’ril’s brows darkened and lowered over his eyes in threat. “I would never betray Elena. Neper.”

“As you said,” Joach mumbled, repeating the plainsman’s words, “black magick deceives.” Joach and Er’ril glared at each other.

“Enough!” Flint said, punctuating his word with a strike of his ladle on the table. “I’ve heard enough of this nonsense. Black magick or not, your dream’s truth can be weighed in another way.”

“How?” Joach asked.

Flint pointed his spoon to Moris. “Tell them. I’ve a stew to stir before it burns. I won’t have this nonsense ruin my meal.”

Moris had remained silent during the exchange, apparently content to let the fire of their words die down before imparting his knowledge. “Now that I have your attentions again,” he said, fingering his silver earring, “I will finish explaining what I started. First, Joach does have a sound argument for initially believing the truth of his dream. The black spell did work.” Joach sat straighter on his bench. At least someone here was talking sense.

Moris continued. “All aspects of a weaving, when studied closely, must prove true for the dream to be called a weaving. The spell did work, but that is only one element of the dreamscape. And as Er’ril said, black magick is tricky. Perhaps it was not the words of the spell learned in the dream that ignited the magick in the staff, but simply your own will wishing it to happen. Your dream must be examined further before you put such fervid faith in it.”

A seed of doubt found its way into Joach’s heart. He trusted Moris—the dark-skinned Brother had saved his life in A’loa Glen— and his words now were compelling. “How can we judge the truth of my dream when the events are yet to happen?”

“It is in the details,” Moris said.

“All the details,” Flint echoed from the hearth.

Moris nodded. “Tell us your dream again, but I will query you further on certain aspects of your story, attempting to find anything false. If even one element is found to be wrong, then your dream was not a weaving.”

Joach removed his hands from the staff and placed them atop the table. “I see. So everything must be true—or none of it is.”

Flint snorted. “Finally the boy is thinking with his head and not his gut.“

Joach chewed his lower lip. Maybe they were right. He reached and fiddled with the dragon’s tooth that hung around his neck. “The dream began with Elena and me atop a tower in A’loa Glen. We were—“

“Stop right there,” Moris interrupted. “Describe the tower.” Joach closed his eyes and pictured the spire. “It was narrow… coming to a point no wider than two horse lengths. I couldn’t make out much else, since I never peered over the parapet’s edge.”

“What else? What color were the stones? What towers neighbored it?” Joach brightened, remembering. “The stones were a burnt orange, and there was a huge statue of a woman bearing a sprig from a flowering tree across the way from the tower.”

“The statue of Lady Sylla, bearing the branch of unity,” Flint said.

“Hmm… And beside her,” Moris added, “the Spire of the Departed is a reddish orange.” The two Brothers stared at each other meaningfully. “Perhaps the boy had a passing glimpse from one of the Edifice’s windows while imprisoned there.”

Flint grunted noncommittally. “Go on, Joach.”

He continued to describe the attack by the black winged monster.

“Sounds almost like a wyvern,” Moris said, “but none of its foul ilk have been seen in ages.”

“But who knows what the Gul’gothal lord has dredged up to protect the island?” Flint mumbled, his brows pinched together with concern. He now ignored the stew beginning to steam from around the pot’s lid.

Joach caught the quick glance toward Er’ril. Was that doubt in the old man’s eyes? Flint waved his ladle at Joach. “Tell us about Er’ril’s attack on your sister.”

In Joach’s chest, twisting emotions roiled. He had initially feared that they would not believe him. Now he was more afraid they would. If Er’ril was a traitor, whom could they trust? Joach stared at Er’ril, who still wore the same stoic expression. Joach swallowed hard before continuing his story. “After dispatching the beast, I heard the creak of wood behind me. I turned and saw Er’ril pushing open the door, his face half crazed, his arm already raised with sword in hand. I knew he meant us harm.

He slammed the door and latched it, blocking our only means of escape.“

“I would never harm either of you,” Er’ril said fiercely. “This dream is ridiculous.” Flint approached the table, abandoning both the hearth and his bubbling stew. “So far his dream images do bear the truth, Er’ril. Maybe you were under the influence of some black spell.” Er’ril glowered but could not speak against it.

But Moris did. “No, Joach’s dream is false. We can now put this matter safely aside.”

“How so?” Flint asked.

“Joach, tell us again how Er’ril locked you from the only means of escape from the tower.” Confused, Joach repeated this portion of his dream. “The plainsman held his sword against us, and then reached behind to key the door’s lock.” Suddenly, like a sun appearing from between storm clouds, Joach understood. “Sweet Mother, maybe the dream is false!”

“What?” Flint asked, still in the dark.

“Er’ril had two arms in my dream! One held the sword; the other locked the door. And it was no phantom arm, but flesh and bone!”

“Two arms.” Flint’s tensed shoulders sagged. “Thank the Mother above! That detail is obviously false, so all of it must be. That’s the law of weaving.”

Joach was still skeptical. “But are you sure?”

Moris’ deep voice answered. “Not even the strongest magick can grow a new limb. And Flint is quite correct: A true weaving contains no false items.”

“Then maybe I’m remembering it wrong,” Joach persisted. “Maybe in the dream, he had only one arm, but in the light of day, my mind changed this one minor detail.” Moris shook his head and stood. “That would be further proof that your dream was not prophetic,” he said.

“A true weaving will lock into your memory, enduring forever.” Joach sighed and stared at the two determined Brothers. So the dream was just an ordinary nightmare. He turned toward Er’ril. The plainsman had remained silent during the entire exchange. His stoic features had developed a sick bent to them.

Flint continued. “So if it was only a foul dream, I guess there is no need to bring the boy with us. He can stay and keep my livestock fed.“

Er’ril spoke, his voice oddly strained. “No, the boy should come with us… as a precaution.“

“Whatever for?” Moris asked. “He only had a bad dream dredged up from buried memories of his imprisonment on the island. Just old worries coming to a head.”

“Nevertheless, he should come.” Er’ril shoved back from the table, clearly indicating the matter settled and the discussion ended.

Before anyone could question him further, a piercing scream split through the ship.

Joach flew up, staff in hand. “Elena!”

“Turn around… slowly,” the harsh voice behind Mycelle

ordered.

By now, the old healer had turned from her study of her laden shelves of medicines and balms. She had a bottle of some herb in hand. Mycelle had a hard time reading the expression on the ancient woman’s face; the healer’s missing eyes made her hard to fathom.

Still, Mycelle caught a hint of amusement crinkling the corner of the woman’s thin lips.

“Tikal,” she scolded, “leave the poor woman alone.”

Mycelle slowly turned. No one stood behind her. She saw the tiny furred beast hanging from the door’s latch. His weight must have shut the door. But who spoke? Mycelle glanced around. No one else was here.

Tikal climbed farther up the door, his large black eyes staring at her. “Touch your sword and die,” he said in that same gruff voice.

Mycelle’s eyes grew wide.

The old healer spoke up behind her. “Don’t mind him. Tikal doesn’t know what he’s saying. Just mimicking what he’s heard from the streets.”

“How much for oranges?” Tikal continued, his voice changing to that of a shrill woman. “For these prices, I could buy three bushels!” The little creature clambered up to a swing hanging from the ceiling and hung upside down from his tail and one foot. He stared directly at Mycelle and in a child’s voice said, “I like horsies.”

Mycelle blinked a few times at the odd creature, her heart still pounding from the scare. “What type of beast is that?”

“A tamrink. A golden-maned tamrink, to be precise, from the jungles of Yrendl. His art of mimicry is one of the tamrink’s many talents, though I’d call it more a nuisance than a talent.” With a slight shake of her head, Mycelle turned to the woman. “My name is Mama Freda,” the old woman said, nodding in greeting. Though blind, she reached accurately to a short cane leaning against the wall and used it to march around her counter. “You mentioned something about my friends.”

“Yes, they just arrived yesterday. They needed a healer.” Worry nestled into Mycelle’s chest. Who had been injured? “Do you know where my friends are lodging?”

The old woman glanced over her shoulder, as if to study Mycelle’s expression. “Of course. Come.” Freda led the way to a back door and swung it open. A dark stairway led up.

Tikal landed with a small thud behind Mycelle. “Tikal… Tikal… Tikal…” he chanted, racing ahead of them up the stairs.

Mycelle studied the dark steps. She probed with her senses and felt nothing wrong. Still, she remembered her lack of proper caution before and voiced her previous worry. “Freda, please don’t take offense at my next words, but just how does a blind woman protect herself in as hard a town as Port Rawl?” Mama Freda turned to Mycelle with a snort. “Protect myself? I’m the only healer worth her salt here in Swamptown, and they all know it.” She waved the tip of her cane. “The whole town watches over my shop. Without me, who would heal their sword cuts or poisoned bellies? These folks may be hard and crude, but never think them stupid.” She glanced over her shoulder and seemed to be studying Mycelle again, as if judging her. “Besides, who said I was

blind?“

WTith those words, Mama Freda climbed the stairs. “Follow me.” Mycelle hesitated a breath, then obeyed.

This strange woman knew more than she said. Doubt and wariness followed her up the stairs. t At the top, they came upon a short hall with a few doors off the passage. As Mama Freda led the way toward the room farthest back, Mycelle eyed the other doorways. It would be easy to set up an ambush here. One of the doors was cracked open, and Mycelle got a peek of shelves stocked with crates and bushels. She caught a glimpse of a drying rack where stalks and leaves of various herbs were desiccating. The rich smell of spices and an earthy aroma from the room scented the hall. It was merely a storeroom and not worth further attention.

Still, as Mycelle passed, her senses tingled with a brush of magick, raising the tiniest hairs on her arms. Not strong magick, but a touch of something elemental, something she had never felt before—and as a seeker who had crisscrossed through the many lands of Alasea, to come across a magick she could not identify slowed her footsteps. It scented of loam and deep-buried ore—coal perhaps.

Mama Freda must have heard her boot heels faltering. “Come. Do not tarry.” Mycelle hurried to catch up. Many mysteries surrounded this woman, but for now, Mycelle had more urgent concerns.

Reaching the last door, the old healer tapped the crown of her cane on the oaken frame— crac’t, crac’t, crac’t—clearly a signal to someone within.

The tiny tamrink danced around the woman’s feet excitably. “Tikal… Oh, Tikal is a good puppy.” Mama Freda scooted the small beast aside with the tip of her cane. “He loves guests,” she said.

Mycelle felt, more than heard, a stirring from the next room. She tensed her arms, ready to free her swords. As the door swung open, a rush of elemental magicks washed out, like a window opened on a whirlwind. The assault on her senses was so sudden that her knees almost buckled. A rush of wind, the rumble of storm clouds, the ‘teening cry of a falcon. And mixed with these tastes was a lingering hint of granite and the low rumbling of grinding boulders . She recognized these torrents. Her legs regained their strength.

In the doorway stood a familiar figure.

“Mother?”

“Tol’chuk!” Mycelle hurried past the old woman as she stepped aside. She hugged her son fiercely as Tikal clambered up the og’re’s leg as easily as up a tree trunk. “Thank the Mother, you’re safe,” she whispered to his chest. Mycelle could not get her arms fully around the thick torso of her son. He towered over her, even when slightly stooped in the usual og’re fashion. She raised her face to stare at him.

So like his dead father, she thought. Same splayed nose and thick, overhanging brows, even the similar hint of fangs raising his upper lip a bit and a spiked ridge of fur that ran from the rocky crown of his head down in a small crest along his spine.

Only his eyes, large golden orbs slitted like a cat’s, told of a heritage that was not og’re but si’lura, like his mother.

Tol’chuk returned Mycelle’s affection with equal enthusiasm but broke their embrace sooner than she would have preferred. “You made it through the swamps,” he said. “How be Elena and Er’ril?” Wary of how much to reveal in Mama Freda’s presence, Mycelle spoke carefully. “My niece is fine. We all are. A few scratches and scars, but otherwise intact.”

Tol’chuk’s voice grew grim. “1 wish we had fared as well. Come inside.” Her son’s somber tones reminded her of her own duties. She probed with her own skills, sniffing after any taint in the room. Even under close scrutiny, the elemental magicks in the room felt pure, untainted by corruption. Still, she also sensed the pain in the room. She followed Tol’chuk into the chamber.

The room surprised Mycelle. She had expected a dark gloomy cell but instead found a room, though windowless, shining cheerily with lamps and a small hearth glowing with coals. Adding to the sense of warmth and invitation, a thick wool rug covered the oak-planked floor. A pair of sturdy beds stood against either wall, and three pillowed chairs stood before the hearth.

In one of the chairs, a familiar spindly fellow dressed in road-worn clothes pushed up to greet her. His features were pinched, and his lips thin and prone to frowning. Under mousy brown hair, his slitted amber eyes matched his twin brother’s. “Mogweed,” Mycelle said, seeking to change the man’s frown into something more hopeful. “Your brother Fardale is downstairs guarding my horse. He’ll be thrilled to see you safe.”

The news did little to change the man’s expression. If anything, the shape-shifter’s expression grew more dour. “It will be good to see my brother again,” he said plainly.

Mycelle raised questioning eyes toward Tol’chuk. The og’re drew his mother toward one of the two beds.

“Don’t mind Mogweed,” he grumbled under his breath, trying his best to keep his voice quiet. “All of our hearts are heavy.”

As she neared, she saw the bed was not empty, and her senses tingled stronger with the billowing scent of elemental wind magick. She knew who must lie in the bed—Meric, the elv’in lord. Still, as she reached his bedside, she failed to recognize him. Meric, his lanky frame half hidden by linen sheets, was not the man she had last seen in Shadowbrook. His chest was burned in thick swaths; the reek of charred flesh clung to him as tight as the medicinal wraps that bound his chest. His lips were swollen and cracked, his handsome silver hair burned to the scalp. Thankfully, he seemed to be resting, his eyes closed and his breathing regular and deep. Mycelle sensed that even these small blessings were only due to the skill in Mama Freda’s balms and elixirs.

Mycelle could look at him no longer. “What happened?”

“He was caught and tortured by one of the Dark Lord’s seekers.” Tol’chuk then continued to recount the events that led them here: Meric’s last-minute rescue by Tol’chuk from a foul d’warf lord and Mogweed’s outwitting of a pair of ill’guard twins in the great castle of the city. “We all escaped to the barges as the towers of the Keep crumbled and fell. But Meric sickened rapidly from his injuries. Though we saved him from corruption, we could not keep his tainted wounds from festering and growing foul. It be great luck that an innkeeper directed us to Mama Freda soon after we entered Port Rawl.”

“I don’t think it was luck, Tol’chuk,” Mycelle mumbled, knowing that generosity was rare in the port city and often came with a price. The innkeep had probably feared contagion and had been glad to send the group off to a healer rather than risk his own inn with disease.

“Luck or not, here we came.” Tol’chuk slipped a bit of biscuit to Tikal, who was searching through the og’re’s pockets. The tamrink swallowed it whole, then licked each finger clean.

“Luck it was,” Mama Freda said. “The Sweet Mother herself must be watching over you all.” She took Tikal from the og’re’s shoulder and carried him to a chair, where she sat down. “It took an herb grown only in Yrendl—a rare supply I still cultivate—to break his fever. Another day and he’d have been dead for sure.”

Tol’chuk nodded. “Already Meric fares much better.”

Mycelle frowned. If the elv’in was better, she dreaded to think how Meric must have looked yesterday.

She stared around the room.

“And what of Krai? Where is he?” The mountain man was the only member of the group still unaccounted for.

Mogweed answered. “He watches the north gate of the city for you. We did not know which gate you would enter Port Rawl through.”

“He usually does not return until well after dark,” Tol’chuk added.

“Ever since Shadowbrook,” Mogweed continued, “the big man has grown more and more restless. He is out almost every night, prowling, watching for signs of the enemy.”

“Well, there was no need for him to search for me,” Mycelle said. “My skill at sensing elemental magick would have hunted you down. I thought that was clear.”

Mogweed backed to the chair beside Mama Freda and sat down, a condescending smile on his lips. “Did you sense Meric from the street?” he asked. “Or even when you were in the shop downstairs?” Mycelle’s brows drew tight together. The shape-shifter’s words proved of concern. She had not felt even a whisper of Meric’s unique wind magick, not until the door to the room had opened. “How… ? I should have been able to…” Mycelle turned to Mama Freda.

The old healer was smiling at her. “There is much you don’t know, young lady. In my jungle lands, where the land’s magick is as fertile as the forests themselves, we have learned ways to protect what is ours. I painted these walls long ago with an aromatic oil of banesroot. It hides my elemental skills from prying eyes.”

Mycelle studied the oiled planks of the wall. She tried to send her senses beyond the room and failed. It was as if nothing existed beyond those four walls. “That must be why I never sensed Mama Freda’s presence when I was last through the city,” she muttered. “And how you’ve managed to escape the corrupting touch of the ill’guard up to now. You’ve created a safe haven.” Mama Freda snorted. “There’s no such thing as a safe haven in Port Rawl. Swamptown would never stand for it. But it is my home.” Mycelle grew suspicious. Every moment she spent with this old woman seemed to bring forth new discoveries—and Mycelle did not like it! She felt as if she were fighting on quicksand, and Mama Freda had the longer sword. “It was mighty generous of you to open your own home to my friends. But—”

Mama Freda finished her thought. “—but generosity in Port Rawl never comes without a price.” Mycelle’s features grew stony.

Mama Freda settled deeper in her seat and waved a hand to the last free chair. “If your face becomes any darker, I’ll need a lantern to see it. Sit… sit.”

Mycelle remained standing and spoke bluntly. “Enough with this foolishness. Speak plain. You can’t possibly see my face. You have no eyes.

“What are eyes? I can see that speck of dried mud on your cheek and a tiny bit of hay caught in the hair above your left ear.”

Mycelle’s fingers wandered to wipe the mud from her cheek and pick the hay from her hair. “How?” Mama Freda tousled the golden mane of her pet and tickled him behind an ear. The tamrink batted at the teasing fingers, then settled in her lap and sucked at one of his toes. During all this time, Tikal’s eyes never left Mycelle’s face. “The tamrinks,” Mama Freda began, “have unique talents, other than mere mimicry. In our jungles, they travel in large groups—bonded families. They’re raised so intimately among one another that each becomes a part of the whole. What one tamrink hears, they all hear. What one tamrink sees, they all see. In a sense, the pack becomes one living creature, hearing all, seeing all.”

“Sense bonded?” Mycelle asked, shocked. She had read of such a talent in texts kept by the Sisterhood.

Mama Freda ignored Mycelle’s question. “I was born without eyes, and among my tribe such a deformity was considered an ill omen. To appease the gods, I was left as a babe in the jungle to die.” Mycelle’s horrified expression must have been noted.

“Don’t fret, child,” Mama Freda said. “I remember little of that time. The first memory I truly had was of flying through the trees, seeing through the eyes of a huge female tamrink. She was swinging through the branches overhead, curious about the bawling naked creature near her nest.”

“You?”

She nodded. “Her band took me in and nursed me. With time, I became more firmly bonded to the tamrinks and saw through their many eyes.”

“These creatures actually raised you?”

Mama Freda laughed at such a preposterous thought. “No, I doubt I was with the group more than a single moon. One day, one

of my tribe’s hunters found me near the tamrink’s nest and discovered that I was still alive. I was returned to the village and worshiped. They believed the jungle gods had marked me and kept me safe. So I grew among my own people, yet I never lost my bond to the tamrinks. Over time, I grew to be a skilled healer among the many tribes of Yrendl.“ Mama Freda glanced away and her voice quieted. ”But one day, our village was attacked by slavers. I think they were attracted by the rumors of a blind woman who could see.

I was stolen, along with the baby tamrink I had been hand raising.“

“Tikal?”

“Yes. Over the course of three winters, we were brought north to your lands, stopping at coastal towns and ports to display my talent.” “But how did you escape?” The slavers were notorious for holding tight to their merchandise.

A fierceness entered Mama Freda’s voice. She faced Mycelle again. “Some tales are best forgotten, locked forever in one’s own heart.”

Mycelle respected the woman’s words. There were parts of her own life she did not wish ever spoken aloud. “So you ended up in Port Rawl. But why my companions? Why did you take them in?”

“As I said, generosity does not come without a price in Port Rawl.“

“What do you want? I have silver, even a gold coin.”

No.

“Then what?”

“When your companion is hale enough to travel, I ask that you take me with you when you leave.” Mycelle stiffened. This was a price higher than she was willing to pay. “Why? Why do you wish to come with us?”

“I wish to meet this wit’ch of yours. This young girl Elena.” Mycelle backed a step. She stared at her companions, searching for the traitor, for the one who spoke their secrets so freely.

Tol’chuk straightened from where he crouched, like a boulder shifting. “We said not a word,” he grumbled.

Mogweed just sat in his chair, his eyes wide with shock. Only a small squeak of denial passed his lips as Mycelle turned in his

direction.

Mama Freda scolded Mycelle. “Leave the others be. None spoke out of turn or betrayed the trust given them.”

“Then how do you know our business?”

The old healer scratched her pet’s mane. The small tamrink burrowed closer, making soft cooing sounds of contentment. “I left Tikal in the shop yesterday when I prepared the medicinal tea for your burned friend. I know my way around my storeroom and kitchen without the need of his eyes. While I was gone, the others spoke in private about you, about Elena, and about the book you seek, the Blood Diary.”

“Still, how did you—?”

“Tikal and I are not only bonded by sight.” She wiggled one of Tikal’s ears. “What one tamrink hears, they all hear.”

In a back alley of Port Rawl, the creature slaked its blood lust upon the dying heart of its young prey, a girl-child just new to her first bleed. Once finished, the beast raised its black muzzle from her ravaged chest and howled to the rising moon. Its call of hunger echoed down the rows of seedy bars and brothels. Slipping into the dark shadows, the creature crept on all fours, claws digging into the filth of the alley. It wished to hunt all night—but it knew its master’s will.

None must grow suspicious…

The beast whimpered slightly at the thought of its master’s touch. Somewhere deep in its hungry mind, it remembered the burn of black flames and the boil of blood. It would obey. The monstrous creature scented the street beyond the alley: empty. Only the foolhardy or the drunk braved the roads of Port Rawl after the sun had set. Doors were barred and windows boarded up. The massive creature bounded across the muddy road. Though the moon was just beginning to rise, the hunt was over for this night. To delay any longer would risk awakening suspicion in those the beast hid from.

It sped across the street, catching a glimpse of itself in the moon’s reflection in a barroom window.

Slathering jaws, rows of shredding teeth, bunched and corded muscles, naked skin the color of a deep bruise. Flaps to either side of its nose spread wide to drink in the sea wind. So much blood, so many beating hearts.

It dashed into the alley and followed the narrow passage to its darkest corner. The tight space reeked of urine and excrement. Finding the pile of discarded clothes, it burrowed through them to find the object hidden underneath. Using teeth, it dragged its treasure forth. It studied the object, first with one cold black eye, then the other. A shudder passed over its flesh. It resisted returning to its hiding place, wanting only to run and feast on flesh and bone. It howled once again into the night.

From out in the street, someone yelled, “Shut your damn dog up, or I’ll come down there and slice its stinking throat.”

Skin prickling with hunger, the beast took a step back toward the road, but the memory of black flames stayed its paws. It could not refuse its master’s will. The monstrous beast returned to the clothes and the long object it had dragged forth. Bending over, it ripped the cured hide off the iron of the weapon. Once exposed, the hunt ended

, for this night.

The beast felt the burn of flowing flesh and the warp of bone. It collapsed in the trash of the alley and writhed, its jaws stretching wide in a silent scream as its muzzle sank back to flesh and fangs receded into gums. Paws spread into fingers as claws pulled back to yellowed nails. In only a few gasping breaths, the transformation

was complete.

Naked, Krai crawled up from the mud and debris. He rubbed his chin where his black beard still continued to fill in cheek and neck, then stood. His heart still throbbed with the blood of the young slain girl. He grinned in the dark alley and stepped toward his discarded clothes. His huge white teeth were aglow in the moonlight. It had

been a good hunt.

Still, the moon continued to climb the night sky, and he had to hurry lest the others grow suspicious. He bent and retrieved his discarded ax. The scraps that had bound the ax head fell away: bits of purplish hide from a slain sniffer. Krai collected them up. He had found the cured skin at a fur trader’s booth in the Four Corners bazaar and had been anxious to sample its power. He had not been disappointed. The night spent hunting as a sniffer of the Great Western Reaches had stirred Krai’s blood like no other hunt. Even now his heart beat faster, and his manhood stirred with the memory. Before this night, he had used the hides and skins of dogs and wolves to incite his transformation. And though those previous hunts were exciting, none compared to this evening. The scents had been so much clearer, his muscles so much stronger, his teeth so much sharper. Krai folded the scraps of hide carefully, saving them for another hunt.

He licked the trace of blood from his lips. Krai had also spotted the silver fur of a snow panther among the wares of the trader in Four Corners bazaar. Krai’s fist clenched at the thought of wrapping his ax with that rich fur and hunting the night as a monstrous cat. His manhood throbbed with the thought. His master had been generous the night he burned away Krai’s craven spirit and forged him into one of his ill’guard soldiers. On the night of his new birth, the Gul’gothal lord had named him Legion, granting him a generous gift of black magick. Whatever skin or fur he cloaked around the black heart of his ax, Krai could assume that beast’s form and abilities. He was not one creature, but a legion!

With his blood still surging, Krai gathered his clothes and dressed.

As he hitched his ax, he ran his fingers over the newly smelted iron. His original weapon had been destroyed, shattered upon the stone skin of the Dark Lord’s demon in Shadowbrook. That night, in the cellar, he had collected the shards of iron from the mud floor, and at a riverside smithy, he had forged his ax anew. Yet there was more than just iron in his new ax. From the mud of the cellar, Krai had also retrieved a chunk of ebon’stone. Blood from his severed finger had anointed the stone that night. Even now, his four-fingered hand caressed his ax with the memory of the stone’s oily touch. Guided by the Dark Lord’s instructions, he had melted the sliver of ebon’stone into his ax, forging a new black heart for his weapon.

The original iron of his ax, still tainted with the blood of a slain skal’tum, would mask Krai’s secret from the prying eyes of any seekers, including Mycelle.

Unknowing, the swordswoman would guide him to his final prey.

Now fully dressed and armed, Krai began the long walk across the city. Disguised as a friend, he was a trap set to kill a wit’ch. His heart thundered in his ears with the thought of burying his teeth in Elena’s tender heart. She would never suspect until his claws were at her soft throat.

Be it dog, bear, sniffer, or panther—Legion would have its prey.

Elena scrambled for the door to her cabin. Through the tiny porthole above her bed, she stared back at the pair of glowing red eyes. Even through the distortion of the crude glass, hatred and hunger seemed to flow from those slitted orbs.

Just a moment ago, she had awakened from a weak slumber to find those fiery orbs studying her. Like an itch on the skin, the gaze had drawn her from sleep. For half a breath, she had stared transfixed, frozen, until sharp claws dug at the glass. The keening scrape had ignited Elena’s heart. She had rolled out of bed, a scream bursting from her chest.

Her fingers fought the door’s lock. For a moment, she believed Er’ril had locked her inside. Then as quick as that thought came, the latch gave way, and the oaken door fell open. Elena tumbled into the passage as the scraping became fiercer, frantic. It knew its prey was escaping. Suddenly the scratching stopped. Elena glanced back into the cabin. Her eyes met those of the beast; then a sharp hissing, sibilant and furious, arose from beyond the porthole.

Elena paused in midstep. She knew that sound. She had heard it long ago and could never mistake it. It was like the hissing of a thousand serpents. Again their gazes locked, this time in shared recognition. Elena named the beast clinging to the hull of the Seaswift, her lips cold. “Goblin.” The single whispered word broke the spell. The eyes of the beast vanished in a blink, as if it were but a fragment of a nightmare

dissolving back into the land of dreams. But the echo of its hiss still filled Elena’s ears. This was no nightmare.

She ran down the short corridor, the rolling of the boat forcing her to keep one hand bumping along the wall. She reached the triple-barred hatch to the middeck and grabbed at the latch, but the door suddenly sprang open on its own. A hulking creature blocked the portal, filling the doorway.

“Elena?”

It was just Er’ril. With a gasp, she flew into the plainsman’s embrace, hugging him tight. “At my window… outside…” She fought to control her breathing and panic. “I awoke… and… and…” Er’ril pulled her away from his chest, holding her shoulder gripped in one hand. “Slow down, Elena.

What happened? Are you hurt?”

Elena finally noticed Joach, and the two Brothers, Flint and Moris, nearby. All were armed: Joach with his long staff and the two Brothers with short swords. The show of strength slowed her tongue and heart.

“Goblins,” she said. “I saw a goblin outside my cabin, through the porthole, staring in at me.”

“Goblins?” Er’ril relaxed his grip on her. “Elena, there’s no goblins near here.” The two Brothers lowered their swords, glancing at each other. “Drak’il?” Moris mumbled.

“Maybe deep in the Archipelago,” Flint answered, “but not near here.” Er’ril glanced over his shoulder, studying the empty deck and seas. “Maybe it was just the motion, the play of moonlight on the water playing tricks on you. The sound of the hull rubbing on the dock can echo strangely through a ship’s belly.”

Elena pulled free from the plainsman’s grip. “It wasn’t that!” Moris crossed to the starboard rail and leaned over to check the side of the boat.

“It was no figment,” she continued, but did not know how to explain the strange sense of recognition shared between her and the beast. “It seeks revenge for my slaughter of all those rock’goblins in the caves below Uncle Bol’s cottage. It knew me!”

As if to confirm her words, a soft hissing suddenly arose from all around the boat. Everyone froze. It was like the seas themselves were steaming.

“On the dock!” Moris shouted. His sword was out once again. He ran to the head of the gangplank and began savagely working a winch to haul the planking away from the jetty.

Er’ril gathered Elena to him and crossed to the rail. Small dark bodies clambered from the sea onto the stone quay, tails lashing like angry snakes about their clawed legs. Though larger than ordinary rock’goblins, there was no mistaking their forms: huge eyes, clawed toes, gray skin.

“The shore,” Flint mumbled and pointed

There, too, the dark creatures gathered, as if the rocks of the shoreline had come to life. Hunched forms scrabbled in the surf. Some climbed to join their brethren on the dock; others slipped into the surf to vanish under the black waves.

“What are they?” Er’ril asked.

“Drak’il,” Flint said. “Sea kin of the goblins.”

On the far side of the boat, a crash drew their eyes. Swinging around, Elena saw a huge sea goblin land on the deck. Crouched on all fours, it hissed and bared its needled teeth at them. A long tail waved in front of it threateningly. In the moonlight, a black barb as long as an outspread hand tipped its whipping tail.

Er’ril pushed Elena toward Joach. “Get her belowdecks!” Er’ril drew his silver sword and swept toward the creature.

“Beware its spiked tail,” Flint warned. “It’s poisoned!”

Joach drew Elena toward the raised foredeck, one hand on her elbow, the other on his staff. As she watched, more goblins spilled over the rails to assault the middeck. Most were smaller than the one Er’ril attacked. They seemed to lack the poisoned barbs but were heavily muscled and armed with claws and teeth.

Er’ril knocked aside the spike of his attacker and fought the beast back toward the rail.

“Release the bow- and sternlines!” Flint called to Moris, slashing with his sword. “The cove is a death trap if we stay.”

The huge black man flew toward the rear of the ship, cutting smaller goblins from his path. Flint worked to the main mast and snatched a hand ax. Keeping the goblins at bay with his sword, he attacked the ropes snugly tied to iron stanchions. As each rope was cut, its ends snapped away. Counterweights crashed to the deck as the

main sails unfurled with loud pops of sailcloth and the wind grabbed hold of them.

Er’ril dispatched his adversary with a sudden savage jab. He twisted the sword and danced back as the beast gave one final lunge with its tail before falling dead to the planks. But before he could even turn away, two more of the larger drak’il clambered over the rail.

One hissed and garbled something to a group of smaller goblins that were making toward Flint. They turned to harry Er’ril from the rear as the two threatened the plainsman from the front.

“C’mon, El!” Joach urged. Elena and her brother had reached the door to the ship’s lower decks. He had let go of her elbow to shoulder the door open and now held it wide. “We need to barricade inside.”

“No.” She already had her gloves off. Her ruby hands glowed in the moonlight. “If the others fail here, we’ll be trapped.”

Suddenly the boat lurched under her feet, and she fell back into Joach. He also lost his footing, and with a yell, the pair tumbled in a tangle of limbs into the open passageway. Joach regained his footing first and reached to slam the door to the middeck.