Through the jagged tear in its chest, shadows rolled like oily thunderclouds from some black well. But instead of thunder, the screams of tortured spirits and the howl of demons accompanied this storm front.

Out of these clouds, snaking ropes of darkness spread in all directions—not toward Er’ril or the others, but toward the dozens of dead goblins strewn on the deck.

Where these tendrils of shadow touched cold skin, the corpses convulsed, as if repulsed by the black caresses. Then all across the ship’s deck, goblin flesh sank to bone, the darkness sucking the very substance from the corpses. In only a few heartbeats, all that was left of the goblins were leathery skeletons, all knobbed joints and poking bone. With their flesh winnowed away, their teeth and claws seemed more prominent, shining bone-white in the sunlight.

But soon it was clear that what appeared as illusion was in fact real.

The fangs grew longer on the shadow-touched dead. Daggered claws stretched into sickles longer than a man’s forearms. Soon the beasts were nothing but teeth and claws connected by leathery bone.

“Now what?” Flint asked in a hushed voice.

Moris answered, his voice deep with doom. “I’ve read of these creatures. The golem creates ravers—demons of the underworld who inhabit dead flesh to hunt the living.“

“How do we fight them?” Er’ril asked.

Moris only shook his head.

The sound of footsteps behind them interrupted their words. Joach’s frightened face appeared in the shadowed doorway. “Elena… She’s gone!” he said, his cheeks red with panic. “I found her clothes…

and… and this!” Joach held forth a handful of bloody bandages.

Er’ril took a deep breath, his fist closing tight on his sword hilt. So he had not imagined the familiar lilt in the mad laughter. “Elena…”

Before them, the fanged beasts rose up on razored claws, like huge spiders of teeth and horn. They chattered at Er’ril, the noise like a jagged knife dragged up his spine. Eyes stared at him, hollow sockets that glowed a sickly yellow, as if glowing fungus filled their skulls.

But Er’ril knew the demons were the least of his worries.

“Elena,” he mumbled to the empty air, “what have you done?” Holding her bloody right fist clenched to her chest, Elena crouched and watched as the snaking shadows spread out from the core of Rockingham’s chest. Before her, the flesh of the goblüj queen had withered to leathery bones, claws and teeth sprouting like weeds in a barren field. Beyond it, others took form.

Ravers, she had heard Moris name these creatures.

The corpse of the goblin queen grew to be the largest of these foul demons, its fangs dragging on the deck.

Now, with its possession complete, the raver lifted its head. Baleful yellow eyes sought the life essence of its prey. All across the deck, its foul brethren rose arid scrambled to flank this huge monster. While the others chattered and hissed, the raver who inhabited the goblin queen remained as still as a cold grave.

Elena sensed that here stood the leader of this pack; the goblin queen had been possessed by the ravers’

king . This largest of the demons raised its hungry eyes and stared straight at Elena.

It somehow was able to see her.

Good, Elena thought. Let the demon see who was about to tear its spirit to shreds and feast on its energies.

Elena thrust out her fist and slowly opened it, exposing the bloody slice across the palm of her right hand. Silver flames rose from the wound, as if her blood were afire.

Dancing like whirlwinds, the flames spread up her arm and over her naked skin. Elena somehow knew this fire would burn away her spell of invisibility, but she was past caring.

She heard gasps from the guardians behind her and ignored them.

The wit’ch in her smiled at the raver king, stretching Elena’s lips into the wicked rictus of a naked skull.

Let demon fight demon.

Er’ril watched the fiery apparition materialize between him and the gathered raver demons. First a silvery flame, the size of a small torch, blew into existence, floating waist-high above the deck. Then from this seed of flame, the blaze billowed out in sheets and runnels, growing into a pyre of silvery fire.

“Get back,” Flint yelled, urging them all toward the hatch. Only Er’ril refused to budge. He stood before the growing conflagration, his sword raised. Unlike Flint, Er’ril knew this was not a new manifestation of black magick, but something… something else.

As the others gathered behind him, the flames flared higher. Silver and azure hues writhed in the wild blaze.

Then, from the heart of the inferno, a figure was born. She stepped forth from the flames naked as any squalling infant; yet this was no newborn babe, but a woman of stark beauty. And it was no cry that issued from her lips, but wild laughter.

Er’ril’s skin prickled at the mad sound. It ate at his mind, worming like maggots into his skull. He retreated a step, instinct urging him to flee. But instead he tightened his grip on his sword’s hilt and held his ground.

He knew that what stalked from these flames was not entirely of this world, but something from the darkness between the stars. Yet, as foreign and strange as the figure seemed, Er’ril’s heart recognized the woman behind the savage magick and feral

laughter.

He spoke her name. “Elena.”

The woman glanced fleetingly toward him. Flames still trickled across her naked skin as she stepped fully from the conflagration. Once free of the blaze, the fire that gave birth to the woman died JAMES LLEMENS

away, sucked back into the void from which it came. Now only the woman remained on the deck, naked except for traceries of fire running like oil across her skin.

Er’ril found his eyes meeting her gaze. What stood before him was not Elena, at least not entirely. The contours of her body, though familiar, now seemed carved of pale moonstone, as if the figure were only a sculpture of the girl he once knew. But what dwelt inside her now?

As their gazes locked and the wild laughter died away, Er’ril saw his answer. He gasped and stumbled back. It was as if he were staring into a maelstrom of wild energies, a storm of such ferocity that it threatened to burn the very spirit from his flesh. But that was not the worst, not what squeezed a gasp from his chest. He now spied what sat in the center of this vortex of magicks. It was no demonic intelligence that guided these colossal forces. // was only Elena. “Child, what have you done?” he moaned.

“Stand back, Er’ril,” she commanded him, her words echoing with both human rage and a power as immense as the flow of tides. “This is my fight.” She swung away to face the ravers. “No! Leave them!

This is not the way!”

She ignored him. Her flames flared higher as she faced the demons.

“What’s going on?” Flint said near his ear.

Er’ril’s brows darkened like thunderclouds. “The wit’ch in Elena has broken its chains. It now runs wild in her blood.”

Joach pushed up closer, his staff still in hand. “What does that mean?”

“It means Elena has given part of her spirit over to the wit’ch. A part of her is now a force as strong and wild as any cyclone and with as little heart.”

As if to demonstrate his words, Elena’s form blew forth with silvery flames, driving away the raver pack except for the largest of its foul ilk, which still stood with its claws dug deep into the storm-hardened wood.

As Elena approached, its yellow eyes did not reflect the wit’ch’s flames but seemed to consume them.

Finally, the monstrous raver beast raised its leathery head and screamed at the wit’ch.

Elena met its challenge with her own wild laughter.

Beyond them both, Rockingham stood with the raver demons capering about his shadowed feet. A smile of victory etched his lips.

I

Er’ril knew why the monster smiled. Even if Elena defeated the Dark Lord’s beasts, a small victory had already been achieved. A fraction of the girl’s spirit had died today, not killed by the drak’il’s poison but given freely to a force that did not belong to this world.

Elena was no longer fully human.

Er’ril felt ice settle around his heart. If the wit’ch ever wrested full control, all would be lost. Elena would become as dark and heartless a creature as the Black Beast himself. Er’ril raised his sword.

Moris stepped beside Er’ril. “She balances on a thin wire,” the dark-skinned Brother warned. “If she does not rein in her magick soon…”

Er’ril only nodded, his eyes still on Rockingham’s gloating smile. He suddenly understood the true ploy here.

He now understood why Rockingham had been dragged out of his moldering grave and back into the world of the living. Just as the Dark Lord had used the drak’ils to wear the men down, now he used the visage of her parents’ murderer to strike where Elena was most weak—at her spirit, at her heart.

The Dark Lord meant to goad Elena into a blind fury, forcing her to touch such titanic forces that she would be consumed by her own passion, leaving only a burned-out husk of a girl—someone filled with magick but no longer tempered by human emotion.

Er’ril knew what he must do. He waved the others toward him as he circled around the flaming figure of Elena. “We must stop her from confronting the golem,” he urged.

“Why?” Joach asked. “She’s the only one with the power to destroy him.”

“No. That’s just what the Black Heart wants. To Elena, Rockingham is as much an inner demon as a physical one. She risks destroying herself as much as harming him.” Flint and Moris flanked his other side. Moris spoke. “What do you propose we do?”

“Leave her to attack the ravers, while we deal with Rockingham.” As if hearing his words, the pack of ravers scrambled across the deck toward Elena like moths to her silvery flames, leaving a path open to the shadow-shrouded golem.

Joach’s eyes were on his sister. “She’ll be swamped by them all.”

“Good,” Er’ril said, drawing the shocked eyes of Joach and the others. “Let them keep her distracted from the true demon here. It’s

better that she die among the ravers than lose her soul to the Black Heart.“ The others had no words, too stunned by his cold statement.

By now, the scrape of their boots on the deck had drawn the attention of Rockingham, still rooted by the main mast. “So the tiny rats think to take down the lion,” he said with venom. “I thought you wiser than that, Er’ril.”

“Even the fiercest lion has a weak spot,” he answered and raised his sword. “A well-placed spear thrust to its heart will still kill.”

“Ah, that might be true,” Rockingham said as he cast aside the shreds of his linen shirt, revealing fully the gaping black well in his chest. “But, you see, I have no heart.” Elena let the smaller demons circle her. The scrabble of their claws filled her ears, but she ignored them.

Her eyes remained fixed on the largest of the beasts, the raver king. She sensed that here was the heart of the pack. Defeat it, and the rest would fall.

Sheets of flame spread in small waves from her body, flowing across the deck around her bare feet. The smaller ravers kept wary guard on these flames, scurrying forward when her magick waned, then dancing back on sharp claws when the waves of silvery flame approached. *

Yet so far the king of the demons had kept its post upon the deck, claws dug deep in the hard boards. It seemed little daunted by her display of ghostfire.

One of the smaller ravers clacked its fangs in menace and made a bold move. It leaped over Elena’s spreading pool of ghostfire, hurdling through the air. It dove toward her throat, razored claws stretched out like an iron bear trap.

Ignoring its threat, Elena turned away. The wit’ch would guard her back. Elena’s right hand rose on its own and pointed toward the hurtling raver in a warding gesture. A spurt of magick lanced out from her palm to strike the demon, ending the raver’s attack in midleap.

From the corner of an eye, Elena watched as the demon beast was consumed in ghostfire. Its flesh was burned from its spirit. All that was left was an outline of the raver etched in silver flame. Her ghostfire held the writhing spirit trapped. Then the magicks burned

deeper, branding the demon spirit with her mark. Elena could hear its wail as the wit’ch took possession and bent it to her will. No spirit could resist the burning touch of her ghostfire. Elena smiled as the demon spirit was spat away. It struck the deck and scrambled back up, shining now like a silver ghost. The spirit, still in its beast form, turned and attacked a neighboring raver. It dove atop its unsuspecting prey and latched onto its new mount. Then slowly it sank into the heart of the demon, disappearing inside it. Assaulted, the raver writhed in silent agony, claws skittering on the deck. Its neck arched back, and a horrendous scream tore from its throat, casting the invading spirit out through its black gullet. The silver spirit rolled across the deck, and with a shake, stretched back onto its ghostly claws unharmed.

The other raver had not fared as well. It quaked and quivered on its claws. The moldy glow in its yellow eyes flared to silver. Then, from its shell of leathery flesh, its own spirit sprang forth, crackling with ghostfire. Behind it, the vacant body collapsed into a ruin of hollow bone and sagging flesh. Abandoning its old roost, the new ghost stalked across the deck to join its twin. Then the pair of demon spirits continued their attack on the other ravers, spreading her touch of ghostfire like flames in dry grass.

Soon a ghost army grew around her as the wit’ch fed them more of her magick.

Elena paid them no heed. She knew that this was only the opening volley in the battle to come; the main fight beckoned. The raver king waited across the deck for her, drooling black blood. Her assault upon the other demons had not fazed it. It just stared at her.

Elena suspected the raver king would not be so easily swayed by her ghostfire. Here was a creature forged in the deepest pits of the netherworld. Fires of molten rock were its home, and the other ravers were mere pawns. To defeat this beast would require more than just the raw power of a wit’ch. The raver king was a cunning demon, and it would require both a wit’ch’s strength and Elena’s wisdom to carve a victory here.

Suddenly one lone raver scrambled between her and its king. Its claws danced in terror as it was set upon by her ghost pack and brought down like a frightened rabbit under hungry hounds. Then, in a moment, its spirit, too, joined her army.

Now no other ravers were left aboard the Seaswift—except for their king.

Satisfied, Elena reined back her magick, gathering it from the decks like the fiery hems of a long robe.

For the battle ahead, she would need all her remaining power. Already her right hand had lost much of its rosy hue. She could waste no more.

Before her, one of her ghost soldiers approached its king. The others followed. It was as if the spirits sensed the last of their quarry. In a burst of silver ghostfire, the army lunged at their king, meaning to rip its spirit free.

But the king stood its ground. It rose on its clawed limbs among the horde, a black stone in a maelstrom of silver spirits. Finally, the king opened his fanged maw and attacked the others, slashing and hacking with razored teeth. Just as its eyes had spotted Elena when she was invisible, now its fangs found purchase where none should be found. Its teeth ripped and tore her ghost army to naming shreds. A black tongue snaked from its throat and consumed the scraps of spirit, lapping like a hungry cat.

As it fed, the beast grew, using Elena’s own magick to swell its size. Legs, jointed and armored like a spider, spread under it. Fangs grew to the length of an outstretched arm. Its eyes sank deep under thickening brows, while horns of glistening spikes sprouted over its leathered skin.

Elena did not wait. Thrusting out her arm, she lanced out with her magick. Silver flames arced across the deck to hit the demon. She pumped all her magick toward the beast.

For the first time, the raver king howled as raw ghostfire enveloped it. It fought her hold, scrabbling across the deck toward her, meaning to snuff out the source of the searing flames.

Elena danced back from it, her arm still outstretched. “Begone, demon,” she screamed as her blood sang with the release of her energies. “I send you back from whence you came!” Unfortunately, the raver king did not obey. Where the smaller ravers had succumbed quickly, the demon king fought on.

From somewhere beyond the pyre of ghostfire, a cry reached her. “El, hang on! I’ll help you!” Her right eyebrow crinkled. It took her half a heartbeat to recognize Joach’s voice. Finally, she noticed Er’ril and the others gathered

across the deck, swords raised toward Rockingham. She spotted Joach’s boyish form, armed only with his staff, dashing across the planks toward her—toward the flaming figure of the raver king.

“Joach! No!” Elena fought against the hold of the wit’ch. That cold part of her spirit wished only for the battle between demons to continue. It cared nothing for a sister’s love for a brother: Such emotions had no role in the dance of magicks. Still, as the wit’ch cast her magicks at the struggling demon lord, draining the wild energies from her blood, Elena found the wit’ch’s call less seductive. She found herself able to think more clearly.

Elena remembered her earlier awareness—that to defeat the raver king would require more than just raw power. A moment ago, she had lashed out without thinking, but little had been gained from such rash action. She had wounded the beast, nothing more.

With her magick waning, Elena wrested control from the wit’ch. Quickly she stanched the flow of ghostfire, drawing the last of her magick back to herself before it was foolishly spent.

Before her, the raver king still burned with the touch of her flames, but her ghostfire would not last much longer. She had only a moment. She glanced to her pale hand. What could she do? This demon spirit seemed immune to what little of her magick there was left.

“Stand back, El!” Joach called back from the far side of the writhing demon. He bore his staff over his head as if he meant to club the beast with the stout wood.

Elena stared at her brother’s weapon. A seed of an idea bloomed in her mind. Where magic/{fails . ..

She suddenly remembered Aunt Mycelle’s lesson from just the other day: Where magic’tfails, a sword prevails.

Elena sprang straighter. “Joach! Don’t!” she yelled to him, but she knew that no word of hers would keep him away. He would die defending her. “Join me over here!” Holding her magick clenched in her right fist, she circled the writhing demon as it stamped out the last of her silvery flames.

Brother and sister sped toward each other’s side.

Noticing the motion, the raver king spun on its claws, gouging deep channels in the wood. It roared at them, confused, but failed to keep them apart. Joach skidded to a stop beside his sister, raising his k staff like a shield between the beast and Elena.

The raver king stretched up from its pained crouch, towering over the two of them. The stench of charred flesh curled from its blackened shell as two yellow eyes spat vengeance at them. “Finish her!” Rockingham yelled to his demon creation. Across the deck, Er’ril swiped his sword at Rockingham’s head, driving her tormentor back from the mast. “Elena!” he called to her. “Flee belowdecks! Use the last of your magick to hide yourself!”

Elena considered the sense in his words. She did have enough magick in her blood to fade from sight.

At her silence, Joach half turned to her. “Do it,” he urged quietly. Elena shook her head. Here was her place. Beside them all. As brother and sister silently communicated their determination and love, the beast attacked in a flurry of sharp edges. Fangs slashed at Joach while razored claws speared toward Elena.

Without flinching, Elena reached up beside her brother and grabbed his staff with her bloody right fist. As in the ship’s hallway, white and black magick clashed. An explosion of energies burst out from them, knocking the beast back a step. Where before the concussion had also flung Elena away, this time she was ready.

She locked an iron grip on the staff and held tight. Joach gasped beside her, feeling the surge of power as her blood and magick absorbed into the staff.

As she clenched the rod, more and more of her energies fed into the hungry wood. She swooned as she was drawn into the staff. For a moment, she experienced the fibers and channels of the wood. Even a whisper of forest song echoed in her ears. Still, the staff fed on her—and not all the energies it absorbed were mere magicks. Some of her own life essence flowed, too.

“No,” she moaned, suddenly understanding what was asked of her. Clutching the staff, she watched her fingernails lengthen, curling and yellowing with age. This price was too high!

“Elena! Watch out!” Joach’s frantic words drew her back from losing herself completely in the wood. He knocked her away, breaking her contact with the staff. Her arms fell limp to her side. Not only was her magick spent, so was her strength. “El, what… what did you do to my staff?” Elena fought to focus her eyes. The black poi’wood of Joach’s staff now shone silver, like the polished wood of a snowy maple. But marring its pristine surface were flowing streaks of scarlet, as if blood pumped through the heart of the wood.

“Use it,” she said aloud.

“The magick?”

She shook her head, sagging against the rail. She pushed him toward the monster as she fainted. “Use it the way Father taught you.”

Joach’s brow crinkled in confusion, but he was given no chance to argue. The raver king sensed the weakening of its prey and attacked. It jabbed a claw at Joach, meaning to impale him. But Joach blocked the deadly blow with a crack of his staff. He had only hoped to parry its thrust, but the results shocked both beast and boy.

The smote claw exploded under the staff into a shower of stinging shards. The demon yanked away its maimed limb and hissed as it retreated a step. It crouched lower on its armored limbs and studied Joach with sick yellow eyes. It had underestimated its prey.

Warily watching the beast, Joach glanced to the staff in his fist. The snowy white of the wood now glowed, and streaks of red flowed through the wood like thin rivers. As he stared, his eyes flew wide. The red rivers did not end with the wood but continued on into his own flesh. Through his pale skin, Joach watched the flowing channels creep over his knuckles and up his wrist. From there, the rivulets spread in curls and twists up the length of his arm, disappearing under the cuff of his shirt. What was happening ?

Before he could ponder it further, a hissing growl woke him to the more immediate danger.

Joach raised the magick-wrought staff. The thick wood was now as light as a willow branch in his fingers.

It took only the slightest dance of his fingers and twist of wrist to manipulate the whirling length of wood.

Joach swung the staff before him in a wicked arc, a blur of polished wood. His father had once told him that a wooden stave in skilled hands could be deadlier than the sharpest sword. He had doubted him then, but not now. He spun the staff over his wrist, catching it cleanly. He had never felt such control, such an understanding of wood and force. It was almost as if the staff were an extension of his own arm, a deadly statement of his own will.

Boy and staff were now one.

The raver king leaped, intending to rip them apart. Joach responded. With only a thought, the staff spun, and Joach drove its butt end into the face of the hurdling demon, stopping it in its tracks. The shivering impact shot up the wood and into his shoulder. Such a blow should have knocked the stave from numb fingers. But Joach hardly felt it. With a deft twist of his wrist, he twirled the staff and slammed its other end square atop the demon lord’s skull.

Bone cracked, and the raver king crashed to the planks, splintering a section of decking. The blow had been fierce enough to kill a bull—but this beast still lived. Clawed limbs dug for purchase, first weakly, dazedly, then with renewed determination.

Joach did not wait for it to regain its footing. He dashed forward, planting his staff on the deck, and vaulted up over the flaying storm of razored claws. He landed atop the back of the demon. Without pausing, he positioned the butt end of his staff against the center of the monster’s back, both fists clamped on its upper end. Joach dragged the staff straight up, then using all his weight and will, drove its end through the core of the demon. Wood cleaved cleanly through leather and bone, stabbing at last into the wood of the deck under the raver king.

The beast writhed like a pinned spider on corkboard. Joach danced to keep his footing, but the threat of claws and fangs was too near. Using his planted staff as a purchase, Joach again vaulted over the flailing limbs and tumbled across the deck. He caught up against the rail, only an arm’s length from his sister.

Rolling over, Joach watched the end result of his attack. The raver king’s struggles weakened with each shudder. The silver spike of wood held it trapped. Claws rattled to the deck, then lay still. In a wail that split the clouds and tore away a section of sail, the black spirit fled, steaming from around the impaling wood, and was gone.

All that was left were the hollow remains of the goblin queen, twisted and burned. The staff, still imbedded in the deck, had returned to its dark hue, the white magick spent.

Joach sat up and reached for his sister’s limp form. His hand froze as his eyes finally recognized her condition. “Sweet Mother… El…”

Elena lay sprawled, unconscious, in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the ship’s rail. Though she still breathed, her skin was as pale

as the first snow. Yet her weak pallor was not what trapped Joach’s breath. His sister’s hair, once cropped short, now lay like a thick pillow of fiery curls under her head. Only the very tips still showed the black dye that had once disguised her.

Joach scrambled toward her, too stunned to call to the others. As he neared, he saw that even the nails of her fingers and toes showed the same miraculous growth. Her fingernails had spread into twisted corkscrews across her palms.

Yet her hair and nails were not all that had grown out. Joach tried not to stare at her naked form, but the changes were too shocking to look away. Elena no longer bore the physique of a young girl whose womanhood beckoned. Her figure had blossomed and stretched into the full curves of a beautiful maiden. It was as if four winters of age had swept over her in mere heartbeats.

Joach quickly shrugged out of his shirt and wrapped her nakedness in the thick wool. It barely covered her.

She must now be a good head taller than him.

The motion stirred her. “J-Joach?” she mumbled. Her eyelids fluttered with fatigue.

“Hush, El. Sleep,” he whispered, unsure what to say. “You’re safe.“

Across the deck, a voice argued otherwise. “You’d best deliver her to me, boy,” Rockingham called.

“Perhaps I’ll even let you live.”

With eyes narrowed in hate, Joach turned and stalked across the planks until he stood beside the impaled staff, his only weapon.

On the far side of the deck, Er’ril and the others still held Rockingham in a temporary standoff. Swords circled the monster, but the golem lay nestled in his protective shadows. Flint warned against stepping into that oily darkness.

Joach raised his own voice, fierce with vengeance. “Send the entire demon horde of the netherworld against us, you monster. But you will never touch Elena.”

“Strong words for someone now bereft of his sister’s magick.”

“I will fight you with any weapon,” he spat back. He reached for his staff. As his fingers wrapped around the wood, a shock arced through his body. His knees gave way.

Using the staff as a crutch, he barely kept his footing.

Where his fist gripped the wood, red channels flowed out from his flesh into the staff. Black wood became white again as rivulets of

scarlet spread through the staff. Each thudding beat of his heart pushed the darkness farther away. Joach’s eyes grew wide, but he could not deny what he sensed. It was his own blood now that flowed through the wood, feeding the hungry staff. He had thought Elena’s magick spent, but now he understood that it had only gone dormant, awaiting his blood to rekindle it. As the magick reignited, he heard a distant chorus deep in his ears: a hum of magick, gleeful and wicked. Strength returned to his limbs.

“El, what have you done?” he muttered.

“I had no choice,” a weak voice answered from near the rail.

Startled, Joach glanced and noticed that his sister’s eyes were open. She stared transfixed as his blood filled the staff. It now shone white from tip to tip.

“I needed a weapon,” she continued, tired and forlorn.

“So you forged this.” Joach yanked the staff from the deck. It was as easy as if he were removing a fork from warm butter.

“No,” she said. Her eyes met his for the first time. “I forged you.” Er’ril kept his sword raised between Rockingham and the wit’ch. He did not glance back as Joach and Elena whispered. He feared giving the golem any chance to better its position on the deck.

So far, he and the two Brothers had played a cautious game of cat and mouse with the demon across the deck of the vessel. After the creation of the raver horde, the magick in the golem had seemed to weaken. It had retreated to a defensive position, casting a protective ring of shadows around its ankles. While their swords had kept it from nearing Elena, its shadows still held them at bay.

Er’ril tightened his grip on his sword’s hilt. Shadows or not, they must act soon. They could not give the monster a chance to gather its strength for another assault.

It was at this moment that fate took hold of destiny.

A grinding roar ripped through the bowels of the Seaswift. The decks tremored underfoot; the crunch and crack of timber echoed over the waters. Er’ril guessed it to be another black trick of the golem. But from the pinched, surprised expression on Rockingham’s face, Er’ril suspected he might be mistaken.

Flint answered the mystery. “Reef!” he yelled. The seaman’s face was a mixture of indecision. From the worried glance to the stern, he

obviously feared abandoning the demon’s flank, but he knew a hand was needed on the lashed wheel if they were to survive.

Before either Brother could act, the ship lurched and a deep growl shook through the vessel. The masts tilted drunkenly; the canvas sails snapped in protest.

“We’re stoved!” Flint yelled.

The ship ground to a battered stop. Surprised, Er’ril fell backward, even as the deadly shadows swept over the very spot where he had been standing. Rockingham, no more experienced at keeping his footing atop the bucking planks than Er’ril, had stumbled nearer, falling to his knees.

Er’ril started to roll farther away across the deck when he stopped in horror.

Moris, well seasoned by the rough seas of the Archipelago, had ridden out the sudden halt with one hand on the mast, only to be consumed by the passing wave of shadows as Rockingham stumbled. The dark-skinned Brother stared in disbelief as the shadows swept up his legs.

Flint took a step nearer.

Moris must have seen him. “No! Man the wheel!” he ordered, raising his head. His voice was thick with pain. The black-skinned Brother raised his sword. “Save the ship! I’ll dispatch this fiend.” Already the darkness consumed his body. Flashes of white femur shone through snatches of parting shadows.

Rockingham, still on his knees, tried to crawl away, but Moris towered over him. As the shadows ate away the man’s thick legs, the large Brother dropped like an axed tree. He bore his short sword gripped in both fists, his face a mask of pain. Still, his strength of will could not be tainted by the spreading darkness. Moris made sure as he fell that he toppled toward the cowering figure of Rockingham, his sword aiming true.

Rockingham swept an arm up in useless defense, a cry on his lips. It was to no avail. Moris struck the demon clean through the chest with his sword, collapsing atop the golem as the shadows swallowed them both away.

“Moris!” Flint cried.

Er’ril rolled to his feet as the shadows swirled in on themselves, whirling tighter and tighter like water down an unseen drain. A shrieking wail echoed out from the shadows, growing shriller and more piercing as the pool of darkness shrank. Then, in another breath, the darkness was sucked away.

Joach joined them. No one spoke.

Atop the deck was a long, bleached skeleton, a short sword still gripped in the tangle of finger bones. Moris.

Everyone stared in shock, too exhausted to find their tongues. Relief at the monster’s defeat fought in their hearts with horror at the final cost.

Joach finally broke the silence with a whispered prayer. “Sweet Mother, take our friend safe to your bosom.”

Er’ril found no words to add, struggling with rage and sorrow. How many such warriors would have to die before Alasea could be free?

Flint bent and reached to the skeleton. He touched the white skull reverently, then retrieved a glint of silver from the deck. He stood up and held out his hand to Joach. The boy accepted the gift.

Er’ril stared at the silver star in Joach’s palm. It was Moris’ earring, the symbol of his old order.

“He would’ve wanted you to have it,” Flint said, his voice hoarse with emotion.

“I’ll wear it with honor.”

Flint wiped at his eyes, then straightened. His gaze was still full of tears. “I must check the ship,” he said to Er’ril. Already the boat had begun to list in the water.

Er’ril nodded, sensing that the old man also needed a moment to himself. He had lost a dear friend this day, and some grieving could only be done alone.

Once Flint was gone, Joach pointed to the skeleton. “What of Rockingham? Where are that monster’s bones?”

Er’ril remembered the tortured scream fading away with the shadows. “I don’t know. I fear even here he might have again escaped death.”

“Then Moris’ sacrifice was in vain.”

“No, his attack, even if not fatal, drove the monster from our decks. I don’t think we could have withstood another magickal assault.”

Joach nodded, his fist tight around the silver star. “Next time,” the boy said with such venom that his words drew Er’ril’s eye, “I’ll rip his heart out with my own hands.” Er’ril gripped Joach’s shoulder consolingly, then noticed the length James Ilemens

of white staff in the boy’s other hand for the first time. He could not miss the threads of crimson flowing in the wood. “Joach, let me see your staff.”

Joach pulled out of his grip and held the staff away from Er’ril suspiciously. “Why?” Er’ril studied Joach, noting the streams of scarlet linking boy to staff. “Never mind. You’ve already answered my question.” Er’ril started to turn away, then added over his shoulder, “I suggest in the future, if you’re not in battle, that you wear a glove whenever handling the staff. You only have so much blood, boy.” Er’ril ignored Joach’s wrinkled brow and turned away, searching the far side of the deck. He finally spotted Elena seated by the starboard rail. She sat with her knees pulled up, hugging her legs, her face buried in her arms. From her quaking shoulders, he knew she was weeping.

He crossed to her with a heavy heart, noting the cascade of red curls hiding her face. He was as much to blame for Elena’s rash action and its result as the girl herself. The other day in Flint’s kitchen, he should have explained to Elena in more detail about the spell. But at the time he had feared frightening her too much. She had been shaken up enough already. Er’ril sighed and stepped nearer.

Elena must have heard his tread. She kept her head bowed, and her words were muffled by her arms. “I’m sorry about Moris,” she said. “I hardly knew him, and yet he gave his life to protect me. I should have… I could have…”

“No,” he said sternly. “We lost a good man this day, but it’s not right for you to assume any blame. If you do, you dishonor my friend. He gave his life to protect you, and you should accept his sacrifice with good grace. Honor Moris by knowing he saved you and that there was nothing you could do to prevent it.” Her sobbing worsened for a few moments. Er’ril let her cry. They still had much to discuss, and he let her grief run its course. Finally, he spoke again. “About Joach… and the staff.” Elena flinched visibly at his words. She seemed to shrink farther in on herself, pulling her face away. “I thought I had no choice,” she mumbled, her voice full of pain.

“And perhaps you didn’t. But your decision didn’t allow Joach any choice either. You took that from him.” She remained silent.

“Do you understand what you did?” he asked. “Do you know what you created?” She nodded, her face still covered. “I… I forged a blood weapon. Like those blood swords you told me about. And… and I linked it to Joach.”

“Yes,” Er’ril said, glad at least that she recognized what her mag-ick had wrought. He had feared that perhaps the wit’ch had controlled her actions. “He is a strong boy, and your whole family has an affinity for magick. There is a possibility that he can control the weapon with training. But he is also rash and quick to temper. These qualities could lead him to become enthralled to the staff’s magick. Only time will tell.” Elena pulled tighter into a ball. “I’m destroying my entire family.” Er’ril knelt beside her. “Freedom is always costly.”

“But must my whole family bear the debt?”

Er’ril reached and pulled her into his one-armed embrace. “I’m sorry, Elena,” he said as he held her tight.

“It’s a heavy burden, but it’s not just your family that bears it. All of Alasea bleeds.” She trembled in his arms, leaning deeper into his chest. “I know,” she whispered, her voice so hopeless that Er’ril wanted to shelter her like this forever. They sat silently in each other’s embrace for several breaths more. Finally, Elena’s trembles died away, and she raised a hand. “And what of this?” she said, indicating the overgrown fingernails. “Why did this happen?”

At last, she turned to stare Er’ril full in the face. Her eyes were puffy from grief, her cheeks pale and stained by tears. For the first time, he saw the woman who had hidden behind the softness of a young girl’s features.

Framed by curls the color of fire, Elena’s green eyes were now flecked with a commanding gold. Her cheekbones were arched high and begged a finger to trace the long curve past her strong chin to her slender neck. Her lips were slightly parted as she stared up at him, and they had fully bloomed into the heavy bud of a rose.

“Er’ril?”

He blinked a few times and pushed slightly away, clearing his throat. He had known the cost of forging a blood weapon and knew there would be changes in the girl. Still, he was momentarily shocked by her visage. He had not expected this woman to be staring back at him.

Sensing his sudden discomfort, Elena glanced down at herself and tugged the woolen edges of Joach’s shirt tighter around her physique. “What’s happened to me?” Swallowing, he pried his tongue loose. “To forge a blood sword, or any such magick-wrought weapon, a part of the mage has to be given freely. A part of his life must be granted.” Her brows wrinkled together. “What do you mean?” He sought to speak more plainly but found his thoughts hard to organize. He could not keep his mind from dwelling on the changes in her. “Years were stolen from you and given to the staff. You’ve aged, Elena. In the moment it took you to create Joach’s blood staff, I estimate that you’ve aged at least four or five winters.” Her hands fumbled to her face, as if she wanted to feel the truth of his words, but her long nails made it difficult. “My hair… my

nails…“

“It’s as if you’ve slept for four winters and just now awoke.” Her face paled further, and again tears began to well. Before either could speak, Joach interrupted. The boy called across the deck, waving his staff to urge them up. Behind him, the grizzled figure of Flint could be seen crawling out of the stern hatch. He was soaked from top to bottom. Joach’s words flew to them. “We’re completely stoved in! Seawater’s swamped the lower holds. We must abandon the boat!” He finally reached them, out of breath, his leggings soaked with seawater. “We’re to gather our belongings and

retreat to the skiff.“

As if accenting his words, the ship suddenly rolled and a shuddering rip reverberated through the planks of the deck. Er’ril helped Elena stand, then passed her to Joach. She seemed wobbly on her legs. Er’ril was not sure how much was due to exhaustion and how much was due to the sudden increase in her height. She would have to grow accustomed to her longer limbs and new physique.

Joach eyed his sister’s height, then took her arm. He now had to glance up at his sister, where before it had been the other way around. The boy of fourteen winters now stood beside a woman of eighteen or nineteen.

“Get her to the skiff,” Er’ril ordered. “Then help me gather our gear.“

Nodding, Joach led her away.

Er’ril crossed quickly to where Flint stood near the stern wheel, a spyglass fixed to his eye.

Lti VV A K

“How long until she sinks?” Er’ril asked.

“Depends,” Flint answered, still studying the surrounding seas with his glass. “If she rolls off the reef she’s caught on, we could sink in moments. If she stays hooked, she might stay above water until sundown.

But that’s the least of our worries.” He lowered the spyglass.

“What do you mean?”

“Another boat’s spotted our tilted masts. It just changed course toward us.” Er’ril frowned. “In these waters…”

Flint finished his thought. “Pirates for sure, looking for a quick and easy bounty.” Flint shook his head as he stared at the approaching ship.

“What?”

“I know the colors of that ship. The captain and I were once friends.”

“So why isn’t this good fortune?”

Flint scrunched his face sourly. “I said we were once friends. No longer. The approaching ship is Captain Jarplin’s shark-beamed hunter.”

“Captain Jarplin?” The name rang familiar in Er’ril’s ear.

“I told you about him. He’s the fellow from whom I stole Sy-wen’s dragon. A treasure of a lifetime. So I don’t think he’ll take kindly to meeting up with me again.” Flint glanced significantly at Er’ril. “Or anyone I’m with.”

“Can we escape in time in the skiff?”

“Not in these currents.”

“Any other ideas?” Er’ril knew their party was too bone-tired from the day-long battle with demons to handle a shipload of fresh pirates. Elena, especially, was too worn and shaken by her transformation. To use any more magick without a proper rest would threaten her control and her spirit.

Er’ril eyed Flint, silently asking for help.

Flint nodded, letting out a long sigh. “I have a plan.” He turned to stare over the waters, quiet for a moment, then shrugged. “But we’ll have to give the hunter what he wants.” OLD DEBTS

Walking in silence, Mogweed followed the others deeper into the coastal forest. Up ahead, Mycelle led the way down a faint deer path, guiding them toward where she had hidden their horses and to where Meric awaited them. Mycelle had already explained her sudden change of fate: from death to full revitalization.

She had also explained that Mama Freda would be joining them on the journey to meet the wit’ch. But Mogweed had heard little of this, too stunned by Mycelle’s sudden demonstration of her shape-shifting ability.

Ahead, Tol’chuk marched beside Mycelle. He stuck close to his mother’s side, reaching to touch her every now and then as if he feared she would melt away into the surrounding wood.

Behind Mogweed, Krai and Fardale guarded their rear. They had left the gates of Port Rawl far behind, but there were still bandits who frequented these woods, so caution was needed. Though well guarded, Mogweed still jumped at every crack of twig or rustle of brush.

Not all of his edginess was simple fear.

As he stared at Mycelle, odd feelings worried his belly. He could not deny that a sliver of joy thrilled his blood at seeing a full si’luran after so many seasons, someone who had complete use of her shape-shifting abilities. But mostly a gnawing anger and frustration burned in him.

Why her?

A slight scowl etched his hard mouth as he hiked. It wasn’t fair! The swordswoman had chosen to settle into human form. It had been her own choice—unlike Mogweed and his brother. Their shifting abilities had been stolen from them through the abuse of an ancient spell. In search of a cure, the two brothers had traveled far, through so many dangers. If anyone should be free of this curse, it should be them.

Fardale padded quietly through the brush to join Mogweed, as if sensing the strong emotions warring in his brother’s breast. The wolf nudged Mogweed’s tight fist.

“What do you want?” he snapped sourly, glancing toward his brother.

The wolf’s eyes glowed a deep amber in the darkening wood. Images formed: A flower growing from desert sand. A small bird hatching from a cold nest. A stillborn pup revived by a wolf bitch’s warm tongue. All were glimpses of new life springing forth from hard circumstances.

Mogweed knew what his brother was trying to communicate. Fardale’s images all spoke of hope. If Mycelle could regain her abilities, then so could they. Mogweed grasped at this thin prospect. He reached for Fardale, hoping to share this sliver of renewed hope. But Fardale was already gone, twisting on a paw and slipping back to join Krai.

Pulling back his hand, Mogweed tried to hold onto his renewed faith, but like smoke, it faded away.

Mogweed knew better. Mycelle had had to die to regain her abilities. Was he willing to go that far? In his breast, Mogweed knew the answer. Frustration and despair swelled through him.

But there was even more reason for consternation.

Fardale had always been an eloquent speaker, whether by tongue or mind. But this last sending had been coarse, the images rough and blurred at the edges. Perhaps it was just Fardale’s excitement, but Mogweed doubted this simple explanation. He had sensed something wilder behind his brother’s amber eyes, like the howling of a feral wolf. Fardale was beginning to lose his ability to spirit speak as the wild wood claimed him. Time was running out. In less than three moons, the curse would consume them both, freezing them permanently into their current forms. Both brothers’ eyes would lose their amber glow, and any chance of regaining their si’luran heritage would be gone forever. Fardale would become another wolf in the wood, and Mogweed would become another man among many. They would forever forget their heritage.

Mogweed’s legs trembled under him. Never! Even if it meant betraying everyone here to the Dark Lord of this land, including his own brother, then so be it. He glanced to where Mycelle smiled warmly at Tol’chuk. Mogweed’s eyes narrowed with determination. One day I will again enjoy my own freedom.

I swear it!

As he scowled at the unfairness of fate, he failed to notice the motion to the right of the path until too late.

A figure stepped silently out of the neighboring cluster of skree-bushes. Mogweed gasped and stumbled, not only from the shock of the man’s sudden appearance but also because of the figure’s monstrous countenance. Half his face was eaten away by a roil of pinkish scar tissue, consuming one ear and half his black-bristled scalp.

Swords and axes appeared up and down the deer path. Tol’chuk lunged toward the intruder, moving surprisingly fast for such a bulky creature. The man’s eyes grew wide at the onrushing og’re. He backed deeper into the surrounding brush. Behind him, Mogweed spotted other shadowy figures and the glint of steel farther back in

the wood.

“Stop!” Mycelle suddenly cried harshly. Her command split through the woods like a thrown ax.

Tol’chuk obeyed his mother and skidded to a halt on his thick, clawed legs. The og’re leaned one huge fist in the loam of the wood, panting and baring his fangs at the man.

Mycelle pushed to join them. As she elbowed forward, she shoved down Krai’s ax with her palm, then crossed to stand between Tol’chuk and the bandit. “He’s a friend,” she scolded them all. “I had left word in the city for him to join us here.”

Krai’s voice was more growl than human. “Who is he?” Mycelle scowled and dismissed Krai’s question for a moment. She stepped forward and embraced the man warmly. “How is Cassa Dar?” she asked as she released him.

He smiled at the swordswoman, a most gruesome sight due to the twist of scarred flesh. “She rests in Castle Drak. The attack last moon drained her, but she recuperates.” The man suddenly squinted at Mycelle, frowned a moment, then held her at arm’s length, studying her. “Your eyes… They’ve changed!

What happened?” Mycelle seemed to shrink back from him, lowering her gaze. Mogweed realized that the stranger must know nothing about her true si’luran heritage. Mycelle finally spoke, not lying but dancing

around the truth. “I died,” she said, then exposed the snake on her arm. “A healer and the magick in a snake brought me back. My eyes were like this afterward.”

The man leaned closer. “The way they’re slitted, they could almost be snake eyes.” Before the situation grew more awkward, Fardale danced forward, tail wagging furiously. The man greeted the wolf with a scratch behind an ear and a friendly thump on the side. “I see your burns are healing well, Fardale,” the man said.

Fardale barked his agreement.

Krai interrupted the reunion. “Could someone explain who this is?” Mycelle turned. “His name is Jaston. He helped guide Elena through the swamp.” Mycelle gave them a quick version of the tale of their journey through the Drowned Lands.

“So this swamp wit’ch is a d’warf,” Krai mumbled, his eyes filled with a red fury Mogweed had never seen before.

“Yes,” Mycelle answered. “But I know what you think…”

“You know nothing about what I thinly.” Krai’s voice had frosted to ice. “You know not how her foul brethren drove my clans from our ancestral homelands near Tor Amon. It was d’warf armies that destroyed our homes, slaughtered our women and babes on their pikes, and made nomads of my people.”

“Cassa Dar is not like that,” Mycelle insisted. “She saved our lives in the swamps.”

“Your lives would not have needed saving if the wit’ch hadn’t cursed Elena and forced you all into the foul bogs.”

“Sir,” Jaston said coldly. His face had grown flushed during the exchange. “You know not what you speak.

Cassa Dar does not deserve your wrath.”

Tol’chuk grumbled his agreement, seeking to*end the tension. “If Er’ril and Elena trusted her, so should we.”

Krai was not swayed. “A d’warf is a d’warf,” he said angrily and turned, marching a few steps away.

Mycelle watched Krai’s back with tight lips, then let out a long sigh. “Men,” she grumbled and turned back to Jaston. “So you got my message?”

“Just at dawn,” Jaston said. His angry flush faded. “I just managed to escape the city before it was locked down.”

“And Mist? Does the child’s mare fare well?”

He frowned. “Yes, but perhaps I should’ve done you all a favor and fed that piece of stubborn horseflesh to a hungry kroc’an. That is the laziest, most ornery mare I’ve ever led.” He started ticking off items on his fingers. “On the trek here, she almost colicked on swampweed, then bit Sammers on the elbow when he doused her with herbs to settle her belly. She kicked the lead stallion who pulled our wagon, laming the beast for a fortnight. Because of that, we had to abandon one of the wagons with a quarter of our wares.

And just last night, she chewed through her lead, and we had to hunt her down through the streets of Port Rawl. We found her at an apple vendor. She had cracked his stall and eaten half his wares. It cost me a steep fee to compensate him.”

Mycelle grinned at his story, and by the end, Jaston’s scarred features also shone with the ghost of a smile, the tension from a moment ago fading. “So I guess,” Mycelle said, “you’ll be glad to be rid of her.” He rolled his eyes. “You don’t know how pleased I was to find your note this morning at the Watershed Trading Post.” Jaston waved his companions forward.

The rustle of hooves and whispered words announced their approach through the wood. Mogweed counted six men and one hard-looking woman among the swampers. They led three horses. The largest was a striking dappled stallion with lines that clearly led to the horse clans of the Northern Steppes. The next was a golden-skinned gelding with a stately gait and quick, intelligent eyes.

Mycelle reached a hand to this horse’s nose. “Grisson,” she said in greeting. This horse was obviously hers.

The gelding snuffed at her offered palm and nudged her.

The last to be led forward was Elena’s small gray mare. Her big brown eyes studied the gathered troupe with indifference, and she dug one hoof in the dirt in irritation. Mogweed thought this horse’s belly seemed a bit fuller than the rest.

Mycelle must have noticed this, too. “I see you’ve been feeding Mist well.“

“As if we had any choice.”

Mycelle crossed and ran a hand along Mist’s flanks. “She looks in good shape otherwise.“

“Well…” Jaston’s voice sounded hesitant. “She’s in even better shape than you might imagine.“

“What do you mean?”

Jaston ran a hand over his cropped hair, a strained look in his eye. “You know that stallion she kicked?

Well, she kicked him when he tried to breed her a second time; she wouldn’t stand for him again.” Mycelle’s hand still rested on Mist’s flank. She ran her hand over the mare’s full belly. “You’re not telling me… ?”

“He mounted her the first time at the last moon. I think she may already be with foal, but it’s too early to say for sure.”

Mycelle sighed and stepped back, appraising the horse, then shrugged. “That’s why I always ride a gelding.

Come, Grisson,” she said, taking the lead of the golden-maned horse. “We’ve another half league to cover before reaching camp.”

Jaston stood his ground and eyed Krai. “We’ve still wares to sell in Port Rawl. So maybe it’s best to part ways here.”

Mogweed noticed a hurt glint in Mycelle’s eyes. “Nonsense,” she argued. “The gates to the city are already locked down.”

“They’ll let us through. The watch never refuses entry to swamp traders.”

“Then at least enjoy a hot meal with us.”

Jaston, still hesitant, slowly nodded. “I guess we could use a moment among friends before tackling the traders of Port Rawl.”

“Then it’s settled.” Before anyone else could argue, Mycelle led her gelding to the front of the group.

In a short time, the troupe marched through the last of the twisting wood and came upon a clearing atop a craggy bluff. Sheltered back under the eaves of the trees, a small campfire burned cheerily in the approaching gloam of sunset. A few horses stood nestled and roped to one side, while two frail figures stood limned in the firelight staring back at the group warily.

Mogweed recognized the wizened figure of the old healer, Mama Freda. Beside her stood Meric.

Apparently, the elv’in lord had finally healed enough from the attack in Shadowbrook to be out of bed. But as they crossed the clearing, Mogweed noticed how heavily Meric leaned on a thick cane as he strode forward to meet them.

“Who are these others?” Meric said with a scowl, clearly not happy with the additional members of the party.

Tol’chuk took the elv’in aside and explained while Mycelle directed the others to settle the horses.

Mogweed ended up standing beside Fardale as the flurry of activity rolled around them.

Mogweed turned to his brother. “What do you make of this Jaston fellow?“

Fardale’s eyes glowed toward Mogweed. An image formed in his rnind, a picture of a past event.

Mogweed saw Fardale being snatched aloft by the white tentacles of a winged beast, his fur burning with the creature’s grip. Jaston leaped from a small boat, a knife clenched in his teeth, and rescued the wolf.

Mogweed nodded with these images. Jaston had saved Fardale’s life, and among the si’luran, there was now a blood debt between the wolf and the man. As kin to Fardale, Mogweed shared the debt, whether he liked it or not.

Fardale nudged his brother’s hand, then wandered over toward the hearth. Mogweed hung back, still uncomfortable around all these humans—especially the strangers.

From behind him, Krai suddenly stepped next to Mogweed, startling the erstwhile shape-shifter. Glancing up to his huge companion, Mogweed saw the sour expression on Krai’s face as he contemplated the others, as if sharing the shape-shifter’s sentiments about the strangers. Mogweed also noticed how the mountain man’s fist rested hard on the hilt of his ax. But at least his weapon was still sheathed in leather.

Mogweed started to turn away when a flare of firelight revealed the purplish, bruised hue of the leather that sheathed Krai’s ax. Disgust curled the corner of Mogweed’s lip. As a si’luran, he recognized the source of that leather. It was the skin of a sniffer, the slavering beasts who hunted the deep forests of the Western Reaches. Mogweed recalled the sniffer who had attacked him and his brother among the lands of the og’re.

Before Mogweed could comment on Krai’s choice of leathers, the mountain man’s brows lowered, and he spoke, his voice as deep and vicious as the hunting growl of a sniffer. “I don’t trust these others, especially that scarred man, Jaston.”

Krai eyed Mogweed, who could only nod under his intense gaze. Mogweed fought to keep from trembling.

Maybe it was just the sudden memory of the sniffer’s attack in the mountains, but for a moment, Mogweed felt a hungry menace in Krai’s gaze, like that of a predator from the blackest forest. He was relieved when Krai finally glanced away and stalked across the clearing toward the campfire.

After several shuddering breaths, Mogweed followed on numb legs. He had never seen this side of Krai.

He joined the others, making sure the campfire was between him and the mountain man. In the firelight, Krai’s eyes glowed a deep crimson, his face an unreadable mask.

Mogweed studied him a moment longer, one eyebrow crinkling. He watched Krai’s right hand reach and rub at the leathered skin that hid his ax blade. He was sure the mountain man was unaware of how his fingers caressed the leathers with such fervid intensity, the movement slow and almost hungry, like a man caressing a lover’s breast…

Mogweed looked away and swallowed hard. An icicle of fear slid through his innards. How had the mountain man managed their escape from Port Rawl’s garrison? He had never explained.

Interrupting his reverie, Mama Freda hobbled up to Mogweed, a platter of venison and wild onions in her hands. Tikal, her pet tam-rink, sat perched on her shoulder and stared at him with huge eyes. The tiny beast held a small onion in one fist and nibbled at it. Mama Freda offered a fork to Mogweed. “Help yourself, little man,” she offered.

He waved her off, his stomach suddenly sick at the thought of food.

“You should eat,” she insisted. “We’ve a long way to travel.”

“Thank you,” he said softly. “Maybe later.”

Shrugging, she wandered off as Tol’chuk settled next to Mogweed. “It must be good to see your brother safe,” he said, waving a hunk of meat toward where Fardale sniffed around the horses. The og’re’s fingers were greasy from the meat.

Mogweed answered by nodding toward where Mycelle stood talking with Jaston. “Nothing like family to hearten the spirits, eh?”

Tol’chuk clapped Mogweed on the shoulder. “Besides my mother, you be my family, too,” he said. “Among my clans, I was a half-bred outcast. Since leaving my lands, I’ve found my two half brothers— maybe not in blood, but at least in spirit.”

Mogweed studied the og’re to see if he was jesting with him.

But Tol’chuk’s features were warm and relaxed as he stared around the camp. He was sincere. “You both be now my clan,” he finished.

Mogweed stared into the flames. For the oddest reason, he found j A M r ft ‘tj l ji in i 1.

himself wiping at an eye. Surely it was just the burn of the campfire’s smoke.

Tol’chuk suddenly clutched at his chest, a groan flowing from his lips.

“Tol’chuk?” Mogweed stood abruptly, leaning over the og’re.

Straightening back up, Tol’chuk sighed deeply, a sheen of perspiration on his brow. “It be all right. I just never felt it this strong.”

“What happened?”

Tol’chuk just shook his head. “Trouble, I think.”

From where he stood guard near the wood’s edge, Kral watched the others eat.

By the time everyone was finally seated near the campfire and digging into their meals, the sun had touched the western horizon, striping the clearing with the long shadows of tree trunks. Kral enjoyed the approach of evening. His senses, already keen, had been heightened by dark magicks. The night’s black cloak hid nothing from his sight, and his sharp ears could pick out the pounding heart of prey from a hundred paces.

Still, the rumbled conversation and occasional spate of laughter from around the camp kept him distracted.

He hated these newcomers, with their strange smells and alert eyes. They were hunters like himself, and he distrusted them—not that he expected any foul betrayal on their part, but simply because they were an unknown element in his careful plans. Kral watched them warily.

For this reason, he didn’t sense the presence of the spy until the crack of a twig alerted him to the intruder.

He spun around to the shadowed wood. “Who goes there?” he barked loudly. Behind him, the camp instantly went silent with his call. His ax lay already bared in his four-fingered fist, the iron shining in the last rays of the sun.

Nothing lay out there. He saw no movement among the black shadows. He narrowed his eyes and cocked his head, listening. Deeper in the wood, off to the left, he heard the fluttering beat of a buck’s heart, but nothing else. He relaxed his grip on the hickory handle of his ax. Nothing was out there.

Suddenly a small voice intruded, just a few paces away. “I’m hungry.” Krai’s eyes grew wide as the speaker, a small naked child,

stepped from around the bole of a cypress. The boy scratched behind a filthy ear and shyly moved closer.

“Do you have any sweetcakes?” Krai was taken aback by the child’s sudden appearance. “Who are you?” he asked harshly, feeling slightly foolish brandishing his ax before a child barely tall enough to reach his knee. Still, Krai sensed that this was no ordinary urchin. He heard no rush of blood or beat of heart from the boy.

“You’re a big man,” the child said, craning his neck back, his eyes wide with awe. He seemed little threatened by the ax. The boy crossed to Krai and held up his hand for the mountain man to take it.

Instead Krai backed a step away.

Mycelle, by now, had crossed to him. She was putting away her twin swords. “It’s all right, Krai.” Krai kept his ax in hand. “That is no ordinary boy.”

“Fear not. It’s just one of Cassa Dar’s swamp children, a magickal construct of moss, mud, and swampweed.” Mycelle knelt down beside the child. “Well, little one, why have you come all the way here?”

Behind Krai, the scarred swamper joined them, trailed by the rest of the camp.

The boy eyed the others, one hand rising to suck a thumb. When he spotted the towering og’re, his face grew scared. He slid closer to Mycelle and pointed toward Tol’chuk. “A m-monster!” Mycelle smiled and gathered him up in her arms. “There are no monsters here.” The boy kept his eyes glued on ToFchuk, clearly unconvinced. Krai followed the others back to the campfire.

A few more dry branches were added to the fire as the sun finished setting. The camp gathered around the fresh flames.

Meric leaned both hands on his cane as he stood. “What does this mean?” the elv’in asked. “Why did he come?”

Jaston held up a hand and leaned close to the boy as Mycelle cradled him in her lap. “Cassa?” The boy stuck out his tongue at the scarred man. “You’re an ugly, stinky man.” Jaston ignored his insult. “Cassa, are you there?” he persisted.

Krai watched the boy squirm and stiffen in Mycelle’s embrace, then grow still. The child’s eyes glazed and no longer seemed to reflect the fire’s light.

“The distance is great,” the boy said, his words a whisper as if from another world. “I had a hard time tracking you this far from

the swamp’s edge.“

Krai’s nose curled at the demonstration. He had to restrain himself from sneaking closer and sniffing at the boy. It was as if someone else spoke through the child’s lips.

“Why have you come?” Jaston asked.

“I sense a great evil moving toward Port Rawl and came to warn you. It has something to do with the girl.” Mycelle approached closer. “Why do you say that?”

“She still carries the Try’sil. The magick in the warhammer is like

> a beacon to me, calling to my d’warf heritage. It has rested along the coast for the past many days, but this prior night, it vanished beyond my ability to sense, swallowed up in a magick as foul as the heart of a blackguard demon. I fear the worst. Not just for the Try’sil, but for the child.“

Krai’s blood raged. He suspected some d’warfish trick here, a ruse to guide him astray from his prey.

Though forged by the Black Heart and unable to deny his master’s true will, Krai was still a mountain man whose clan had a long memory. Like the ill’guard lord of Port Rawl whose thievish nature could not be completely wiped away, Krai could not deny the cry of revenge for the atrocities committed by the d’warf armies. He would one day have that

revenge.

The beast in his blood lusted to tear this rag of a child into bloody ribbons. When finished with Elena, he knew whom next he would hunt. Not even the monsters of the swamp could keep him from this d’warf’s throat.

“Cassa,” Jaston continued, “can you tell us anything else?”

“No, only that you must all hurry. The evil sweeps toward Port Rawl.” The boy began to shiver in Mycelle’s lap. “I can’t hold on much longer. Too weak still. Hurry!” With this last word, the figure of the boy swirled with a moldy luminescence and vanished. In the child’s place was a dank pile of moist weed and mud. Mycelle stood, wiping the debris from her lap in disgust.

Once clean, she faced the others. “We leave now. It is still a hard day’s journey to reach Flint’s cottage. If Elena is in danger, we dare not spare the horses. We’ll ride the entire night and day.” i. r-t vv A K

“No.” Tol’chuk straightened up. “We be deceived.”

His words drew Krai’s attention. “So this d’warf lied to us,” he said with clear indignation.

“No,” the og’re said. “I think she speaks true. Only we interpret her words falsely.” Mycelle’s features were taut with worry and impatience. “Speak, Tol’chuk. What are you saying?” The og’re fumbled to his thigh pouch and removed the chunk of ruby heartstone. A murmur of awe at the sight of the precious jewel arose among the swampers. Tol’chuk held the stone toward the southern edge of the wood. Though a handsome stone, it only glittered in the final rays of the sun. “A moment ago, I felt the call of the stone shift, like my heart be suddenly torn from my chest. The call be sure and strong. We should heed the swamp wit’ch. We must hurry. But not south. Elena no longer be there.” Mycelle’s brow crinkled. “What are you saying?”

“Elena flees toward Port Rawl,” Tol’chuk insisted.

“How—?” Krai began to say.

The og’re swung his arm behind him, pointing north, back toward Port Rawl. The chunk of heartstone flared to a brilliance that outshone the setting sun. Krai held up a hand against the aching glare.

Tol’chuk gasped in pain, as if the jewel’s radiance burned his claws. “The stone demands we go.” Atop her tall gelding, Mycelle led the “caravan” toward the gates of Port Rawl. She no longer wore her usual leather and steel but, like the others, had disguised herself in the sturdy and plain gear of the swamp traders: coarse shirt, worn trousers woven of boghemp, a hooded snakeskin slicker, and kroc’an boots that reached above her knees. It seemed this day was full of masquerades.

As she rode, Mycelle reached to her arm and stroked the small snake wound around her wrist. The paka’golo’s tiny tongue flickered over her fingertip, almost thanking her for the attention; then it settled back to rest. Mycelle found herself smiling slightly at its affection. How odd that such a small gesture should warm her heart.

Pulling her sleeve over the snake to keep it warm, she glanced to the rising moon, a sliver of brilliance among the cloud-swept stars.

They had made good time, but were they fast enough? Based on the omens of a glowing stone, they were rushing headlong into unknown danger. But Mycelle trusted her son’s auguries. Having lived among the og’re tribes for a time, she had come to respect the stone called the Heart of the Clans. If Tol’chuk sensed danger for Elena, Mycelle would follow the stone’s guidance—even if it meant returning to this black-hearted city.

A grumble drew her attention to the right. Beside her, Jaston rode atop Er’ril’s dappled stallion. The tall man fought the reins of the fiery-spirited horse. Watching his difficulty, Mycelle had a new respect for Er’ril’s horsemanship. The stallion, purchased in Shadow-brook, had given Er’ril little trouble on the journey to the swamps.

“Curse this mount,” Jaston grumbled. His stallion rolled its sharp black eyes and tossed its head, huffing a white stream into the cooling night.

“Then let him have his head. He’s a smart beast, and a lighter touch may suit you better.“

“I’ve had less trouble with a rutting bull kroc’an,” he mumbled. But he tried her suggestion, and the stallion seemed to respond

accordingly.

Satisfied, Mycelle craned around in her seat and studied the long line of their swamp caravan. They were all mounted, except for Meric and Mama Freda, who guided the open wagon, and Tol’chuk and Fardale, who kept pace on their own legs. She sighed. With Jaston’s swampers, they numbered fifteen. Too small a number for a serious assault, but it would have to do.

Swinging around, she faced the Swampwall as it came into view around a bend in the trail. Unlike the previous evening, the gates now blazed with torches. Mycelle slowed her horse to a walk and, with a wave, slowed the entire troupe. At least twenty men manned those gates. Clearly the city had been spooked by the deaths at the garrison and was roiled up like a hornet’s nest now.

“Get Tol’chuk in the wagon and covered,” she hissed back at them. There was no way to disguise Tol’chuk with mere clothes. Too many townspeople would have heard of the escaped og’re by now, and his presence would raise suspicions.

Once her son was loaded in the back of the wagon and covered with a thick tarp, Mycelle tightened her grip on her reins and continued toward the blazing gates. The air stung her eyes with oily smoke from all the torches. Off toward the coast, a thick fog rolled from the shrouded seas. Mycelle noted its approach approvingly. The masking mist could weave a fine cloak to hide their movements and numbers as the night wore on.

Jaston kicked his stallion a step ahead of Mycelle. “Maybe I’d better do the talking,” he offered. “Swamp caravans are Port Rawl’s only means of trading with the neighboring landlocked towns, and the guards know better than to interfere with us.”

Mycelle waved him on. She had no great wish to confront the rough men guarding the gates. Besides, without shape-shifting, there was even a good chance the gatekeeper might recognize her from last night.

Though she could always change faces, Mycelle only wanted to touch her si’luran abilities if absolutely necessary. She was still tired from wearing the old crone’s form earlier. Changing too frequently taxed a shape-shifter. There were limits to which even a si’luran’s flesh could be stressed. Time was needed to rest the body.

Yet, exhausted or not, Mycelle could not deny the true reason for her reluctance. She stared as Jaston trotted ahead and rode toward the gates. She had failed to mention to him about her ability to shape-shift.

She had told herself there was no need to tell him and had convinced herself that the fewer folks who knew the better— especially when a shape-shifter’s nature was so repugnant to most men. It was purely a logical decision. Still, deep in her heart, Mycelle felt shame—not at her heritage, but at the secret she kept from a man she had once loved. She remembered the looks of fear and loathing that her shifting had once evoked in men. She could not bear to see it in Jaston’s eyes, too.

Irritated, she kicked her horse to close the gap with Jaston’s stallion. Already the swamp man was pulling to a stop before the thick iron portcullis. He threw back the hood of his slicker, exposing his scarred face to the torches’ glow. No longer shying from the eyes of others, he did not flinch from the unforgiving light.

The trials of the swamp and the love of a wit’ch had gone a long way toward healing his shame. His boldness only made Mycelle’s own shame seem that much larger.

“Ho! Gatekeep!” Jaston called.

From the walkway above, a shadowy figure leaned over. “Who goes there?” a guard called stridently.

Jaston waved at the band of swampers and wagon. “Who does it look like? We’ve come a long way to do some trading. Open the gates. We’ve had a hard day of travel and wish to wash the road dust from our throats with the swill you call ale here.“ The guard chuckled harshly. “Swill? Just ‘cause your mama burned your mouth with swampbeer, don’t insult the ales of our fine inns.”

“Then open your gates and prove us wrong!” Jaston patted a small cask lashed behind his saddle. “I’ve a sample of swampbeer so you and the other boys can taste the drink of real men.” Mycelle watched the familiar ceremony: the ritual exchange of insults and carefully proffered bribes.

Jaston knew what he was doing. There was nothing like the offer of free spirits to oil many a tight doorway. The gates were already creaking open. Jaston waved his thanks to the gatekeep and led the others toward the opening.

Once through, Jaston took up a position by the lead guard. He stayed saddled but stood in his stirrups, barking harsh orders at the caravan, haranguing them with his tongue, acting the part of the tough troupe leader.

A young guard, no more than a boy, tried to peek under the tarp as the wagon passed. But Jaston lashed at him. “Leave our wares be. If you want to trade, see us in the morning at Four Corners.” Mycelle saw the sweat pebbling Jaston’s forehead. Their plans would be ruined if Tol’chuk was discovered. Mycelle’s fingers wandered to the hilt of a dagger at her waist.

“I thought I saw something move,” the boy squeaked. Suddenly the head of a large snake slid from under the wagon’s covering and hissed at the boy, only a handspan from his nose, exposing long fangs. The youth danced back, white faced.

The other guards laughed and ridiculed the boy as he backed farther away. “Like the man said, Brunt,” the lead guard scolded the boy, “don’t poke your nose where it don’t belong.” The wagon was allowed to pass without further investigation. Once the entire caravan was through and winding toward the darkened streets, Jaston cut free the cask and let it roll off his horse’s rump into the hands of the thirsty guard. “With the compliments of the traders of Drywater.” The guard nodded. “We’ll raise our first mug to your good trading.” Jaston snorted. “I hope it’s the first mug. Remember, this is swampbeer. By the last mug, you won’t even remember your own names.“ Amid the appreciative guffaws, he kicked his horse toward where Mycelle waited at the head of the caravan.

“That wasn’t too hard,” he said, wiping the nervous sweat from his brow.

Mycelle nodded him forward with her. “It’s always easy putting your head in a noose. It’s getting out that’s hard.”

The two led the others through the outskirts of the town’s narrowing streets. Tension kept the company quiet. Only the tromp of hoof and creak of wagon wheel marked their progress through the dark avenues.

Once well away from the gates, Tol’chuk rolled from the wagon, shoving the innocuous swamp python back into its cage under the tarp.

Mycelle smiled at him as he lumbered up to the front. “Quick wits, Son. Now I know you’ve got more than just your father’s good looks.”

He wiped his clawed hands on his thighs. “I hate snakes,” he said with a shiver.

Mycelle exposed the “bracelet” wound around her wrist. “Even this tiny one who saved your mother from poison? ”

“That be not a snake anymore. It be a part of you. That I can never hate.” She reached and touched his cheek, sharing a moment of familial warmth.

“So where do we go from here?” Jaston asked.

Tol’chuk fished his chunk of heartstone from his pocket and slowly swung it in a circle. It bloomed to a sharp brilliance when pointed in only one direction.

Mycelle sighed in exasperation.

“What? ”Jaston asked.

“It points toward the docks.”

Jaston’s face grew grim. Like her, he knew the town well. The port section of the city was its roughest and meanest quarter, thick with pirates and their crews. Even the most wily denizens of Port Rawl knew better than to wander into that lair without an invitation, and no sane person ever went there at night.

“What are we to do?” Jaston asked.

Mycelle nodded toward the glowing stone. “Follow the light, keep a hand on your sword, and pray.” iLENA TESTED THE ROPES THAT BOUND HER. TlED BY EXPERIENCED

..ailors, the knots were secure. Her struggling only succeeded in tightening them further. She stared at the other two prisoners who shared the tiny cabin. Across the narrow room, Er’ril lay on his belly, his one arm tied to his ankles. He had yet to awaken from the club to the back of his head. Even from here, Elena could see the blood welling through his black hair and down his cheek.

“He shouldn’t have tried so hard to resist when they took Flint away,” Joach said, noticing where Elena stared. Her brother was also trussed tight: ankles bound to a chair, and wrists tied behind him. “He was just trying to make it look authentic.”

“That cudgel they used on him looked authentic enough.” Elena chewed at her lower lip. It had taken all of Elena’s restraint not to lash out at the one-eyed sailor who had struck Er’ril. It would have been only a minor magick to burn through the ropes and flame his cudgel to ash, but Flint’s stern eyes and furtive shake of his head had stayed her hand. They all had to play their parts if they hoped the ruse to succeed.

Flint’s plan was for Er’ril and Elena to pose as husband and wife, an upland couple accompanying their lame nephew, Joach, on their way to Port Rawl’s healer. After renewing her power, Elena had trimmed her overgrown hair and nails and donned a set of Er’ril’s clothes. With the change in her body, she could no longer pose as a boy. Elena glanced down at the ample swellings upon her chest— that was definitely a ploy that could never work again. Still, Flint’s

ruse had proven sound, especially since the captain seemed more interested in the older Brother than in his passengers. Their ultimate goal was for the captain to deliver them to Port Rawl, and once on land, they’d use Elena’s magick to make their escape.

Before her, Er’ril groaned and began to push himself from the floor. Elena found herself able to breathe again. Though she was somewhat sure the blow was far from fatal, she was glad to hear him grumble and move.

“Sweet Mother, that man had more of an arm than I suspected,” Er’ril said, rolling to his side. The move was difficult with his trussed limbs. “I didn’t think he’d strike so hard.”

“You fell like an axed tree,” Joach quipped. “You should’ve seen Flint’s face.”

“Elena, are you all right? Did they harm you?” The concern on Er’ril’s face seemed misplaced as blood dripped from his own cheek.

“I only wish they had tried to touch me,” she said blackly, murder clear in her words. “But they were only interested in Flint.”

Er’ril smiled at her expression. “Now I know why I married you.” She appreciated his attempt at levity. He clearly sought to ease her tension, but it did no good. She hated this waiting, especially when the fate of their friend was still unknown.

“Where did they take Flint?” Er’ril said, voicing their common concern.

Elena looked to her toes.

Joach answered. “They dragged him off to the captain’s cabin for a ‘private’ talk. We heard Flint cry out once, but nothing since.”

“Don’t worry. These pirates wouldn’t kill him,” Er’ril argued. “He’s the only one who supposedly knows the fate of the seadragon.”

“Unless they believe he lost it,” Elena said, raising her eyes. “I overheard a sailor talking. He was sure Flint’s dragon had somehow escaped. According to the sailor, the price of dragon’s blood should’ve bought Flint a whole fleet.” Elena stared Er’ril in the eyes. “If this question arose in a simple sailor, it’ll also be on Captain Jarplin’s mind.” She let the rest remain unspoken. Flint’s last scream still echoed in her ears.

After a worried moment of silence, Er’ril spoke up. “Elena, can you free yourself?”

“Not without magick. The knots are snug.”

“Then use your power.”

Joach sat straighter. “What about Flint’s plan?”

“I don’t have as much trust as Flint does in the logic of pirates.” Er’ril rolled to face Elena more fully. “Free yourself; then untie us. Conserve your magick as much as possible.” Elena nodded. She needed no further encouragement. Touching her magick, she directed it to her right fist.

With her hands gloved and tied behind her, Elena could not see if her fist glowed with mag-icks, but in her heart, she knew it. She sensed the power concentrating, waiting for release. She was ready, too.

The head of a copper nail protruded from the seatback of her chair. Using her fingers, she slipped her glove down a bit, then gouged the soft flesh of her wrist on the nail’s sharp edge. Pain lanced up, quick and sharp, but before she could even wince, the fire in the wound was washed away by a flow of magick and blood.

The chorus of power sang in her ears. “Easy, Elena.”

She scowled. Did no one have confidence in her? For countless nights, she had practiced controlling her wit’ch fire, and if she concentrated, she had learned how to flame the wick of a candle without even melting its wax tip.

Using that skill now, Elena loosened a thread of her magick and wove it into the ropes that bound her. Once it was wound through the entire length of cord, she ignited the filament. There was a bright flash, and the ropes fell to ash.

With an aching protest from her shoulders, Elena brought her arms around and dusted ash from her wrists.

“Are you hurt?” Er’ril asked. “Did you burn yourself?” Frowning, she shook her head. She raised her gloved fist before him and loosened another thread of magick. The glove that hid her hand vanished in a brief flicker of flame. Ash rained down, exposing her glowing fist beneath. Her hidden Rose bloomed bright in the room, driving back the gloom.

Er’ril and Joach’s eyes grew huge at her display. It was so simple. Elena glanced to the ropes that bound her legs. Cocking her head, she cast out a strand; the ropes vanished from her ankles. With smoke curling around her, Elena stood up. She began to point toward Joach. Er’ril interrupted her. “No!” he spat out. She turned to him. “Why?” This fine weaving of magick was

more exhilarating in some ways than her blasts of wild fury. Here was not just raw power, but a fierce strength that was hers to control. It was like riding a muscled stallion attuned to her every movement.

“Just untie us,” Er’ril ordered.

“But magick is quicker,” she mumbled, still a bit breathless.

“Doit!”

Reluctantly, she crossed to Er’ril and fingered his knots loose. In a few tugs, he was free. Er’ril rocked onto his knees and shook feeling into his fingers. Before she could move to free Joach, Er’ril stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.

“Listen, child,” he said. “One of the first lessons a mage was taught during my times was to learn restraint.

It is also one of the hardest lessons for most mages. As my brother’s liegeman, it was my sworn duty to warn Shorkan against using his powers when ordinary means were at hand. To waste magick to light a cold hearth when tinder and flint are available is wrong. Magick is a gift not to be squandered, but to be used thoughtfully and only when necessary.”

She nodded, drawing back her power, and crossed to Joach. She freed her brother as she pondered the plainsman’s words. Once done, she turned to face Er’ril. “But if a mage can renew his strength, why should it matter how he uses it?”

Er’ril stood and helped Joach from his chair. “We can talk more of this later. For now, just know that to use your powers indiscriminately only makes you more and more dependent on them. You become a tool of your magick, rather than the other way around.”

Joach rubbed at his wrists and nervously straightened the dragon tooth that hung at the hollow of his neck.

“What now?”

Nodding toward the door, Er’ril said, “I don’t like our position here. It’s time we armed ourselves.” Joach retrieved his staff from where it had been tossed in the corner. His ruse as a lame boy had convinced the pirates to let him keep his wooden stave. While he was wearing his gloves, the wood remained dark as Joach gripped it. “I already have my weapon,” he said, raising the stout rod.

Elena watched as Joach ignited a whisper of black flames along its length. They had learned that as long as Joach kept the skin of his right palm from contacting the wood, the staff remained a tool of black magick.

Otherwise, without the glove, her brother’s blood

would be called into the wood, and the staff would again become a weapon of white magick. Twin weapons in one length of wood.

“Did they post a guard?” Er’ril asked.

“No,” Elena answered. “In that regard, Flint was right. After locking us up, they’ve ignored us.” She crossed to the small door and leaned her ear against it. “I don’t hear anyone in the hall either.” Er’ril moved beside her, his breath warm on her cheek as he leaned to check, too. “Can you melt the lock without setting fire to

the door?“

Pushing back a stray curl of hair from her eyes, she glanced at Er’ril. It was so strange to stand almost eye to eye with him now. In his gaze, she saw him appraising her—in more ways than just magickal. She suddenly felt very conscious of the changes in her body. The fullness in hips and chest, the length and curl of her hair. Even her responses to him were no longer the same. His gray eyes, the touch of his hand, even the brush of his breath on her cheek a moment ago—all stirred something deep inside her, a spreading warmth that both strengthened and weakened her at the same time. She stared into his eyes and knew she must succeed. “I think I can,” she murmured softly. He stepped back, clearing the way for her.

Licking her dry lips, Elena turned to the door and raised her hand. She wove several strands of magick out from her palm. Fiery filaments rose from her fingertips, wrapping and writhing into a thicker cord. With a thought, she guided the crimson strands into the door’s lock, suddenly sensing the old iron. She felt its cold touch wrap around her heart. For a strained moment, she thought she might drown in the ancient stillness of the ore. But she fought the iron’s cold touch, her blood becoming a forge, fierce and hot. Somewhere beyond her senses, she heard Joach gasp. “It’s working,” Er’ril mumbled as if from far away. Her magick pumped with each fiery beat of her heart against the old iron. Like a reluctant lover, the cold ore gave way slowly, warming to her touch, yielding to her.

“You’ve done it, Elena.” Er’ril gripped her shoulder. “Now stop your magick before its wit’ch fire spreads.”

Elena blinked back to clear focus, shivering under Er’ril’s touch. She closed her fist, severing the strands that linked her to the molten lock. She stared as red-hot iron ran in rivulets down the planks of the door, leaving scorched and smoking trails. Without her magick’s touch, the iron cooled rapidly.

“Careful now,” Er’ril warned. “From here, we stick close together.” He nodded toward Joach.

Her brother pushed the door slowly open with the end of his staff. The creak of salt-encrusted hinges seemed like the screams of the dying as they all held their breaths.

Crouching and cautious of the pools of cooling molten iron, Er’ril peeked out the door, looking first one way, then the other. “Follow close,” he whispered and led them into a short, dark companionway. Only a single lantern lit the hall with its tiny flame.

Somewhere a few men were singing bawdily, out of tune. Harsh laughter accompanied the singer’s efforts.

It sounded like it came from directly overhead. Elena found herself crouching away from the noise.

Er’ril slipped to the only other room exiting the hall and peered within. “Bilge pump and crates,” he whispered. “We must be in the lowest bowels of the ship.”

“Where now?” Joach asked, his eyes shining with fear.

“I need a weapon first. A sword, an ax, something.” Er’ril’s hand balled into a fist in frustration. “Then we free Flint.”

With Joach at her side, Elena followed behind the plainsman as he crept down the short hall. A narrow ladder led up to a closed hatch.

“We came down this way,” Elena whispered. “There’s a kitchen above us.” The singing of the men had died down, but murmurs and occasional loud guffaws could be heard beyond the hatch. Er’ril paused at the foot of the ladder. From his dour expression, Elena could almost read Er’ril’s thoughts. Escape this way would lead them directly into the midst of the pirates.

“There must be another way,” Joach whispered.

Er’ril’s brows bunched together as he plotted.

Suddenly, something tickled Elena’s ankle. She started slightly, jumping back a bit. A huge rat squeaked in protest and scurried down the hall. Its oily fur stank of rotted fish.

“Follow it,” Er’ril urged. “This is a fishing boat. Its hold must somehow connect with these lower decks.” Joach hurried after the rat as it ducked into the bilge cabin. “We need light!” he whispered urgently.

Elena raised her hand, beginning to call forth a flame.

Er’ril knocked her arm down and snatched the lantern from the wall hook. He raised the lamp before her eyes, glancing at her meaningfully, then ducked after Joach.

Blushing, Elena followed. Er’ril’s earlier warning rang in her ears. Maybe there was a threat in the indiscriminate use of her magicks. Already her first instinct when called to action was to reach for her power, ignoring her own ingenuity and resources. In this way, she narrowed herself, defining her worth only with magick. She shook her head. She was more than a red fist and was determined to stay that way.

In the cabin, she found Joach kneeling by a large crate. Er’ril hovered over him with the lantern. “It dashed behind here,” Joach said.

Er’ril lowered his lantern closer to light the cramped space between crate and wall. “Move aside, boy.” Joach rolled to the side to let Er’ril lean nearer. “I don’t see the bugger back there,” the plainsman said.

“I’m sure that’s where it went.” Joach made to poke at the space with his staff, as if to flush the beast out.

Er’ril waved him back and stood up. Passing the lamp to Elena, Er’ril waved Joach to the corner of the box.

“Help me move it.”

Joach used his staff as a lever to pry the heavy crate from the wall while Er’ril pushed with his shoulder.

The crate shifted with a scraping protest across the rough planks. “What’s in this thing anyway?” Joach complained as he strained.

One of the crate’s pine slats cracked under Joach’s staff. Elena’s brother stumbled at the sudden release of his hold. He caught himself up against the wall, cringing at the noise. The sharp crack of the board had sounded like a thunderclap in the tight space.

Everyone froze. No one moved until a new bawdy chorus echoed down from above. They had not been heard. Elena moved closer to the others, reminding herself to keep breathing.

Near the crate now, Elena raised the lantern to the broken section of the box, not so much curious of its contents as seeking something to distract her from their peril. Like her brother, she had heard tales of the gold coins and jeweled treasures plundered from the seas and hoarded by pirates.

She lifted the lantern higher and peered closer. No treasure lay inside. From the black heart of the crate, a pair of bloodred eyes stared out at her.

A SPLASH OF COLD SEAWATER SHOCKED FlINT BACK TO FULL AWARENESS.

He gasped and choked, throwing his head back with a crack against the high-backed chair to which he was bound. The salt in the water burned the cut below his eye and stung the abrasion on his cheek, both injuries courtesy of his hard-knuckled captors.

Captain Jarplin leaned closer to Flint’s bloody face. He was a large-shouldered man with silver hair and green eyes. Winters at sea had weathered him hard as stone. Flint had once respected the man’s firm resolve. He had been a tough but fair captain. Yet something in him had changed. Though outwardly the same, if not a bit paler of skin, something about the captain struck Flint as wrong, like a whiff of rot.

Flint had noticed it as soon as he was dragged into the captain’s cabin. The usual orderliness to his chamber was no longer evident. Maps and charts were strewn about the room. Unwashed clothes lay piled where they had been dropped. Clearly, Jarplin seldom left his cabin now, where before it was impossible to keep him off his ship’s decks.

Flint licked the blood from his split lower lip. Had his theft of the seadragon so shaken up his former captain? No, something else was wrong here. He should never have convinced the others to step aboard this ship.

Jarplin used a finger to raise Flint’s chin. “Have Master Vael’s fists freed your tongue yet?” he asked in mocking tones, so unlike the man Flint once knew.

Flint spat blood. “I ain’t tellin‘ ya nothin’ about the dragon until we reach Rawl,” he said, employing the old slang he had once used when he was first mate on this rig.

Jarplin’s green eyes pierced through his disguise. “Don’t play the poor fisherman with me, Flint. There’s more to you than I once suspected, but my eyes have since been opened.” He laughed harshly. “Oh, yes, they’re wide open now.”

Flint found himself staring at the trace of spittle hanging from the man’s lips. What had happened to the man he knew, a man he had once considered a friend?

Jarplin pushed away and turned to his new first mate. Flint did not recognize Master Vael as any member of the Skjpjac’t . It was

clear Master Vael hailed from lands far from here. The man’s head was shaven smooth, his skin like yellowed parchment. His eyes were the oddest hue—a deep purple, like a bad bruise. Even the whites of his eyes were tinted, as if the color had bled outward.

Jarplin nodded toward an ornate chest. “Maybe there is another way to free Flint’s tongue.” The only acknowledgment from Master Vael was a barely perceptible bow of his head, almost as if the first mate were giving his approval to the captain. Flint’s brow crinkled. Who was the true leader here?

The captain slipped a silver key from a chain around his neck and crossed to the gold filigreed box. “This is my last one,” he said as he unlocked the chest. “You should feel honored that I want to share it with you.” Jarplin’s wide back blocked Flint’s view of the chest. Still, Flint sensed when the box’s lid opened. The cabin suddenly swelled with the reek of entrails bloating in the summer’s sun. But the smell was not the worst of it. It was as if someone had raised the tiny hairs all over Flint’s body. The very air seemed charged with lightning.

Whatever lay inside that box, Flint had no desire to lay eyes on it. But he was not given any choice. Jarplin swung back around. In his hand, he held a mass of gelatinous slime. At first, Flint thought it looked like some fetid scum scooped out of the bilge pipes, but when Jarplin approached closer, Flint saw it was actually alive. Thin tentacles writhed out from its main bulk. Each tip ended in a tiny mouth, sucking blindly at the air.

Flint could not help himself. The pain, the tension, the smell— and now this new horror. It all overwhelmed him. His stomach churned, and he spewed bile across his lap. In his heart, he knew what Jarplin carried.

He remembered the tales he had heard of the raiding ship that had assaulted the docks of Port Rawl, of the tenta-cled creatures found curled inside the cleaved skulls of the berserkers. Oh Sweet Mother, not here, too.

It seemed forever until the spasms in his belly stopped. Afterward, his head hung heavy as he gulped air.

Jarplin laughed. “Ah, Flint, it’s nothing to fear. This little darlin‘ will make you look at life in a whole new light.”

Raising his head, Flint discovered he could think more clearly now. It was as if his body had needed to cast out all the poisons built

up since stepping aboard the ship. “Jarplin,” he said, throwing aside any pretenses, “I don’t know what has happened to you. But listen to me. This is wrong. Somewhere inside you must know this.”

“Somewhere inside?” Jarplin knelt down and brushed back the silver hair that draped his neck. Twisting around, he exposed the base of his skull to Flint. “Why don’t you check what’s inside me?” A small neat hole lay at the top of his neck. Bloodless, it looked like an old, healed wound. Then, from the hole, a pale tentacle slid out, its small mouth swelling and puckering as it drew fresh air to the creature hidden deep inside Jarplin’s skull.

“What was done to you?” Flint mumbled in horror.

Jarplin let his hair drape back over the wound. “Let me show you.” He turned to Master Vael. “Fetch the bone drill.”

Flint finally noticed Master Vael again. The stranger no longer remained expressionless. His lips were stretched in a hungry grin, exposing large teeth, each filed to a sharp point.

There was nothing human in that smile.

Elena gasped and danced back from the crate. She almost dropped the lantern.

Er’ril was immediately at her side. “What is it?” he asked.

Joach backed nervously toward them, staff raised against the unknown menace.

“I… I’m not sure,” Elena mumbled. “I thought I saw something.” She had expected some monstrosity, something with fiery eyes, to crash out of the crate and pursue her. When it had failed to happen, she was less sure of exactly what she had seen. Her hand fluttered toward her face. “I saw a pair of eyes.” Er’ril squeezed her elbow. “Stay here.” He took the lantern from her shaking fingers and approached the box.

“Be careful,” she whispered.

Joach kept guard at his sister’s side.

The two watched Er’ril raise the lantern toward the split section of the crate’s planking. He, too, seemed to jump slightly at what he found. But instead of fleeing, he stood his ground and slipped the lantern deeper toward the hole, peering after it.

“Well?” Joach asked.

“I’m not sure. A sculpture of some sort,” he said. “I think the eyes are two rubies.“

Joach approached, followed by Elena. Her brother raised on his toes to stare into the dark crate.

“There’s something—”

Er’ril waved him away. “We don’t have time to waste on this.”

“No,” Joach said, glancing over his shoulder at Er’ril. “There’s a power coming off it. My staff grows warm as I near it. We should at least see what lies here.”

Er’ril hesitated, then nodded. “But let’s be quick about it. We can’t risk the crewmen discovering our escape.”

They used Joach’s staff and pried at the side, but it refused to budge. The planks were nailed tight.

Elena stepped forward. “Let me help.” Before either could argue, she sent forth flaming tendrils of wit’ch fire toward the crate. Joach and Er’ril ducked, fearing the strands’ touch. They need not have worried.

The strands were like extensions of her own thought. Threads of energy drew to the nails, like iron to lodestone. With the merest push, she melted the fasteners. Unhinged, the side of the crate fell open. Er’ril and her brother caught the wall of planks and settled

it gently to the floor.

Once done, the three gathered before the open crate. Elena had retrieved the lantern from the floor. They all stared in silence at the revealed sculpture.

“It looks like some big blackbird,” Joach commented. The statue was finely crafted, standing taller than Er’ril. Only an artisan of considerable skill could have sculpted the huge stone in such detail. Each feather was in clear relief; the sharp beak looked ready to tear. Its eyes, twin crystalline rubies, sparked hungrily in the lamplight. Its claws seemed to dig into the floor of the crate as if the winged beast had just come to roost. “Not a bird,” Er’ril said mournfully.

Elena did not argue with his assessment. Though feathered and winged, there was something distinctly reptilian about the beast. The neck was a bit too long and the joints of its legs seemed to bend the wrong way. “What is it?”

Er’ril turned to Joach, a dark expression on his face. “It’s a wyvern.“

Joach gripped his staff and backed a step. “Like from my dream.”

“What are you talking about?” Elena asked.

Er’ril just shook his head. Her brother and Er’ril stared at each other, wearing strangely guarded expressions, as if each were hiding something from the other.

Joach finally broke the awkward silence. “But I dreamed nothing about a statue. In my nightmare, the beastflew.”

The plainsman just continued to stare at the stone beast, little comforted by Joach’s words. His rugged features had paled. “I don’t like this.”

Neither did Elena. She had seen too many statues come to life during the long journey here. She could not keep the worry from her voice. “You mentioned power, Joach. Maybe it’s like the crystal statue of the boy Denal. Maybe it’ll come to life.”

Joach drifted nearer, stepping atop the fallen planks. He reached a hand toward the statue.

“Get back!” Er’ril scolded.

Wearing a frown, Joach slid his hand away. “This stone is strange. Even polished, it doesn’t seem to cast any reflection.”

Er’ril and Elena stepped nearer, but they maintained a safe distance.

“What do you think?” Joach asked Er’ril.

Elena was the one to answer. “We need to destroy this. Now.”

“Why?” Joach asked. “My dream was false. Moris and Flint said so. This bird is not coming to life.” He tapped at it with his staff.

Both Elena and Er’ril yelled a frantic “No!” But nothing seemed to happen. Only a hollow thun’t marked where wood met stone. The statue remained the same.

Er’ril shoved Joach away. “Are you daft, boy? You don’t fool with black magick like that.”

“What black magick? It’s only ordinary stone.”

“No,” Elena argued, “it’s ebon ‘stone ¦.” She pointed to the veins of silver running through the black rock.

She had recognized the sculptor’s medium. “This stone drinks blood.” Flint knew he had to hurry. The first mate, Master Vael, had left to fetch the bone drill and would be back in a few moments. If Flint wished to remain his own man, he had no time to waste.

His original plan had been to endure the tortures aboard the Seaswift until the boat reached Port Rawl. What was a broken nose and a bit of lost blood compared to the safe passage of the girl to the port city? But as Flint watched Captain Jarplin caress the tentacled creature in his palm, he knew his original scheme had to be

scrapped.

Evil rode these waves, and no amount of fancy talking would get them safely to port. If he should succumb and become a thrall to that foul creature, Elena’s secret would be revealed.

A new strategy was needed. And the first step was escape with his skull intact.

With his arms tied behind him, Flint worried the cuff of his battered coat with deft fingers. A small knife, no more than a sliver of steel, had been sewn into the fabric. Among pirates, it was always good to have weapons hidden where they couldn’t be found. Once he had it gripped firmly, he pushed the blade through the ragged hemp. It popped through the material, and for a heart-shuddering moment it almost fumbled from his frantic fingers. Flint bit his split lip, using the pain to focus his attention. If he should drop the knife, he would be lost forever to the evil here.

Eying his former captain, Flint watched for any sign that his secretive movements had been noticed. Jarplin had always been sharp eyed and had seldom succumbed to trickery. Even with the monster in the captain’s head, Flint could not trust that his instincts had

dulled.

Licking the blood from his lips, Flint spoke, hoping to keep Jarplin distracted as he began working at the ropes. “So just when did you become this creature’s slave, Jarplin? How long has it been your master?“

As expected, the captain’s face bloomed with color and his brows grew dark. Possessed by a monster or not, a part of Jarplin’s personality persisted. He had been captain of his own fleet for twelve winters, and to suggest that Jarplin was no longer in control was a sore insult. Blustering for half a moment, Jarplin finally freed his angry tongue. “I am and always will be captain of this vessel!” He waved at the back of his head with his free hand. “I am not this thing’s slave; it is a mere tool. It allows me to finally see the play of life for what it really is—a game of power where there is only one winner. And I mean to be on the right side.”

“And how did you acquire such a wonderful ‘tool’?”

“It was a gift.”

“Yes, I’m sure. One you accepted willingly,” Flint said, letting the sarcasm drip. He watched Jarplin’s face twist with frustration.

Flint drove his words deeper as sweat built up on his own brow. “So who was master when this was done to you? Master Vael perhaps? Does he pull your strings like a mummer’s foppish puppet?” Jarplin jerked with anger, almost tossing the tentacled creature from his palm. “You know nothing! You can’t possibly comprehend—”

“All I know is that the captain I once respected now bows and scrapes to the bidding of his jaundiced first mate—and a stinking foreigner at that.”

Jarplin had always had a hard prejudicial streak for non-Alaseans. By now, his cheeks were black with anger. And if Flint was not mistaken, there was also a bit of confusion in that expression.

Flint worked feverishly at his ropes. Time was running short. The captain blinked a few times, doubt in his eyes, and a hand went to finger the back of his skull. “What have I—?” Suddenly Jarplin doubled over in pain. A short, choked scream escaped his lips.

Flint almost stopped working at the ropes. Once, during a savage storm, Jarplin had taken a loose harpoon through the leg and had still managed to captain his crew through the gale, stomping around with a length of whaling blade through his thigh. Not a single cry had marked the injury then. But now… For Jarplin to show this much pain, Flint could not imagine the agony he must be experiencing.

“Captain?” Flint said, concerned, dropping his attempt at needling the man.

Jarplin fell on the edge of his bed, knees buckling. He sat there with his head bowed, shuddering gasps still shaking from him. Flint noticed that during this whole time Jarplin had never let loose of the tentacled beast.

Even now, he held it cradled to his chest like a small infant. This could not be good.

Flint continued sawing at his bindings with the knife as Jarplin finally raised his head. Blood dribbled from where he had bit through his lip in pain. “You… you’ll soon learn,” he said weakly. “It’s a wonderful gift.” Flint’s eyes grew wide—not at the absurd statement, but at what he found in Jarplin’s gaze. He had sailed through many hardships with the captain and knew him well. Right now, Jarplin not only believed his words, but there was the light of exultation in his eyes.

Mother above, what manner of beast or black magick could succeed in creating that worshipful response after such torture? Flint was determined never to find out. He almost gasped aloud when his knife finally sliced through the ropes that bound his hands.

Using his fingers, he kept a firm grasp on the freed ropes and knife. He could not risk letting them fall to the floor and be seen. Not yet. He must wait for the right moment.

A sudden creak of the door startled them both. The thin first mate pushed through the door. In one hand, he held a long drill that was used to core into whale skulls, a common tool aboard hunting vessels. The steel bit looked well used, its shaft glinting brightly in the lantern light.

Jarplin smiled at Flint, almost warmly. “You’ll soon see.”

Flint closed his eyes. His time had just run out.

Elena bunched her hand into a red fist. She could almost sense the malevolence pulsing from the ebon’stone statue.

“How do we destroy it?” Joach asked. “It looks like it would take sledges and several strong men to crack that stone.”

Elena frowned. “No, I doubt even the full force of my wit’ch fire could scratch its surface.”

“Then what can we do?” Joach asked. “Maybe we should just

leave it.“

Er’ril, who still stood silently eying the wyvern statue, shook his head. “We can’t leave this thing at our backs. There’s no telling what menace broods here.”

Lowering the lantern, Elena turned to Er’ril. “If the Try’sil is still packed in one of my trunks…” Er’ril nodded, his features turning contemplative.

“What’s that?” Joach asked with a touch to Elena’s elbow.

“It’s the sacred hammer of the d’warf clans, a hammer whose iron was forged in lightning.” Er’ril finally spoke, straightening his stance. “I know Cassa Dar places much reverence on the rune-carved talisman, but we don’t know for certain that the Thunder Hammer could damage the statue.“

“It succeeded in cracking the ebon’stone armor of the blackguard demon,” Elena argued, referring to the battle at Castle Drak.

“But that was only a shell of ebon’stone. This appears to be cast from a single massive chunk of the foul ore.”

“Still, what other choice do we have? It’s impervious to my mag-ick, and I fear having Joach strike at it with his black magick.”

Er’ril glanced at her brother, silently. The plainsman’s eyes revealed that he agreed with her statement.

“Did you see where they took our gear?”

Joach spoke up behind him. “After they clubbed and dragged you off, I saw them hauling our supplies into the main hold.”

“Then we must find a way to get there without being seen.”

Elena held up her pale left hand. “If I could regain my ghost magick, it would be a simple thing to sneak there.”

“But to do that, you’d first have to reach the spirit realm and renew,” Er’ril said, “and I’d rather not have you that close to death again.”

She nodded. In truth, she had no wish to travel there again either.

By now, Joach had wandered to the crate’s back side, peering into the crack between wall and box. “Well, the rat that led us here wasn’t in the crate, so it must have gone somewhere.”

“Good point, Joach. The beast reeked offish, as if it had been nesting near the hold. Following it may be our best chance.” The plainsman waved Joach out of his way, then crawled within the narrow space between the wall and the crate. As they watched, Er’ril braced his back against the wall and pushed. Muscles bunched and strained against his wool breeches.

Joach moved to help, but Er’ril held up a hand. “I don’t want you near this cursed thing,” he said, his teeth clenched with effort, his face reddened to a ruddy fire. Still he strained harder. Finally, with a huffing gasp, he shoved with his whole body, and the crate slid across the floor with a low grind of wood.

Sighing from the exertion, Er’ril rolled out of the cramped space and stood up on his weakened legs. He used a hand on the wall to steady himself. “Bring the lantern,” he said to Elena.

She crossed to him and lifted the lamp toward the darkness behind the crate. Near the base of the wall was a gnawed hole about the size of a ripe pumpkin. She squeezed past Er’ril and knelt slightly to better illuminate the hole. As Elena got closer, she caught the whiff of an awful reek. She blinked against the smell, her nose curling. It stank of offal and the sting of salt.

“Do you see anything?” Er’ril asked.

“No,” she said, “but I do smell something.” Fighting against the stench, she pressed into the cramped space, knelt with the lantern set beside her head, and peered through the ragged hole.

Just beyond the opening, she spotted the bottoms of barrels and nothing much else. Still, even through the reek, she sensed that the neighboring chamber was much larger. The slight drip of water from deeper in the room echoed hollowly, like the trickle of rainwater in a cavern. “I think you were right. There’s a large chamber, and from the smell, it might be the fish hold.”

“Let me take a look.” Er’ril and she exchanged places. He peered silently. “Brine and fish. If this isn’t the main hold, it must be close.”

“Then stand back,” Elena warned. She cast out threads of fire from her outstretched fingers.

Er’ril ducked away as she set about melting the nails and screws that secured a section of the wooden wall.

Planks fell away, clattering against a row of barrels in the next room. Joach and Er’ril hurried to secure the falling boards before the noise should alert

the crew.

“Mother above, that stench!” Joach choked.

“It’s only salted fish,” Er’ril commented, but Elena noticed the slight curling of his nose. The reeking smell seemed to seep into their very skin. “It’s not as bad if you breathe through your mouth.” With Joach’s assistance, Er’ril tilted and rolled a barrel of oil out of the way, clearing a path into the next chamber. They hurried, sticking close to the shadows by the wall. Er’ril ordered Elena to shutter the lantern’s flame to a mere flicker. Now was not the time to be spotted.

They edged forward to where the floor of the chamber opened into a wide hole. Staring over the edge, they saw a sea of dead fish awash in thick crusts of salt. The smell stung their eyes, raising tears.

Er’ril pointed for Elena to shine the light above. “If that’s the fish hold, the main hatch of the ship must be directly above us.“

“What about our packs?” Joach asked. “They must be stored somewhere on this level.” Er’ril nodded. “You two search for our things,” he answered. “I’m going to find the crew hatch to the decks above.”

Elena hated the idea of splitting up. The main hold encompassed the entire midsection of the ship and was divvied up into smaller

cubbyholes and side chambers. They would surely lose sight of each other as they explored, and that frightened her more than a pack of ravers. But she knew better than to complain. She sensed that time was running thin for all of them.

Joach took her hand as Er’ril disappeared into the shadows along the wall. “Let’s check over by those stacks of dry goods,” her brother whispered. He began to lead her along the edge of the deep hold.

Glancing forward, she spotted the section of decking where sacks of flour and grain lay piled like cords of wood. Once there, Joach pushed among the stacked barrels and burlap sacks. Elena followed, lantern raised before her like a shield.

They searched the short rows, the scent of rye and pepper almost masking the reek offish here, but there was no sign of their gear.

“We’d better move on,” Joach said, his eyes darting all around.

She nodded just as one of the sacks near her elbow shifted, the rustle of burlap as loud as a scream in her tense ears. She almost bob-bled the lantern from her fingers in her hurry to jump away.

Joach was immediately at her side. “What—?”

Already Elena was swinging her lantern toward the displaced sack, using the lamp as both a weapon and as a means of illuminating any hidden menace. Beyond the far edge of the sack, toward the middle of this particular pile of stored goods, a small reddish-furred creature lay nestled.

Elena’s first thought was that it was the back of a huge rat, but a small frightened sob suddenly arose from there. Raising the lantern higher, she realized her mistake. It was not a rat. It was the top of somebody’s head—someone hidden in a castle of flour.

A small boy’s face rose into the light, his features filthy and tear-stained. Horror and fear reflected in the lamplight. “Don’t hurt me,” he moaned.

“Who are you?” Joach asked a bit harshly, his throat still obviously tight with his own fear. ‘

Elena placed a hand on Joach’s wrist. “It’s just a boy.” The lad could not be any older than ten or eleven winters. She lowered the lamp away from the boy’s face and crept slowly nearer. He cringed back. “We mean you no harm,” she whispered kindly. “What are you doing down here?” He seemed on the verge of tears. “Hiding,” he finally said, half whimpering.

She continued in soothing tones. “It’s all right. You’re with friends now. Why are you hiding here in the dark?”

“It’s the only safe place. The smells keep the monsters from sniffing me out.” Elena looked with concern at Joach. She did not like what his words implied.

Joach motioned for her to continue coaxing information from the boy.

She stepped nearer. “Monsters?”

Nodding, the small lad shivered and hugged his arms around his belly. “I’ve been hiding down here since the ship was bewit’ched by Master Vael. Him and the creatures that was with him. They made… They did…” The boy suddenly sobbed and buried his face in his hands. “I ran and hid with the rats. They didn’t find me.”

She placed the lantern on the floor and reached to his cheek, resting a palm there. He was so cold. “We won’t let anything happen to you,” she whispered. She waved Joach over to move some of the sacks out of the way.

“What’s your name?” she asked as Joach began freeing the boy. “Tok,” he said, wiping at his eyes. “I was the ship’s cabin boy.” Joach and Elena helped him from his hiding place. The lad wore scraps of torn and soiled clothes. As he stood, his limbs twitched, and his hands kept picking at his shirt in nervousness.

She knelt to be at eye level with him and took his tremoring hands in her own. “How long have you been hiding down here?”

“Almost a full moon,” he said. “I been picking at the supplies when no one was around. I was hoping we’d reach some port. Then maybe I could run away.”

Now that he seemed calmer, Elena finally turned to the more important question. “What happened here?” His eyes grew round with her question. He obviously feared even talking about it. But she stroked his arm and squeezed his hands until his tongue finally freed. “On the far side of the Archipelago, Captain Jarplin spotted an island that we never seen before. He ordered the ship to turn about and go explore it.” Elena glanced significantly at Joach. The island of A’loa Glen. “But as we neared,” Tok continued, his voice growing smaller as he recounted the tale, “a horrible storm blew in. Lightning seemed to crawl across the sky after us. We thought we were dead for sure.

Then a ship came up out of the darkness—a ship like you never seen before, all lit up with blue and green crackles in her sails, like the storm itself were powering her. We could not escape. Creatures came at us.

Beasts with bony wings and skin so pale you could see their bellies churning.“ He raised his eyes, as if checking to see if he was believed.

“Skal’tum,” Elena whispered to Joach.

Tok continued. “There was a foreigner with sick-looking skin and teeth filed sharp as a shark. His name was Vael. And after what he did to the captain and the others, Jarplin made him his first mate.”

“What did they do to the crew?” Joach asked.

Tok shook his head and bit his lower lip. “It were so horrible.” The lad slipped his hands from hers and covered his eyes as he spoke, as if to lessen his view on this horrible event. “They marched all the men on deck. They bent them over the butcher’s block and drilled into the back of their heads with the whale pinner. And the screams… They went on for a day and a night. Some of the crew tried to leap overboard, but the winged monsters snatched them back.” Tok suddenly lowered his hand from his face. His eyes were half mad. “I saw them eat Mister Fasson. Tore him in half and ate him while he still screamed.” Elena pulled the boy into her embrace. He shook for the longest time. Maybe she shouldn’t have pushed him so soon.

After a few more shuddering breaths, he pushed out of her embrace. “But that weren’t the worst of it.

After they drilled them holes in the men’s heads, they shoved in these creatures that looked like squids, but they weren’t nothing like anything I ever seen netted from the sea. The men twitched and moaned on the deck for near part of a full day. Afterward, they’d do whatever Master Vael said. At his order, they even butchered some of the men that didn’t wake up fast enough from the drilling. They chopped them up and fed ‘em to the winged monsters.” Tok stared Elena in the eye. “And the crew didn’t even care. They laughed while they worked on their friends with the axes and saws.” Elena’s stomach churned at this story. Mother above, how did this boy survive this horror? She hugged him tight as he began crying again.

“I couldn’t do nothin‘ but hide,” he moaned into her chest.

spied when they captured you, too, but still didn’t do nothing. I’m such a coward. I should’ve warned you away. Told you to leap into the sea and drown rather than come aboard this cursed ship.“ She wrapped her arms tighter and rocked him as her own mother had rocked her after a nightmare. But it was little comfort. This was no night figment. “Get Er’ril,” she mouthed to Joach over the boy’s head.

Her brother nodded and slipped away.

Once he was gone, Elena spoke words to calm the boy. The lad had faced horrors that would break most men. “You could not stop such evil by yourself,” she whispered to him consolingly. “You would only have been killed. By living, you were able to warn us of

the evil.“

He finally raised his face again, sniffing back tears. “But what can you do? There are so many of them.” She placed a finger on his lips. “Hush. There are ways.” An idea suddenly occurred to her. If the boy had spied on their capture… “Tok, do you happen to know where they took our supplies?” He nodded. “It’s just down the ways from here. I could show you.

Suddenly he tensed in her arms—then she heard it, too: the approaching scuff of heel on wood. He tried to wriggle and bolt, but she calmed him. She had recognized the muttered voices accompanying the footsteps.

“Fear not. It’s just my brother returning with a friend.”

Er’ril stepped from the darkness into the tiny pool of lamplight. He eyed the young lad as if appraising a piece of horseflesh. “Joach told me his story,” he said gruffly.

“He also knows where our packs are,” Elena added. “Good,” the plainsman said, “maybe he can show us a better way through the ship.”

Elena turned to question the boy, but he was already nodding. “I know many ways.” Er’ril crossed to the boy. Elena thought he meant to comfort the lad in some way, but instead, he bent the boy’s head down and brusquely ran his fingers over the boy’s neck. “He does not seem contaminated.” Elena’s breath caught in her throat. After all the boy’d been through, how could Er’ril be so callous, so cold? But at the same

time, another part of her quailed that she had never considered the boy a danger. She had even gone so far as to send Joach away, leaving herself alone with this stranger.

The same assessment could be seen in Er’ril’s angry features as he stared at Elena. Even Joach seemed sheepish, eyes downcast. Her brother must have heard a few hard words from Er’ril about abandoning his sister.

“We dare not delay any further,” Er’ril finally said.

Suddenly a shrieking scream burst through the ship’s bulkheads, echoing across the cavernous hold.

Tok moaned in her embrace, ducking his head away. “Not again.” Elena eyed Er’ril over the top of the boy’s head. There was recognition also in the plainsman’s stare.

Flint.

“Who goes there?” a voice thundered from the darkness near the inn’s stoop.

The fog hid the guard well in the shadowed alcove. Behind him, the beat of a drum and the twang of a poorly tuned lyre accompanied the raucous laughter from beyond the inn’s closed door. Above the lintel, a single lantern illuminated a faded sign that read The Wolfs-hide Inn.

“We come to speak with Tyrus,” Jaston said. Mycelle stood at Jas-ton’s side. They had left the rest of the troupe near the docks, with Tol’chuk and Krai acting as guards. Her son’s heartstone had led them to the water’s edge, still urging them onward with its fiery glow, but to follow the stone any further would require hiring a boat. After a heated debate, it had been decided to contact the dock’s caste master and arrange for a crew and a small ship. But the title caste master was only a thin veneer of respectability that, in fact, masked the bloody leader of Port Rawl’s pirates. And no transaction was done at the docks without a proper “fee” paid to this brigand.

“What business have you with Lord Tyrus at this late hour?” Mycelle snorted. In Port Rawl, the cloak of midnight was when all pirates struck their deals, usually in smoky taverns like this one over many tall flasks of ale. “Our business is our own,” she answered sullenly.

“Fine. Keep your tongue to yourself then. But if you bother Tyrus with matters that don’t concern him, he’ll cut out your tongue and

hand it back to you for your troubles. He is not a man to be trifled with.“

“Your warning is well appreciated,” Mycelle said and tossed a silver coin into the shadowed alcove. The coin vanished but never struck stone. Silver always caught the eye of pirates.

A loud knocking erupted from the stoop, sword hilt on wood. The pattern rapped was clearly a code. A small peephole opened in the door. “Tyrus has visitors,” the guard said. “Strangers… with silver.” The tiny door snapped closed, and the larger door swung open. Laughter and music rolled out from the inn’s heart, leaving a trail of pipe smoke and the odor of unwashed bodies. “Go on in,” the guard said. In the flare of torches, the guard’s features were seen for the first time. He was a swarthy man whose face was not much less scarred than Jaston’s. He winked salaciously at Mycelle as she passed.

She smiled at him—not in a friendly manner, but to reveal the steel behind her handsome features. His eyes darted away as he quickly closed the door.

Glancing ahead, Mycelle studied the room. The commons was crammed with crude tables constructed from what looked like planks from shipwrecks. A few tables even had the old names of the original ships still painted on them: the Singing Swan , the Esymethra, the Shares Fin. Mycelle suspected it wasn’t all storms that sank these ships. They seemed more like trophies, and she was sure the stories that went with them were bloody.

Seated at the tables were hard men from every land of Alasea and beyond. Mycelle spotted dark-skinned warriors from the Southern Wastes, tattooed Steppemen with rings through their noses, thick -browed giants who normally roamed the Crumbling Mounds, even a pair of pale, spindly-limbed Yunk tribesmen from as far away as the Isles of Kell. It seemed the filth from every land ended up washing ashore here in Port Rawl.

Yet as varied as these men appeared, they all shared two things in common: a hard, calculating glance in their eyes, even when their lips were laughing, and scars. Not a single face was free of a disfiguring sword cut or torch burn, and some injuries looked fresh.

As Mycelle followed Jaston, she realized that it wasn’t only men who sat at these tables. Mycelle was so startled that she tripped over her own toe. The small snake at her wrist hissed at her sudden movement.

In a shadowed corner, she spotted a trio of women wearing matching black leathers and cloaks. Three sets of twin crossed swords rested on the table amidst their mugs of steaming kaffee. Each wore her blond hair long and braided in back. Mycelle could have been one of their sisters—and in a way, she was. The trio were mercenary Dro from Castle Mryl, where she herself had been trained in the art of the sword so long ago. At the time, Mycelle had shifted her shape to match the blond, tall women of the northern forests while undertaking her training. It was this form she had settled upon forever. It suited her well.

But what was a Dro trio doing here, among these pirates? True, a Dro’s sword was always for hire, but it was only granted to serve a ‘cause considered noble enough for their sacred training, not to lend their strength and skill to pirates.

One of the trio noticed Mycelle. The woman’s blue eyes opened slightly wider, her only reaction—but for a Dro, it might as well

have been a scream.

Jaston stepped beside Mycelle and touched her elbow. “I learned that Tyrus is in the back room. We’re in luck. He’ll see us right away.”

Mycelle nodded. She had been so shocked by her discovery that she had not even noticed that the swamp man had left. The man to whom Jaston had spoken still stood nearby, an officious-looking fellow who wore the coned hat of a scribe. Tapping a toe in impatience, the scribe waved a battered ledger to get them to hurry. Mycelle noticed the man’s fingertips were stained black with ink. It seemed even pirates needed to keep track of their accumulated plunders.

Mycelle pushed aside the mysteries of the Dro. For now, she needed a ship to hire. If Elena was in danger, as Cassa Dar sensed and Tol’chuk’s heartstone supported, they did not have time to ponder the reasons for the trio of trained warriors appearing in a seedy

Port Rawl inn.

“Let’s find this pirate and get out of here,” Mycelle grumbled.

Jaston followed the back of the tiny scribe as he led them through a curtain into a private hall, then down to a small door at the end. The skinny man kept tucking stray strands of brown hair back under his scribe’s hat. He knocked on the door.

“Enter!” was hollered back at him.

The scribe turned, smiled sickly at them, and opened the door. “Lord Tyrus will see you now.” Jaston entered first. With the slightest hand signal, a common gesture used among the hunters of the deadly swamps, he indicated that it looked safe to continue, but to watch their backs.

Mycelle could feel the weight of steel riding on her back. She was slightly surprised that the guards had not asked them to leave their weapons behind—not that she wouldn’t have managed to slip a dagger or two past any search of her person. Still, this lack of simple precaution made her more uneasy than if the guards had removed every weapon she had. Just how formidable an adversary were they about to encounter?

Mycelle entered the room and was stunned by what she discovered. Lord Tyrus sat at a table by himself, a half-finished meal before him, with an open book at his elbow. No guards. Yet Mycelle knew the man was well protected. She sensed the danger emanating from him like heat off a hearth. Even with the loss of her seeking ability, she sensed that his power was not born of black magick, but of simple skill and training. He was his own protection and feared nothing from them.

Licking her dry lips, she found his eyes weighing her every move, judging her for weaknesses and strengths. He smiled at her, a simple nod. She returned the nod, two warriors acknowledging one another.

Dangerous or not, she was unprepared for how truly handsome Lord Tyrus was. He was younger than she would have imagined, no older than thirty winters, with broad shoulders and an even broader smile. Under thick sandy hair, brushed and oiled back behind his ears, with a neatly trimmed mustache and small clipped beard, he could have been a handsome prince from one of the many kingships of Alasea.

“Please, come and be seated,” he said with plain civility. “I’ve taken the liberty of ordering a mug of swampbeer for the gentleman, and I believe the Dro have a preference for kaffee. You have no reason to fear for the others in your party by the dock. They are under my protection while we chat.” Jaston glanced at Mycelle. The man already knew so much about them.

Clearing her throat, Mycelle thanked him for his graciousness, and the two took the offered seats. “If you know so much already, then you must also know we seek to hire a ship.”

“Indeed, to rescue some girl…” He paused, inviting them to fill in any additional details. With their silence, his smile grew wider.

As he smiled, Mycelle noticed one other detail about this handsome king of the pirates. He bore no scars—and this worried her most of all. How did he fight his way to the top of these hard men and show no sign of the battle? Just how skilled a fighter was he?

She found the question asked aloud before she could stop it. “Where did you learn to fight so well?” His smile dimmed slightly. He had not expected a question from such an unusual direction. But he brightened quickly. “Ah, you are perceptive… Though long gone from Castle Mryl, you keep your skills well honed. ‘A keen eye for detail is often more important than the keenest-edged sword.’ ” Mycelle started at his words. This last was an old adage taught to her by the mistress of the sword during her training long ago.

Lord Tyrus reached for his glass of red wine, and faster than Mycelle could follow, a long sword appeared in his other hand. She jumped back, knocking her chair away and sweeping out her two swords. But she was too late. The sword tip already lay in the hollow of Jaston’s throat. The swamper had not even had time to raise a hand.

The king of the pirates laughed, hearty and gay, and pulled his sword away. “Just judging your speed. I’m sorry, but I could not resist testing your Dro training.”

Mycelle still shook from the sudden threat. The man moved with the grace and speed of a striking serpent.

She kept her swords at ready, figuring she could negotiate just as well armed. She would not be caught unprepared again.

Tyrus eyed her swords, his eyes still laughing. There was no hard, calculating glint to his gaze, just plain amusement. He had not resheathed his sword either, she noted. Instead, he rested the blade on the table.

Judging from the luster of the steel, the weapon was ancient. If she was not mistaken, it looked as if the steel had been folded at least a hundred times during its forging. Such a skill had been lost to bladesmiths for countless centuries. All in all, the sword was as handsome as its current wielder. She wondered from what rich owner this pirate had plundered such an exquisite weapon.

His hand finally slipped free of the hilt, exposing its design. Plain in form, it held no jewels, no gilt or filigree, just an arc of steel in the shape of a striking snow leopard.

Mycelle’s mouth dropped open. Sweet Mother! She remembered the trio of Dro in the common room.

Sudden understanding lit her face. She fell to her knees and crossed her swords before her, bowing her head between the blades.

“Mycelle?” Jaston’s voice was full of confusion. “Your Grace,” she said, ignoring the swamp man’s inquiry. “Oh, on your feet, woman!” Tyrus ordered. “I’ll not have you bowing and scraping before me.

You owe me no allegiance. You swore fealty to my father, not me.” Mycelle raised her face and sheathed her swords. Blindly, she fumbled behind to retrieve her chair and pulled it upright.

Sitting, she stared again into his face and amused eyes. She now saw the father in the son’s face. When last she had laid eyes upon Tyrus, he had been only a young boy. Old memories roiled in her mind.

“Prince Tylamon Royson,” she named him truly. “Please, here I simply go by Tyrus.” Mycelle’s mind spun off in a hundred different directions. “What… what happened? Why are you here?

”

“The Northwall has been sundered,” he said. “Castle Mryl has fallen.”

“What!” Mycelle could not have been more shocked than if the man had said the sun would never rise again. Castle Mryl overlooked the great Northwall, an ancient barricade of solid granite, built not by man or any hands, but simply thrust up by the land itself. A league in height and a thousand leagues in length, it marked the northernmost border of the Western Reaches. Its impregnable bulk separated the black forest, the Dire Fell, from the green of the Reaches. If the Northwall had fallen… “How long ago did this happen? ”

Tyrus’ features grew grim for the first time. “Almost a decade.” Her face paled. “And the Dire Fell? ”

“My Dro spies report to me regularly. The Grim of Dire Fell have spread as far as the Stone of Tor.”

“So fast? That’s already a quarter of the way into the great forest.” He just stared at her, letting her absorb it all. Her mind turned toward her own people, the si’lura. The Western Reaches was their home, their green bower. If the Grim of the Fell should continue their foul reach into the forest, soon the tribes of her people would be doomed to flee the forest’s safety, likely to die in the mountains of the Teeth.

“H-how did Castle Mryl fall?”

“For many winters, our scouts had been sent into the Fell and had returned with reports of strange lights and blighted creatures seen roaming the heights near the ancient homelands of the Mountain People, near Tor Amon and the Citadel. Then one winter, our scouts stopped returning.”

“The d’warves?” Mycelle could not help glancing at Jaston, who only wore a stoic expression.

Tyrus nodded. “The entrenched d’warf armies had been so quiet for so long that we didn’t know what to expect. But my father called back all his Dro-trained warriors, calling for them to honor their oaths.”

“I heard nothing of this,” Mycelle said, shame burning her face. Tyrus ignored her words. His eyes seemed lost in the past. “That winter, something came out of the deep mountains—something from the black core of Tor Amon. The Grim of the Fell grew stronger, fed and goaded by black magicks. My father’s Dro armies could not resist such strength, and my father died defending the last tower.” His eyes filled with tears and anger.

“I’m sorry,” Mycelle said, but even in her own ears, the words sounded hollow. “Your father was a great man.”

Still, Tyrus did not acknowledge her. His story seemed to spill from him like a torrent down a dry gully.

“The night before he died, he sent me out with the last of the Dro. He knew he would die the next day and did not want our bloodline to end. If there was ever to be a chance to regain our lands and repair the Northwall, one of the Blood must survive.”

Mycelle understood the necessary caution. The Northwall was not a cold slab of granite. She herself had placed both palms on the great wall as she swore fealty to the Snow Leopard, Tyrus’ father, the king of Castle Mryl. The stone had warmed with her words until the granite almost burned her palms. The Northwall was a living creature—she had even sensed its heart with her seeking ability. The granite heart was not in the stone, but in the man to whom she swore fealty—in the king of Mryl. The two were forever linked. Blood and Stone.

She stared at Tyrus. Here stood the new Blood of the Wall. “So I fled,” he said, the words all but spat out,

“leaving my father to die under the roots of the Grim. I fled as fast and far as I could— to here. Once I could flee no farther, my anger exploded and knew no bounds. I let my heated blood boil through these streets and out into the cold seas. Not all I did during that time was noble or even good. No man could stand in my way.” He laughed harshly, nothing like the amusement from a few moments ago. “After two years of such raving, my blood finally cooled, and I discovered I was lord of these pirates.” He stopped talking, picked up the ancient blade of his family, and sheathed it. The silence loomed like a fourth member of the conversation.

Finally, Mycelle spoke. “I should’ve been there.”

“No,” he said plainly. His eyes were no longer heated or amused, just tired and drained. “Contrary to appearances, you are not Dro.”

His words wounded her, but she could not blame him. Though she had never heard the summons to the Northwall, she still felt as if she had betrayed her oaths. “Why did you end up here?”

“It’s where my father told me to go,” he answered. “As Blood of the Wall, the land spoke to him and instructed him to send me here, to languish for near a decade among these heartless men.”

“But why?”

“To wait for the return of she who would give her blood to save the Western Reaches.” Mycelle knew he spoke of Elena and her blood magicks. The prophecies surrounding the child seemed to grow with each passing day, from all the lands of Alasea.

Tyrus turned hard eyes toward Mycelle and dashed away her assumptions. “I came to wait for she who was Dro but not Dro, for she who could change faces as easily as the seasons.” Mycelle’s heart grew to ice in her chest.

“I came to wait for you.”

She stammered and fought to speak. “B-but that’s impossible.”

“You are si’luran,” he said plainly, ignoring her shock.

Jaston startled in the chair beside her, a gasp on his lips. “You’re mad,” he said. “I’ve known Mycelle since before she was—”

Mycelle placed a hand on his elbow and shook her head, silencing him and acknowledging the truth in Tyrus’ claim. As the realization

dawned in Jaston, she did not see the horror she had expected in his eyes, but simply wounded betrayal.

“I’m sorry, Jaston…”

He shook free of her touch.

Mycelle turned back to Tyrus. “What do you expect of me?”

“To come with me—back to Castle Mryl.”

A rustle of cloaks announced the presence of others stationed behind her. Jaston turned, but Mycelle did not. She knew the rustle was done purposely to signal their presence. The Dro could move silently as ghosts. The trio of women warriors had probably been standing there all along.

“Old oaths or not, I cannot abandon Elena,” she said succinctly.

Tyrus smiled, all amusement again. “I’m afraid you must, or the wit’ch you guard will die.” He stood up, and she saw the granite behind his gaze. “Thus the Wall has spoken.” Tol’chuk worried about his mother. She had been gone only a short time, and though he imagined that dealing with pirates was best not rushed, he could not keep his heart from calling out to her. He had lost her when he was a mere babe, only to find her again and see her die. Now that he had her back once again, he feared having her leave his side for even the shortest time or the gravest necessity.

Fardale approached from where the wolf patrolled their encampment along the docks. His eyes glowed amber in the foggy darkness. As he approached, the wolf sent a fuzzy image toward the og’re: A wolf cub nestled in the curl of its mother’s belly. All was safe, the wolf reported, but the maternal picture of mother and child only made Tol’chuk’s heart ache more.

Tol’chuk stretched atop his clawed legs and followed Fardale as he passed along the troupe’s edge. He needed to keep moving, keep distracted. He was glad when Mogweed stepped out of the shadows toward them.

The tiny shape-shifter greeted his brother with a nod as the wolf continued his sentry. Tol’chuk stayed at Mogweed’s side. It was clear the man wanted to talk. “I’m sure Mycelle is fine,” Mogweed said.

“I know,” Tol’chuk said. “She be skilled with both swords and has little to fear from pirates.” Mogweed stared down the fog-choked alleys that led out from the docks. “But still you worry.” Tol’chuk remained silent. There were times when the shape-shifter rubbed Tol’chuk’s bristles the wrong way, but every now and then, the man surprised him with his empathy.

“You need not fear for her, Tol’chuk. Besides her swordsmanship, Mycelle is a skilled shape-shifter. With the return of her heritage, she can slip away from any tight noose—even fly away if she needs to.” Tol’chuk rested a hand on Mogweed’s shoulder. He heard the longing in the shape-shifter’s words. For a brief flicker, he sensed how trapped Mogweed must feel in this one form. Escape for him was impossible.

Tol’chuk offered him hope. “If my mother could regain her abilities—”

“It’s not the same,” Mogweed cut him off sourly. “To cure me—I mean both Fardale and myself—it’ll take more than a magick snake.”

“We’ll find a way.”

Mogweed turned moist eyes toward Tol’chuk. “I truly want to trust your words, but time runs short.” Fardale suddenly raced back into their midst. His images were rushed, vague, but the meaning clear. A large group approached.

Tol’chuk followed the wolf back toward where a dark street delved into the black heart of the port. Krai appeared at his side, blade in hand. Meric, Mama Freda, and the others hung back. Mogweed retreated to join them by the horses and wagon.

From out of the fog, a large, shadowy group took form. As they approached, the ghostly silhouettes became solid flesh. Tol’chuk recognized his mother leading the group with the swamp man on one side and a tall stranger on the other. Mycelle raised a hand in greeting, empty palm forward, indicating that those she led meant them no harm. Still, Tol’chuk noted that Krai kept his ax in hand.

Mycelle had no smiles of greeting as she joined them. She came with grim news. Over her shoulder, Tol’chuk spotted a trio of dark shadows: women with braids as golden as his mother’s, all outfitted with the characteristic crossed swords. They could have been his mother’s sisters.

Tol’chuk finally noticed a similar resemblance in the stranger who stood beside her. Like the women, this stranger could also pass as a relation to his mother—a younger brother perhaps. Even his clothes were the same mixture of worn leather and steel, but instead of twin swords crossed on his back, he bore a long sword at his waist.

“We have a ship,” Mycelle stated plainly, drawing all their attentions from the strangers. There was no satisfaction in her voice.

Krai spoke next. “And who are all these others?”

“Crew and fighters sworn to take you safe to Elena’s side,” she answered, her voice tight.

Tol’chuk heard the extra meaning in her words. “What do you mean ‘ ta’te you’}” he asked.

She would not meet his eyes. “I don’t intend to travel with you all. I have been called to pursue another path.”

The shock ran like lightning through the group.

“What?” Tol’chuk could not keep the wound from his voice.

The stranger stepped forward. “We’ve arranged a small sloop that is well worn to the straits of the Archipelago, and a crew of four.” The man waved to a group of four tall black-skinned men who stood behind him. They wore feathers in their hair and had eyes of piercing jade. Scars marked their brows—not from battle but from some old ritual. A crisscrossing of pale scars formed a different pattern on each man’s forehead. They’re marked with runes, Tol’chuk thought.

The stranger continued speaking. “This crew will serve you well on the journey ahead. The zo’ol are skilled warriors and seamen, and well familiar with the channels of the Archipelago.” Krai growled at the stranger. “But just who are you}” Mycelle stepped forward. “This is Lord Tyrus,” she said as introduction.

“The leader of this city’s cutthroats?” Krai asked with clear disdain.

“Also a prince of Castle Mryl,” she said significantly.

This statement quieted the mountain man. “Mryl? Below the Dire Fells?”

“Yes,” she said, still not meeting Tol’chuk’s eyes. “You must know of the castle. It once housed your people as they fled the d’warf armies.”

Krai finally hooked his ax to his belt. “Yes, during the Scattering of our clans. We owe the Blood of the castle a debt that can never be repaid.”

Tyrus strode forward. “Never is too final a word, man of the mountains.” Krai crinkled his brow at this mysterious statement, but no further elaboration was offered. Tyrus turned to survey the others in their troupe while Mycelle and Jaston started organizing for their departure. Tol’chuk could only stare numbly at his mother. She was leaving? The thought still had not fully reached his heart—and he feared what would happen when it did. Sighing, he busied himself with loading the wagon and hitching the horses.

Once outfitted, Tyrus led his pirates and their group along the docks to a long pier. Berthed near the end was a twin-masted sloop. The name, Pale Stallion, was painted in red on the blond wood. It was not a big ship, but it would fit their company and house the horses.

With all the extra hands, the boat was loaded quickly. They would depart with the morning’s tide. Already birds were stirring from their nests under the boards of the pier, greeting the dawn’s approach with song and noisy squawks.

Once all was ready, the group gathered on the pier. Mycelle had her back to Tol’chuk, talking to Jaston.

Tol’chuk slid closer to overhear them.

“… I should have told you,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“No, you owe me no apology. When we were together, there was always a part of you that was kept hidden from me. I knew it then, and it was probably that reason more than any I knew that we could never fully share a life together. I knew you cared for me, and I did you. But there was never a sharing of hearts that is true love, a love that will last until gray marks our hair.” Tears were in his mother’s eyes. “And Cassa Dar?”

Jaston smiled and kissed Mycelle on the cheek. “Some things only the fullness of time will reveal truly. In many ways, she is as wounded as you.”

Mycelle returned the kiss. “Something tells me you will find a way to heal her.” He smiled, a bit sadly, and bowed his head. “I should see to our wagon and horses.” She nodded, touching his arm one last time as he turned away and left. Mycelle stared for a few moments, then turned around to find Tol’chuk standing behind her. She met his eyes finally. The pain was clear in her face.

Before any word could be spoken, Tyrus intruded. He had stridden to Mycelle. “Something is wrong here,” he stated.

“What?” she snapped, venting her pain and frustration at him. The prince’s eyes widened a bit, but he seemed to understand her tension and spoke a bit softer. “There are other shape-shifters here,” he said, nodding toward Fardale and Mogweed. “Their eyes give them away.” He stared closer at Tol’chuk’s eyes.

“And I’m not sure about this large fellow.”

“He’s my son. A half-breed og’re,” Mycelle said sullenly, the fire blown out of her. “What does it matter about the other two?”

“They must come with us,” he stated firmly. “Why?” By now, the content of their words must have reached the wolf’s keen ears. Fardale and Mogweed approached nearer.

Tyrus acknowledged their presence. “My father’s prophecy spoke of two other parties who must come to Castle Mryl. I thought we’d meet them on the journey home, in the Western Reaches, not find them all here with you.”

“Who?”

“First, a pair of shape-shifting brothers—twins, I believe?” Mogweed’s startled eyes revealed the truth in Tyrus’ assessment. “How did you… ?”

Tyrus faced them. “Twins frozen by a curse.” Mogweed stepped closer to Tol’chuk. This was the first time either of the shape-shifters had been mentioned in any prophecy. The thought seemed to frighten Mogweed. A low growl even rattled in Fardale’s throat. “D-did your prophecy mention a cure?” Mogweed whispered, hope hushing his voice.

“ ‘Two will come frozen; one will leave whole.’ ” The brothers glanced at each other. Hope and doom were mixed in these words. It sounded like only one of the twins would survive the lifting of their curse. A silent exchange passed between brothers. Tol’chuk caught a glimmer of it. One was better than none. By now, the entire party had gathered around them. Mogweed touched his brother’s shoulder. Fardale turned and sat on his haunches, the matter settled. Mogweed spoke. “We will come with you.“

Their decision upset Mycelle. “We can’t all go with you, Tyrus. They’re needed to lend their strength to defend Elena.”

Tyrus’ brows drew up doubtfully. “A spindly man like him and a large dog? If the fate of this girl rests on this pair, then she is already doomed.“ He turned away. ”Besides, their decision has been made.“

Mycelle was left red faced and frustrated.

Tol’chuk was calmer. He spoke at Tyrus’ back. The stranger was leaving something still unsaid. “You mentioned two parties. The pair of twin shape-shifters and one other. Who?”

“Another shape-shifter,” Tyrus said, not turning around.

Tol’chuk’s heart leaped, believing the prince meant him. Even Mycelle glanced to her son, a glint of hope lighting her eyes. He winced from her gaze. He could not go with her. Even now, the heartstone called to him to continue out into the Archipelago, an ache in his heart and bones that he could never refuse—not even to stay with his mother.

But the choice was taken from him. Tyrus turned, swinging his sword out in a smooth pull and pointing it square into the chest of Krai. “You, mountain man, are the last shape-shifter.” All eyes turned to Kral. He fought to keep the shock from his features. Although forged in darkfire, he was still one with the Rock. His features maintained a stony countenance. “You’ve been too deep in your cups, pirate,” he said with a dark glower. “I’m no more a shape-shifter than you are.”

“The mountain man speaks the truth,” Mycelle spoke up. “He has no si’luran blood. My son—”

“No,” Tyrus said, dismissing the swordswoman with a flash of fire in his eyes. “Blood does not always show its true color. I am pirate and prince. You are Dro and not Dro.” He waved his arm at Fardale and Mogweed. “They are shape-shifters, but then again not. In life, few people are whom they appear to be.

We all wear masks.”

“Not I,” Kral said boldly.

“Is that so?” Tyrus continued his condescending grin. “Then tell me, Are you a mountain nomad… or an heir to the throne of Tor Amon?”

These words stunned Kral. Even among his own people, few remembered that his clan, the Senta flame, had once composed the royal house, and his family, a’Darvun, still bore a direct line to their abandoned throne. This secret was both his family’s honor and

shame, for it had been Krai’s own ancestor who had lost their homelands ten generations ago to the d’warves, cursing their clans forever to their nomadic trails. Even now, the memory inflamed Krai’s blood, the beast in him snarling for revenge.

Tyrus must have read his thoughts. “Does your heart still cry to reclaim your homelands, to return your clan fires once again to the

Citadel’s watchtowers?“

Kral fought his cracking voice. “Do not provoke me, small man.

What is this you rant about?“

Tyrus partially closed his eyes, reciting from long memory. “ ‘With the twins, there shall come a mountain of a man who wears many faces, forms shifting like snowdrifts in a gale. You will know him by his hard eyes and a beard as black as his heart. But do not be fooled. In him, you will find a king who will bear a broken crown upon his brow and sit again the throne of the Citadel.’ ” Kral dared not hope the pirate’s words held any truth. It was too cruel a dream. After being driven off by the d’warf hordes, his people had become nomads—not because they enjoyed the wandering life, but simply because they refused to give up the belief that someday their lands would be returned to them. Could Kral make this hope come true? Could he end his people’s centuries-long journey and take them home again?

Mycelle explained why not. “He needs to join Elena.” The mention of the wit’ch’s name pushed aside Krai’s dreams of thrones and crowns. He could not deny his master’s will.

“If the mountain man seeks Elena, he will kill her,” Tyrus said simply.

No one moved. Eyes glanced at Kral. From their worried gazes, they expected blood to be spilled for the insulting words. Little did they know how true Tyrus spoke; not even the pirate himself was aware of it.

Tyrus continued, revealing the limits to his prophetic knowledge. “I don’t mean to imply that Kral would betray your young friend and slay her with his ax, but if he does not come with us, she will die just as surely. My father’s words were exact: ‘Three must come, or the wit’ch will die.’ ” Tyrus sheathed his sword and crossed his arms.

Mycelle turned to Kral. “The Northwall is rich in elemental mag-icks; it is a pure font of power direct from the land’s heart. When I

could still seek, its power was like a lodestone. Its call drew me north, where I eventually learned the sword from the wardens of Castle Mryl. There I also learned of King Ry’s scrying powers when he linked to the stone. Though the old man’s prophecies were rare, they never proved wrong.“ Mycelle glanced back at Tyrus. ”But sometimes the interpretations were. So beware of making your decision based on these words, mountain man.“

Krai felt pulled within himself, two choices warring in his heart. The part of his spirit forged in darkfire refused to give up its quest for the wit’ch, such was the Dark Lord’s brand upon his blood. But as in all ill’guard, a shard of his true self persisted, a spark of elemental fire that fed the Black Heart’s spell. And this sliver of spirit could not ignore the call of his homeland. It swelled with the hopes of all his clans.

In any other person, such a fight would have failed, for the Dark Heart’s brand was set with a fierce flame that none could erase. But Krai was not just a man. In his blood ran the magick that flowed through a mountain’s granite roots. And granite withstood even the fiercest flames. Though scorched by darkfire, the brand had not burned deep enough into Krai’s stony determination to make him ignore the cries from generations of his ancestors.

The Ice Throne was his family’s seat, and he would claim his heritage once again! Beware any who would stand in his way!

Turning to Tyrus, Krai ran a hand through his rough beard and eyed the pirate. “I will come with you,” he growled hoarsely.

Tyrus smiled and nodded, as if he had expected no other decision.

Krai’s brows darkened. The Black Heart’s compulsion still nagged at him, gnawing at his resolve. But he calmed the last of its heated demands with a soothing thought, a balm on the friction within: After he reclaimed his throne, he would hunt Elena down as a reward and shred her young heart. He would not forget his duty to the Black Heart—only delay it.

Krai hid a hard smile in his black beard.

Nothing would be denied Legion—not a throne, not even the sweet blood of a wit’ch.

The Pale Stallion had been made ready, and the group now stood split into two parties—those on the docks wishing the others a fair

journey and those on the boats watching friends ready themselves for a trek halfway across Alasea.

Neither party was in good cheer. Faces were sullen at best, heartsick at worst.

Mycelle stared into the eyes of the one who seemed the most lost and alone. Before her, Tol’chuk stood at the foot of the gangway, his features damaged. Most thought og’res stoic and of little emotion. But Mycelle knew the signs that spoke otherwise. Tol’chuk’s fangs were fully draped by his down-turned lip; his eyes had lost their subtle shine; even his shoulders had fallen like shattered mountain cliffs after a devastating quake. “You could come with me,” Mycelle said softly, a hushed plea from her heart.

Tol’chuk sighed, a rattle of boulders. “You know I cannot,” he finally said. “The Heart of my people will allow me no other path.”

She touched his cheek. “I know. But I just wanted you to understand that I’d even snatch your strength from Elena for a chance of us staying together. Now that I have you in my life again, I’d give the land over to darkness to keep you at my side.”

Her words finally brought a sad smile to his lips. “Mother, you lie so well,” he said warmly, “and I love you the more for it.”

Mycelle stepped forward and placed her palms on his cheeks. She pulled him down and kissed him. “Do not be so sure what you

know, my son.“

A voice intruded into their privacy. It was Meric calling from the ship’s rail. “The captain says we must be off with the tide. We can

wait no longer.“

Mycelle waved her acknowledgment to the elv’in. Meric, his duty discharged, hobbled away on his cane with Mama Freda and her pet tamrink in tow. Aboard the ship, the small crew blew into purposeful activity as lines were stowed and the sails readied.

She did not have much time, but she could spare one moment more with her son. She and Tyrus had already organized their party, and they stood ready. Her gelding, Grisson, was saddled and tacked.

Mog-weed and Fardale sat atop the small wagon loaded with their supplies, flanked by Tyrus and his trio of Dro warriors mounted on their own horses. Krai already sat upon his black warcharger, Rorshaf, both horse and rider clearly anxious to depart with the coming dawn. The other two horses, Er’ril’s steppe stallion and Elena’s small mare, had been loaded and housed in small livestock stalls in the boat’s hold. All was in readiness.

Except for a final good-bye.

Mycelle turned to gaze one last time into her son’s eyes. No words could lessen this pain. Mother and son simply collapsed into each other’s arms. It was like hugging a rough boulder, but Mycelle pulled her son harder into her embrace. She never wanted to forget this moment.

As she drew him tighter, memories of holding him as an infant clouded her vision, and a part of her responded. She felt the melt of flesh and bend of bone and soon found her arms reaching fully around his bulk. She remembered his father and the joy they once shared, and her body still continued to transform.

The rip of cloth and leather whispered in her ears. She ignored it, unashamed.

Soon it was not woman and og’re who embraced, but mother and son, two ogres. Tol’chuk pulled back slightly, sensing the change. He stared, eyes wide and shining with tears. “Mother?” Mycelle knew what he saw. A small og’re female. His true mother. Clawed and fanged, she smiled. Her voice was the grumble of the mountains. “You are my son. Never forget you are my heart. You are my proudest accomplishment. I look at you and know my hard life meant something.” They embraced again as the dawn’s glow warmed the horizon and gulls cried to the rising sun. It seemed even the birds felt the pain in her heart—for somehow Mycelle knew this was the last time she would ever hug her son.

Panting from the pain, Flint knew he would have only one chance. He needed both Master Vael and Captain Jarplin close beside him. As they prepared the bone drill, Flint flexed his fingers in secret to work circulation past his unbound wrists. Sparks of agony

danced before his eyes.

He had endured the first step in their treatment with only a single scream. A moment ago, Captain Jarplin had come at Flint with a dagger. Flint had cursed and spat at Jarplin, feigning that he was still securely tied.

It would do little good to take out just the captain. So Flint had endured the agony when Jarplin had sliced the skin over the base of his skull, dragging the point cruelly against the bone. It had been no false act when Flint had screamed. For a moment, his vision had blacked, but he had fought the encroaching darkness, biting his lip and clutching his ropes.

Even now, he felt the blood running in thick rivulets down his neck, and the room threatened to spin if he moved his head too fast. “Jarplin, don’t do this,” he gasped out. “Be your own man!” The captain only smiled.

His first mate, the yellow-skinned Master Vael, turned to Jarplin. “We’re ready.” His voice had a slight lisp through his filed teeth.

Flint had read of tribes on the islands off the coast of Gul’gotha where the savages fed on the flesh of other men, where they filed their teeth like beasts to better rip into raw flesh. It was said they worshipped the skal’tum, eating human meat and grinding their teeth to fangs to be more like the winged demons of the Dark Lord.

Flint suspected here stood one of those foul islanders. He had already noticed that the man bore no hole at the back of his shaven head. No tentacled beast guided his will. The atrocities Vael performed were done freely by his own hand.

He was the true enemy.

Jarplin passed the fetid creature into Vael’s open palm. The first mate crossed to Flint and wiped the blood from his neck. Flint’s skin crawled with the cold touch of the man’s fingers. Vael then bathed the creature with Flint’s blood. The motion seemed to excite the tiny beast. Tentacles and blind, groping feelers tangled with Vael’s fingers as he continued the caress. “Prepare him,” Vael ordered.

Jarplin followed after Vael with the long steel drill. They now stood to either side of Flint. He could wait no longer.

Gripping his small hidden knife in one hand and the wooden struts of the chair in the other, Flint screamed and attacked. Leaping up, he swung the chair out from under him and slammed it into Vael. The scrawny man went flying. Without pausing, Flint spun upon the startled captain. Before Jarplin could raise the drill as a weapon, Flint lunged and struck out with a fist. Jarplin spun with the blow, but Flint continued his assault, leaping atop the captain’s back.

They crashed to the plank floor, an old board cracking under their weight. Flint grabbed a handful of Jarplin’s steel-gray hair. He used it as a grip to smash his face against the floor, panting as he repeatedly cracked the man’s head into the boards. He needed to win soon, for he was weakening rapidly. “Submit, Jarplin!” he yelled in the captain’s ear.

But the captain refused. He lashed back with an elbow that caught Flint on the chin, sending twirling sparks across his vision. Flint lost his grip on Jarplin’s hair. The captain pushed up under him, Flint now riding his back like a wild horse. If Jarplin should get loose…

Flint raised his other hand; old instincts had kept the sliver of a knife still clutched in his tight grip. He had lived among pirates too long to ever lose hold of a weapon during a fight.

Without considering his next action, Flint again grabbed a handful of Jarplin’s silver hair and yanked it up, exposing the puckered hole at the base of the captain’s skull. He slammed the slim knife through the hole, then used the heel of his hand to slam the butt of the knife deeper into the skull.

Under him, Jarplin spasmed and threw Flint off his back. Flint rolled across the cabin’s floor, coming to rest beside a small desk. Jarplin convulsed a second time while still fighting to push onto his hands and knees.

Blood bubbled up around the knife’s hilt. Agony stretched the captain’s face.

Then, as if some taut string had been cut, Jarplin fell limply to the floor. Facing Flint, his tortured features were once again relaxed as death neared. His lips moved, but no sound came out. Yet Flint knew the words his former captain formed: “I’m sorry.” At least for his last breath, Jarplin was once again a free man.

Flint went to reach a hand to Jarplin when something struck a numbing blow to his own skull. Flint’s vision blacked, and he fell forward to the floor. For a single heartbeat, his vision cleared. Dazed, he watched Vael step around from behind, cudgel in one hand, tentacled beast in the other.

“No,” Flint moaned as Vael retrieved the drill. “You will be my new dog, and I your master,” Vael lisped in his ear as he knelt atop Flint’s back, pinning him to the floorboards. “When I am done, you will lick my boots.”

Too weak and dazed to resist, Flint could only groan as he felt the drill’s sharp point dig into the wound at the back of his neck.

Again he heard the sibilant voice of his torturer. “Since you will receive the last ul’jinn on board this ship, your friends below will serve in another manner. I believe that young girl will carve up nicely into several tender roasts.”

Flint tried to struggle, but he was still too addled. He felt his forehead pressed into the floorboards. “Now hold still, my grizzled dog.”

Then steel bit into bone, grinding away the last of Flint’s consciousness.

Holding the d’warf hammer in hand, Elena stood over the col-lapsed body of the ship’s cook. His stained apron lay half ripped from where Er’ril had swung and slammed him into the wall. Like a sack of potatoes, the pudgy man had crumpled to the deck. Afterward, Er’ril and Joach had crept into the neighboring passage to check for other pirates, leaving Elena to stand guard over the cook.

If he should awaken, she was to ensure the man’s continued silence with the hammer.

The boy, Tok, stood near the galley’s entrance, a fist tight with worry at his throat. “Is Gimli dead?” Watching the cook’s chest rise and fall, Elena shook her head. “Just a bad bump on the head.” She fingered the hammer, running her hand over the carved runes on its long ironwood handle. If necessity warranted her using this weapon, the cook would have more than just a bad headache. She prayed he stayed unconscious.

Nearby, a pot on the hearth popped and gurgled with a thick stew, a fish porridge. Her own stomach responded to the warm smells. It had been a while since any of them had eaten. But they didn’t have time to tarry on such minor concerns—Flint’s single scream earlier had been all that had sounded. The silence afterward had worn on all their nerves as Tok had led them to their stored gear and then through crawlways and down cramped chutes to reach the galley.

From the doorway, her brother Joach appeared. “All clear,” he whispered. “Tok, lead us to the captain’s stateroom.”

The boy nodded, ripping his wide eyes away from the snoring cook. “It’s just a little farther.” He darted out of the kitchen.

Elena followed with Joach at her side. They found Er’ril a short way down the passage. He knelt over the body of another pirate, but this one was not breathing. Elena saw the reason why. A small sculptured iron fist had latched around his scrawny neck, throttling the man. As they approached, the iron fingers opened and released. It floated up as Er’ril stood. As the plainsman turned to them, he flexed the fist as if it were his own, which Elena knew it was in a way. The iron talisman had been imbued with the spirit of the boy-mage De-nal and was linked to the plainsman. Er’ril could use it as well as his real hand when his need was great and his concentration focused.

“He came at me from around a corner. Surprised me,” Er’ril said, shrugging at the death he had caused. “I lashed out harder than I should have.”

“It’s Samel,” Tok said softly, eyes wide as he stared at the dead man. “He used to share his ration of sweetcake with me.”

“I’m sorry,” Elena said.

Tok shook his head. “After th-they put that thing in his head, I saw him kill Jeffers. Slit his throat without a thought, even though they were once the best of chums.” The boy turned to Er’ril. “Maybe it’s best he’s dead now. I don’t think he could live with what he’s done.“

Suddenly the man’s corpse jerked with a contorting spasm. Something pale and thick with trailing tentacles slid from under his head. It crawled like a slug across the planks.

Face twisted in disgust, Er’ril stamped his boot down upon the beast, grinding it under his heel. Its snaking appendages tangled and writhed at the leather of his boot, finding no purchase, then went limp. The stench of rotted meat filled the hallway.

Er’ril glanced at Tok. “Take us to the captain’s stateroom.” Keeping his eyes averted, Tok stepped over the corpse. “This way.” Hefting the hammer, Elena followed. Joach kept to his sister’s side in the narrow passage, his staff clutched in a tight fist.

After a short climb up a ladder and a turn in another hallway, they came upon a double set of doors opening into a larger cabin. Tok stood before the door. The boy pointed and mouthed the words, In there.

Er’ril nodded, eying the others for a moment to ensure their readiness. He raised a fist and knocked. The rapping seemed so loud in the cramped passage.

A voice arose from inside. “Begone! I ordered us not to be

disturbed!“

“Master Vael,” Tok whispered, naming the speaker.

Er’ril raised his voice. “Master Vael, sir! We’ve captured a stowaway! I think you’d better come see!”

“Curse you all! I’m almost finished here and will be on deck shortly! Secure the prisoner with the others!” Yes, sir!

Er’ril nodded to Elena. She stepped forward and swung the hammer overhead. Due to the magick in the weapon’s haft, it was as light as a broom. She brought it smashing down upon the oaken door.

Wood splintered and exploded away, clearing the doorway.

Er’ril was through the flying debris before Elena completed the arc of her swing. Joach was quick on the plainsman’s heels.

Elena stepped through the ruined threshold. Tok shadowed behind her. Inside she saw too much blood. The captain lay facedown in a pool of his own blood. The strange first mate sat atop Flint’s back, drill in hand, sweat upon his brow. His eyes were open with surprise as he stared at the rushing newcomers.

Er’ril had his sword at the man’s throat before he could blink. “Sound a word, and you’ll taste my steel,” he glowered. “Now get off my friend.”

Elena rushed to Flint’s side. He still breathed, but there was so much blood. The wound at the back of his neck still bled fiercely. She went to stanch it with her gloved palm when a long pale snake arose from the wound, sucking at the air. With a look of horror, she tore her hand away.

“You’re too late,” the yellow-skinned first mate said, wearing a smile that exposed a row of filed teeth.

“The ul’jinn is already rooted. The man is mine. If I die, so does he. So does the entire crew.”

“So be it,” Er’ril said, his face deadly. He tensed as he prepared to impale the Dark Lord’s lackey.

“Wait,” Joach yelled. “The man may know something. Something we can use.” Vael spat. “I’ll tell you nothing.”

Er’ril’s sword arm trembled, its point dragging a red line across the man’s throat. Elena could read the plainsman’s thoughts. He wanted so desperately to kill this fiend who had tortured and molested his friend, but Joach’s words contained too much truth. As long as they held this one at bay, the rest of the pirates no longer posed a serious threat. If this yellow-skinned monster spoke the truth, a quick slash of his throat would kill the entire crew. “Joach, tie this bastard’s arms behind his back. Tight.”

“What about Flint?” Elena asked. The old seaman had not moved. He just lay dead still. The tentacle of the beast probed like a blind worm through the grizzled gray hair at the back of his neck.

Tok answered. “It takes half a day for th-the thing to take control. He will either awaken then or die with the shaking fits.” Elena lifted her gloved hand. “Er’ril?”

The plainsman knew what she asked. He nodded. What could it harm to try her magick to heal him?

Elena stripped off her glove and exposed her ruby stain. Vael hissed at the sight and struggled in Er’ril’s grip. But Joach already had him lashed securely, and the plainsman had his sword tight at the man’s throat.

“You!” Vael cried out. “You’re the wit’ch!” Elena ignored him and turned to Flint.

Vael’s voice became confused, lost. “My master instructed me to watch for a small girl, hair shorn short and died black, not… not a

woman.“ Vael groaned. ”If the Black Heart discovers how I’ve failed him…“ It heartened Elena to know that the Dark Lord’s resources were not infallible. But this current ruse would only work this once. If Rockingham had lived after the assault aboard the Seaswift, the Gul’gothal lord would soon know of her transformation. Elena shook her head. She would worry about that later.

Setting aside the hammer, she slipped the silver wit’ch dagger from its sheath, cut into her thumb, and cast aside her worries. She had a friend to save.

Elena held her bleeding thumb over the wound at the back of Flint’s neck. A thick red droplet rolled off her finger and fell upon the snaking appendage of the monster. It writhed as if her blood scalded it. Satisfied, Elena’s lips grew tight. So the trace of magick in the droplet could harm it. Injured, the beast retreated inside Flint’s skull with a snap of its tentacle.

“Not so quick, my little pet,” she mumbled and called forth her magicks. She was confident now that she could slay the monster hidden in Flint. But could she do it without also killing their friend? Such a healing would require the deftest touch.

Leashing her magick to her will, tendrils of fire climbed from her wounded thumb and reached out toward Flint. “Careful,” she whispered to herself and her magick.

Closing her eyes slightly, she used her magick’s senses to explore the edges of torn skin. Where they touched, the rent tissues healed. Elena sensed the flow of blood slowing to a trickle. Cautiously, she sent the barest thread of fire deeper into the wound, hunting the lurker below.

Now she had to proceed on her magickal instinct alone. She sent her senses along the thread of fire, like a spider down a web after a hidden fly. Holding her breath, she closed her eyes fully and cut off any further distractions. Around her, even the soft sounds of whispers and the rustle of woolen garments faded. All she heeded were patterns of light and darkness. She entered a world of warm phosphorescence and knew it for Flint’s essence. She sensed that it usually shone stronger than it did right now, but the injuries and assault had worn away his brightness. Her own thread of magick was like a silvery red torch; she had to be careful that it did not overwhelm the glow around her. With too fierce a touch, she could burn away all that was her friend, leaving him an empty shell. This horrible thought helped her hone her penetration to the thinnest spark.

As she cast deeper into this strange world, her magick a beacon before her, she spotted her enemy ahead: a dark blemish upon Flint’s gentle radiance. The ul’jinn. It sat hunched, a tangle of blackness, like snarled roots in the luminescent soil. Rootlets and fine traceries of darkness were already spreading out from it.

At its foul sight, an angry fire was stoked in her heart. The darkness felt so wrong. It was more than just a threat to her friend; it was as if it tainted life itself. It sickened her just to see it. An urge to blast it away, burn it to ashes, trembled her control. Her torch of wit’ch fire flared brighter.

No!

She fought it back down. She would not let this hideous creature control her actions. Her flame died away to a sharp spark again as she delved toward the lurker. Now closer, she realized that not all the black roots ended at the edge of Flint’s spirit; two went beyond. She sensed power flowing strongly in these cords and cast her awareness nearer. Menace and disease throbbed out from them. Sickened, Elena lashed out and burned through them, severing both roots with a flash of wit’ch fire.

As she did so, she noted two things. In one root, she sensed a twisted mind linked through it and somehow knew it was Vael. Her hatred for him bloomed. The momentary brush with his spirit was so corrupt that even this brief touch made her want to scrub her skin raw. But this short peek into Vael’s mind was nothing compared to the impression she received as she severed the second root. It was as if she drowned in a sea of evil. It swept at her as she cut through the root, almost latching onto her own spirit. She railed against it, her magick flaring brighter.

Luckily, as quick as the assault came, it vanished—but not before she sensed the pair of baleful red eyes staring back at her, eyes carved of ruby. Eyes of the wy vern. Elena suddenly understood the statue’s presence on board the ship.

She reeled back from the cut cords, watching the roots shrivel away. Dread and panic gripped her, but she kept her magick reined in. Turning to the remaining mass of darkness, she quickly thrust out a net of fiery threads and enveloped the ul’jinn with her magick. In short order, she burned away all traces of the darkness, leaving

Flint’s spirit unblemished. She lingered no further to appreciate her handiwork. A bigger battle loomed ahead before any of them could

be considered free.

As she withdrew her magick, Elena’s awareness followed. She blinked her eyes open, taking a moment to orient herself to the real world. Once fully free of Flint’s spirit, she loosened her pent-up magick, and her fist blew forth with flames. The others backed from her abrupt display.

Elena did not care. Pushing to her feet, she stalked to where Vael stood with Er’ril’s sword at his throat.

Tok spoke up behind her, “Is Flint… ? Is he going to live?”

“The ul’jinn is gone,” she answered, her voice cold with anger. “What is it, Elena?” Er’ril asked. He knew her too well. As answer, Elena grabbed Vael by the throat, her flaming fingers burning into his skin. He screamed as the smoke of his charred flesh scented the air. It would be a simple thing to burn through his scrawny neck, and for a moment, she even considered it.

Vael must have sensed her thoughts. “No!” he croaked. “Why?” she hissed at him. “Why would you do it?” He knew what she asked, terror clear in his eyes. She cared nothing for the tentacled ul’jinn and the slaves they made of these pirates. It was inconsequential compared to the larger menace hidden in the bowels of the ship. Vael tremored in her grip.

She lifted him by his throat, the magick giving her the strength of ten men. “Answer me!” With his sword numb in his fist, Er’ril watched Elena shake the man like a dog with a rabbit, fury flaming her green eyes. Er’ril had

never seen her so angry.

Elena leaned closer to her prisoner. “Why did you bring it here?” Tears rained down Vael’s cheeks as smoke curled up from his neck. “The Dark Master’s servant… the one in the tower… the Praetor… he demanded it.”

Er’ril knew to whom he referred. He stepped closer. “My brother.” Elena held up her free hand to silence him. She continued her interrogation of Vael. “Where were you taking it? To Port Rawl?” Vael tried to nod as he hung in her flaming grip. “Yes, and from there inland by river barge.” Er’ril could wait no longer. “Elena, what is it that you know?” He waved to where Joach and Tok stood guard by the door. “Speak plain. The other pirates aboard will soon grow wise to our escape.” As answer, Elena tossed the thin man across the cabin. Vael struck the far wall and collapsed in a pile of jumbled limbs. He cowered as flames of wit’ch fire climbed up her arm in an angry blaze, but Elena ignored the man’s terror and turned to Er’ril. “The statue in the hold—it’s not just ebon’stone. While inside Flint’s mind, I sensed the statue’s link to the ul’jinn and caught an inkling of its true heart, the darker secret in the stone.” Elena began to tremble with fury. Joach stepped closer toward his sister. “What is it, El? ”

“The stone is a womb,” she answered. “Its belly brews an evil so foul that just the thinnest wisp of its spirit almost snuffed out my own.” Elena crossed and retrieved the Try’sil from the cabin’s floor. With the rune-carved hammer in hand, she faced Vael again. “Even if the hammer could crack the stone shell, I fear that what grows inside is already too strong for me to handle. If it should be unleashed now, it would destroy us all.”

“But what manner of beast is it?” Joach asked, his voice dry with fear.

Elena shook her head and crouched down beside Vael, who still lay curled in a ball by the wall’s base.

“But/;<? knows.”

Vael tried to press farther into the wall.

Raising her ruby hand, Elena’s fingertips sprouted fresh flames, thin streamers of fire. Like outstretched claws, she threatened the man. “Tell us what lurks inside the ebon’stone statue.”

“I… I don’t know… truly. The Dark Lord’s servant bound my blood to its power so I could control the ul’jinn. I was to deliver the statue to Port Rawl, then inland to the mountains. I was told nothing else. I know nothing else.”

Elena drew back her magick, her anger waning with her growing exhaustion. Deep lines marked her tired face. “He speaks the truth,” she said forlornly.

“Not entirely,” Er’ril argued. “He leaves out more than he says.” Er’ril crouched beside the yellow-skinned foreigner. The man smelled of fear and dried blood. Er’ril used his sword tip to raise the man’s chin until he stared into the man’s odd violet eyes. “Where in the mountains were you to deliver this stone womb?” Vael quivered under the point of the sword and under the intensity of their gazes. “A small town… near the highlands.”

“Name it.”

“Winterfell.”

Elena and Joach both gasped. Er’ril just stared, trying to fathom a reason for this choice of location. Why the town where Elena grew up? What did that matter?

Flint interrupted their shock with a rattling groan. Eyes swung in his direction. The old man rolled to his side, too weak to rise. Er’ril kept his sword on Vael as Joach crossed and helped the older man sit up. Flint’s eyes, bleary and red, searched the room. He seemed quickly to take in the scenario. One hand fluttered to the back of his head. Joach spoke. “Fear not. Elena rid you of the beast.” He groaned again. “Still it… it feels like my head’s been cleaved.” Er’ril turned his attention back upon Vael. “The statue—what were you to do with it once you reached Winterfell?”

Vael shrank away. “Haul it to some old ruins and just leave it there. That’s all I know.” Flint struggled straighter in Joach’s arms. “What is this statue?” Joach explained the discovery of the ebon’stone sculpture and the Dark Lord’s plans for it. Flint’s face grew grimmer with the telling. Er’ril let the older Brother ponder the information, trusting to his friend’s keen mind.

“I must see it,” Flint finally said. He fussed against Joach’s assistance and pushed unsteadily to his feet.

Once up, he faced Elena. “Can you clear a path to the hold?” Elena slowly nodded.

Tok suddenly spoke up from near the ruined doorway. “Someone comes!” he hissed at them. He stepped to the hall for a brief moment, then darted back inside. A fierce clanging of a bell sounded from atop the ship.

“They know you’ve escaped!”

“Elena?”

“You want a path?” Her eyes swung to Vael. “By his own admission, he is the hand that guides these men.” Before anyone could react, Elena raised her arm, and flames coursed out in a thick stream.

Er’ril ducked away, feeling the scorch as the wit’ch fire passed. Vael scrabbled along the wall, attempting to escape the flames. He failed.

The end of Elena’s stream of fire bloomed into a tangle of fiery filaments. They trapped Vael as surely as a spiderweb snags a fly. He screamed as he writhed in her web, clothes smoking, flesh burning.

Joach had joined Tok by the door. “There’s at least five men at the end of the passage,” he warned.

“They’ve swords and torches. And more are coming. They must know we hide here.”

“Elena, what are you doing?” Er’ril asked.

“The man knows nothing more. I sense it with my magick,” she intoned, the words dull in her mouth. What she did next was done without passion. The flaming filaments snaked past Vael’s stretched lips, flowing inside him. “But he is bound to all the ul’jinn here.”

Elena thrust out her hand, clenched a fist, and twisted her wrist. Vael jerked as if his neck had been snapped, and his body went limp. “Cut off the head of a snake and the body will die,” Elena mumbled and lowered her hand. The fires vanished like a snuffed candle.

Er’ril crossed toward Vael. Smoke still curled from his body. The girl had killed him.

He turned in horror to Elena.

She merely stared at Er’ril for several breaths, then spoke. “You did not touch his mind. I did.” She turned away.

Joach reported from the doorway. “All the pirates just collapsed in the hall,” he said in astonishment.

Flint nodded. “Vael was the blood link. With his death, the ul’jinn die, too.” Tok, who had again crept into the passage to investigate, danced back into the cabin. His face was flushed with panic. “The fallen torches and lanterns are starting a fire! Half the passage is already aflame!” (

Er’ril straightened up from his crouch and hurried them toward the door. This was an old ship, its timbers ripe for the flame. A strong fire could burn the ship down to the waterline in mere moments.

Joach helped Flint, lending his shoulder for support.

Tok hung back, eying Vael’s body, then suddenly ran and kicked the man’s corpse, spitting on it. Tears streamed down the boy’s cheeks. “They were my family,” he yelled at the burned body.

Er’ril crossed and gathered the boy up under his arm. Tok latched onto him like a drowning sailor. They did not have time to waste on tears or comfort. Still, Er’ril sheathed his sword and pulled the lad up to his chest.

As he carried the boy toward the door, Er’ril caught Elena staring at him from the doorway. Her expression was one of sorrow and hopelessness. If he had had another arm, he would have gladly given it to her to lean on. But instead he could only softly urge, “We must

hurry.“

She nodded. Her lost look hardened to steel again as she stared at the sobbing boy. She mumbled something as she moved to march

alongside him.

Er’ril pretended not to hear the words, but he had. It was his own early words to her.

“… all of Alasea bleeds.”

Elena climbed with the others out of the smoke-choked pas-sages onto the middeck. Behind them, flames already lapped skyward, lighting the early dawn with their own fire. Bodies lay strewn across the deck like scattered rag dolls, crumpled and forgotten. Even from the rigging, three men hung from tangled ropes after falling from where they had been working the sails.

As she watched, a lick of flame touched the foresail, and in a whis-pery rush, the fire raced up the sailcloth to the ropes and masts overhead. Hot ash rained down on them. Elena looked away as one of the bodies, hanging like a lantern far above, took flame.

To her side, Er’ril lowered Tok to the deck. “We must abandon the boat. Now,” the plainsman said. “The fire spreads wildly.”

As if accenting his words, an explosion belowdecks blew a flaming barrel of ignited oil up through the planks. It arced over the water in

a blazing trail.

Ducking, Elena followed Er’ril aft. “What about the ebon’stone statue?” Elena asked. “We can’t just leave it here.”

Er’ril waved Flint and Joach to their side as he answered her. “Whatever evil it broods, the seas will claim it now. That is the best

we can manage.“

Elena was unconvinced. Such evil would not so easily drown, even in a burning boat. With hammer in hand, she eyed the main

hatch.

Er’ril must have read her thoughts. “No, Elena. Whatever its foul purpose in being hauled to Winterfell, we’ve at least stopped that part of the Dark Lord’s plan.”

Flint, ashen in complexion and still leaning on Joach, hobbled to them. He coughed the smoke and ash from his lungs before speaking. “Trouble,” he said between gasps. “There is no way off this ship, except over the rail.”

Er’ril scowled and glanced through the smoke to the neighboring seas. Elena searched, too. They were far from the coastline and even farther from any of the Archipelago’s islands.

Flint pointed toward the distant coast. “There. See those lights?” Elena squinted. “Where—?” she began to say, then spotted the scatter of lamps lighting the rocky shore just north of their position.

“It’s Port Rawl,” Flint explained, stopping to cough on a gust of smoke. “The currents here are strong, but with flotsam from the ship, we might be able to kick toward shore and make it overland to the city.” Er’ril glanced at the others. Elena knew he weighed their strength against the cold and currents of the surrounding waters. He frowned at the exhaustion he found in all their faces, but it mirrored his own. Flint persisted. “We may not even have to swim all the way to shore. This close to Port Rawl, our fire will surely be spotted. Scavenging ships will be sent out.”

“More pirates?” Joach asked.

Flint shrugged and fingered the healing wound on his neck. “As long as they’re just pirates, I’ll kiss their salty feet.”

Suddenly, the mainsail blew aflame, brightening the smoky gloom. Elena even felt the heat through her boots as the fires hidden below began to cook the planks.

“We don’t have much time,” Flint said needlessly. “Stay here,” Er’ril ordered them all. Covering his nose and mouth with a scrap of sailcloth, he dashed across the smoky deck. Flint and Tok took up position by the rail.

Joach sidled next to her. She took his offered hand in her own, a touch of family. “Always flames,” he mumbled. “Hmm?”

He smiled weakly at her. “Whenever we get together, we’re always chased by fires.” She returned a tired grin, knowing he referred to the orchard blaze that had first driven them from their homes. Her brother was right. It seemed flames always marked her path.

Er’ril suddenly appeared out of the smoke, coughing, a small wooden door clutched under his one arm. “We can use this to keep afloat,” he said as he leaned the door against the rail and turned away. “I’m going to fetch something more. I spotted a broken table in the galley.“

Before anyone could comment, Er’ril vanished back into the

thickening haze.

At the rail, nobody spoke, worry and fear clear in all their eyes. Elena studied the choppy waves. Could she manage such a swim? She searched the waters for signs of shark fins or other hidden menaces.

From somewhere far away, a horn began to wail—at first softly, then stridently, echoing over the waters. It sounded like the mournful cry of a dying seabeast.

“Port Rawl has spotted us,” Flint explained, his voice a mixture of relief and worry. “They sound the alarm.

If we can—”

Suddenly the deck jolted under their feet. Tok was knocked to his knees. A shuddering roar burst from deep within the boat, as if the ship bellowed its death rattle. The yardarm of the mast, half charred, crashed midship, taking out the far rail. The ship listed and rolled, seawater hissing as flames were consumed.

Flint was at Elena’s shoulder. “We dare not wait any longer. We must abandon ship. Now! She’s breaking apart.” The old seaman pushed her toward the scrap of door. “Stay with your brother. I’ll keep with the young lad. Strike out as best you can. Watch for any ships.” Elena stepped away from the starboard rail. “But Er’ril… ?” Flint gripped her shoulder with fingers of iron and pulled her back. “He’ll manage on his own. He’s been in worse scrapes and survived.“

Joach stepped in front of her. “Brother Flint is right, El. Help me toss the door overboard.“

Elena frowned but obeyed. The two heaved the chunk of wood over the rail. It struck the water, bobbed up, then quickly began to glide away. The current was strong.

Flint had managed to scrounge a section of broken rail from somewhere, and he and the boy were prepared to leap with it in their arms. “Hurry,” he urged.

Joach helped his sister atop the rail. “Go, old man,” he yelled to Flint. “We’ll manage.”

Tok’s face was frozen in fear, but Flint gave the young lad’s arm a final squeeze and over they went.

Joach turned to Elena. “Ready?”

“Yes,” she answered and shoved Joach overboard.

He hit the water hard but floundered up, sputtering seawater. Elena leaned over the rail and pointed to the floating door. “Fetch the door! Wait for me! I’m not leaving without searching for Er’ril!”

“Elena! No!”

She was already gone. She would not abandon Er’ril. With the ship crashing around their ears, the plainsman might be trapped under debris, and with her magick, she could quickly free him.

Racing through the smoke, she aimed for the hatch in the stern deck. Er’ril had mentioned something about the galley. Holding her arm over her nose and mouth, she sped through the hatch. Her eyes burned with ash and smoke. Tears washed down her cheeks.

She clattered down the steep stair, almost knocking her head when a step gave way under her. Without waiting, she fought her way to the kitchens. Through the smoke, she spotted a body, covered in ash.

With her heart in her throat, she rushed over only to discover it was just the cook.

Elena straightened. The galley was small, but the smoke still made it difficult to see all its corners clearly.

The sting of tears compounded the problem. For this reason, Elena did not spot the open trapdoor until she almost fell headlong down it.

Crouching, she stared into the darkness. Lit by a vague reddish glow, a ladder descended. She knew to where these steps led. Elena, Er’ril, and Joach had once stood at the foot of these same steps and listened to the bawdy singing of pirates. Down there was where they had been imprisoned—and where the wyvern statue was stored.

“Er’ril!” she yelled down the trapdoor. “Can you hear me?”

She waited, holding her breath. Nothing.

Before she could convince herself otherwise, Elena swung around onto the ladder. She scrambled down the steps into the hot bowels of the ship. The glow, she discovered, was not from a lantern, but from a smoldering fire near the back of the short passage. The heat singed her lungs as she breathed. She would have to hurry.

Cautious but moving quickly, she darted down the hall toward the fire, its heat more searing with every step. But in five paces, she was at the door that led to the bilge cabin. She ducked into the room, fist raised before her and already afire with blood magicks.

What she found there so startled her that she froze in place. In the center of the room were the remains of the crate—broken boards and charred remnants—and nothing else. The statue was gone.

From the scatter of wooden pieces, it was almost like something had exploded out from it. Elena glanced around as if expecting to see the wyvern statue lurking in a corner or hanging from the ceiling. But there was no sign of it.

Elena took a step closer. Her toe nudged a piece of debris that rolled across the floorboards. It drew her eye. A gasp escaped her throat as she recognized it. She hurried over and retrieved the small iron fist from the debris. It was the ward of A’loa Glen. So Er’ril had been down here!

Wiping the tears and sweat from her eyes, she searched closer, on hands and knees. She found Er’ril’s weapon, the silver sword he had obtained from Denal. In horror, she realized the scatter of cloth scraps strewn about were actually the remains of Er’ril’s breeches and shirt. They had been shredded to ribbons. She lifted her hand. It held the leather tie that bound the plainsman’s hair. It was singed black.

Shock pushed Elena to her feet.

Her limbs shook. The grief and horror were too large for her to grip. “No,” she finally moaned and backed away, stopping only to collect the iron ward and the silver sword from the floor. Elena ran from the room. Her mind was too shaken to manage the ladder, especially encumbered by Er’ril’s items. But even if it meant her life, she could not discard them.

Elena struggled upward, her clothes and skin beginning to burn from the growing heat. She rolled out of the trapdoor and into the kitchen, sprawling across the deck. After the cramped oven of the lower hall, the kitchen felt almost icy. She closed her eyes, meaning to rest only a moment, but instead slipped into a numb daze. When next she was aware, the galley was thick with smoke, choking her. Coughing, she leaned up. Fires surrounded her.

Overhead, planks suddenly crashed down. Craning her neck, Elena saw a monstrous, dark shape reach toward her. “No,” she moaned, too grief-stricken to resist. Sharp claws grabbed Elena as her vision blackened.

Beyond caring, beyond hope, darkness claimed her.

Elena awoke slowly. She struggled against the bonds that held her trapped until she realized it was just heavy blankets, snugged securely around her.

“Hush, dear. You’re safe.”

Turning her head, Elena watched an old woman move about the small room. Elena gasped as the elder swung back toward the bed. Above the woman’s small nose was only a plane of dark skin. No eyes. Elena shuddered at the sight. “Who… ? Where… ?” Elena fought to sit up. From the roll in her belly, she sensed she was in some ship’s cabin. She glanced around the small chamber. A sea chest, a stout table, and the bed. There was not even a porthole.

Elena tried to speak, but a sudden fit of coughing choked her. She hacked and gasped for several breaths, spitting up a black phlegm from her throat. Afterward, with tears in her eyes, she slumped deeper into the thick goose down of the bed,,too weak limbed for any real resistance.

The old woman, her gray hair bound in a coil atop her head, turned toward Elena, stirring a steaming mug with a twig of willow. It smelled of cinnamon and a tang of medicinals. “Drink this.” The old woman held out the cup. “I know your magick will help you heal eventually, but never turn down additional aid.” Elena leaned away warily. As she did so, she felt something burrowing under the blankets near the foot of the bed. She yanked her feet away just as a fiery-maned face popped from under a fold of blanket. Its huge black eyes blinked at her; then a tail ringed in gold and rich brown fur wriggled free.

“Tikal… Tikal… bad puppy,” it intoned mournfully.

Elena caught a pungent whiff arising from that end of the bed. The beast looked oddly chagrined, head bowed, tail tucking around

its neck.

The old woman scolded the animal and shooed him away. “I’m sorry, dear,” she said and sat on the edge of the bed, still holding the cup. “Tikal is still upset by the sea voyage. Normally he knows to use a chamberpot. I’ll fetch a dry set of bedclothes in a moment.” She grimaced in the creature’s direction, sending it scurrying to perch atop the nearby table. The old woman then turned to Elena. “He’s upset because the last time either of us were aboard a sailing vessel was when we were first caught by the slavers.”

Elena sensed no threat from the woman, but while naked under the sheets, she felt vulnerable. “Am I with slavers now?” she asked hoarsely, her throat raw.

The woman smiled. “Oh, my dear, don’t you remember anything?” She laughed a quick note, a friendly sound. “We rescued you from the flaming ship. Well, Tol’chuk did, that is. He found you nearly blacked out in the lower decks. Luckily, an og’re’s eyes are sharp in dim light, and with his stone guiding him, he found you quickly. Any longer and the smoke would have killed you.” Elena remembered the sharp claws and the dark shape looming over her after climbing from the trapdoor.

“Tol’chuk?”

“Yes.” She patted Elena’s blanket-covered knee. “Luckily, we were already under sail when we spotted your smoke, giving us a jump on any other ship from Port Rawl. Now drink this elixir of fellroot and bitterwort. It’ll help clear your chest of the smoke. The coughing may get worse over the next hour, but the herbs will loosen the phlegm so you can clear it.” She smiled kindly and held out the mug again. “Mostly you just need rest.”

This time Elena took it. The stone of the mug felt warm and soothing in her clammy hands. Elena could almost sense the healing properties through the stone. “My brother?” she asked fearfully over the cup’s rim.

“We fished everyone from the sea, except—” A knock at the door interrupted them.

“Come!” the old woman called out.

A familiar figure strode into the room. The slender limbs, the hawkish nose—even with his hair but a silver stubble, she could not mistake the elv’in Meric. “I have an extra pot of hot water—” he began to say. Then his eyes grew wide as he spotted Elena. “You’re awake!” he said with delight, such strong emotion rare in the haughty fellow. Elena noted that he needed a cane now to hobble across the floorboards to join them. “I see you’ve met Mama Freda,” he said as he leaned on the foot of her bed. “Without her healing skills, neither of us would be here now.”

“What happened to you?” she asked, noting the fading scars on his face.

He opened his mouth to answer, but Mama Freda cut him off. “There is time for the exchange of tales later. Right now, I’d like to get this child up and moving a bit. She’s been bedridden near on an entire day.

And I think a short walk in fresh air will help her lungs.” Meric nodded his agreement but did not move, still staring at Elena.

Mama Freda just sighed. “A bit of privacy, sir.”

The elv’in’s eyes grew wide. “Of course… I’m sorry…” he mumbled, straightening up. “It’s just that she’s changed so much. Flint warned us, but with her awake like this, it’s just so much more… more astounding.” Mama Freda shooed him away. “Let her finish her drink in peace.” Meric glanced one last time before slipping out of the room. “She could be ancient King Dresdin’s first child,” he mumbled as he left. “The resemblance to the old tapestries is amazing.” Once the elv’in was gone, Mama Freda removed a thick robe from the sea chest. “After you finish with the herbs, I’ll take you above.”

Elena nodded. She sipped the elixir slowly. The cinnamon’s flavor could not completely mask the bitter tang of trie medicinals. Still, it was hot and soothed the raw ache in her throat. As she closed her eyes and inhaled the scent into her sore lungs, she tried not to think about Er’ril and what she had discovered below the decks of the tainted S’tipjac’t. The memory was too tender, and no elixir in all the lands could soothe that pain.

“Are you all right?” Mama Freda asked. “Is the medicine too hot?” Elena opened her eyes and realized tears had blurred her vision. “No, the herb tea is fine,” she muttered.

How had the eyeless woman

noted her few tears? Pushing aside such mysteries, Elena sighed and drained the last of the mug’s contents.

“I’m done,” she started to say, but the healer was already reaching for her empty cup.

“Then let’s get you some fresh air.” Mama Freda helped her stand and slipped the robe over her shoulders.

The old woman gave her a quick hug and whispered in her ear. “Time alone is the best healer of some wounds.“

Elena knew the woman sensed the ache in her heart. She returned the hug. “I pray you’re right,” she whispered.

Mama Freda touched Elena’s cheek with a warm palm, then turned to guide her out of the room. Tikal rode on the healer’s shoulder. Elena was glad the old woman’s cane kept her from moving too quickly. Elena’s own limbs felt like those of a newborn, shaky and weak. Luckily, they did not have far to go—only down a short passage and up an impossibly steep set of stairs.

Holding the upper deck hatch open, Mama Freda helped Elena up into the clean air of late morning. The fresh breezes felt like ice in her lungs. Coughing a bit, she stood in place, taking in the bright sunlight and soft winds. Already she felt vigor returning in her limbs. “You be looking much better,” a graveled voice said behind her. Elena turned and spotted Tol’chuk standing by the ship’s rail. He wore an awkward smile, yellowed fangs glinting in the sun. She crossed to the huge og’re and hugged him. “Thank you for risking your life to save me.“

Once free of the embrace, Tol’chuk patted his thigh pouch. “The stone would allow me no other choice.

Besides, a bit of flame be little threat to an og’re’s thick skin.” She patted his arm. “Well, thank you anyway,” she said, smiling at his humility. She glanced around the deck. “Where’s Mycelle?”

Tol’chuk’s features clouded over with sorrow. “She be gone.” Elena’s heart clenched. She could not face more death. “Is she…

is she dead?“

Tol’chuk touched her with an apologetic claw and corrected Elena’s misinterpretation. “Sometimes I be thick in the head. Mycelle be fine. She and Krai, along with the shape-shifters, have gone to stop the Dark Lord’s armies in the north. She left a letter for you,

explaining it all.“

Elena breathed again, relieved. They were not dead, but her mind was too fuddled to deal with the implications of the others‘

departure. She would ponder the loss later, but right now, she simply did not want to feel. Her heart was too raw.

From the stern, another familiar voice arose. Glancing back, she spotted Flint with a few black-skinned sailors by the wheel. From the flush to the old Brother’s cheeks, he seemed to be in the middle of an argument with them. He waved to her, then returned to his discussion.

“El!” Joach rushed at her from where he and the boy Tok had been sparring with staffs on the deck.

“You’re up!”

She endured his embrace, glad to see they were all safe. All this attention was beginning to tax her.

Joach straightened, a stern look on his face. “If you ever shove me overboard again…” he scolded, but he could not maintain the ruse of anger. A foolish smile bloomed on his lips. “Thank the Mother you’re safe, El.”

Mama Freda must have sensed her growing exhaustion. “Come, leave her be,” she clucked at Joach and scooted him back with her cane. From her shoulder, Tikal also scolded the boy with sharp squeaks. Once Joach relented, Mama Freda turned to Elena. “Let’s walk a bit, then back down you go.” Elena nodded. She crossed the deck, coughing every now and then. Mama Freda placed a palm on her forehead at one point, but the healer seemed content with whatever she felt.

They ended up standing by the rail, staring over the open seas. Green islands with shores of steep cliffs rode the waves all around them. They must have entered the Archipelago while she slept. Elena scanned all the horizons. Not a smudge of dark smoke marked the sky anywhere.

“The boat sank quickly,” Mama Freda said. “We searched the waters for half a day but found no sign of him.”

“He was already gone,” she muttered.

Mama Freda remained silent, just placed her hand atop Elena’s.

Across the sky, gulls called to one another. Elena listened, her eyes staring at the swells as the boat rode the currents and winds.

Suddenly, Mama Freda’s pet, who had been chittering softly and trying to unwind the healer’s braid, erupted with loud screeches. Elena’s gaze darted up just as the gulls overhead began their own angry cries.

Tikal clutched tightly to the thin neck of the healer, the beast’s eyes wide with fright. He stared toward the skies above.

“What’s wrong with him?” Elena asked.

Mama Freda’s blind face also stared upward. “I see what Tikal sees,” she said in worried tones. “His eyes are sharper than those of a man. It’s some strange bird flying this way.”

“The wyvern.” Elena searched the skies for a black speck. “It must be coming back.“

“It’s odd…” the healer mumbled.

Then Elena saw it. It dove out of the sun’s glare, as if birthed by its fires. As it shot across the blue skies, scudding under white clouds, its plumage shone like fire.

Elena and Mama Freda scrambled back as the bird plummeted directly toward them. Tripping on the old woman’s cane, Elena fell. A commotion arose behind her as others spotted the attacker, but Elena’s eyes were fixed on the plunge of the winged predator. It was much too small to be the wyvern. But what was it?

She raised her red hand against it, scrambling for something to poke her skin to release a flow of fire. Then it was too late.

She ducked back as the bird swooped at her. Elena gasped as its bright wings suddenly flashed wide. Its plummet ended as it landed gracefully on the ship’s rail. It perched, panting through its open beak, wings held slightly open to cool its flight.

The sharp fiery brilliance of its plumage faded enough to reveal the snowy white of its feathers. Its black eyes studied Elena, head

slightly cocked.

“It’s the sunhawk,” Meric said, awe in his voice.

The elv’in stepped around Elena as she carefully stood up, cautious of any sudden movement in front of the huge bird. It had to stand at least four hands tall. “A sunhawk?” she asked. Elena remembered the smaller moon’falcon that had led Meric to her so long ago.

“It’s Queen Tratal’s bird,” he answered. “The herald of the House of the Morning Star.” Flint had joined them by now. “But why is it here?” he asked. Meric turned to them all. “She comes. The queen herself has left

Stormhaven.“

“But why?” Elena asked.

He turned to her, his eyes full of worry. “She comes to reclaim the lands from which our ancestors have been banished.” He waved toward the bird. “The flight of her sunhawk heralds the eve of war.” Sensations returned like an old nightmare.

First, a whisper across his skin, a touch so cold that it felt more like a burn. Then sound: a chorus of wails, distant but also as near as a lover’s breath. The cries echoed inside his skull, begging him back to oblivion. He fought against this urge, swimming up from the drowning blackness. His reward for his effort was a final explosion of senses: a choking stench that reeked of death, and a burst of white light that shattered the darkness into fragments.

“He wakes,” a voice spoke from beyond the blinding brilliance.

Floundering in the sea of sensations, the drowning victim finally surfaced. Fragments of vision collected back together like a child’s puzzle. He lay on his back atop a slab of stone: hard, unyielding, as cold as the marble of a crypt. The brush of icy air across his skin revealed his nakedness.

As his head lolled to the side, he saw walls of stacked granite blocks. Slitted windows, high up the walls, brought in little sunlight, only cold breezes.

Again the coarse voice spoke from behind him. “He resists.” Another voice answered. It was oddly familiar, a whisper from some long-dead past. “His magick still protects him. He’ll not be turned by the black arts.”

The listener fought to understand these words, but for now, he only lived in his senses; who spoke was of no concern. Even who he was himself was a question that had yet to arise in his fuddled mind.

“What do we do with him then? He should’ve died when he entered the Weir.”

“His iron ward,” the naggingly familiar voice answered. “The talisman had the power to open it. As to surviving that dark path, again the magick in the Blood Diary protects him.” As the sleeper continued to wake fully, his mind began noting more than just smells and shivering skin. He began to focus ^gain on more important concerns. Who were these others? His hand rose to touch his face, to run a fingertip over his lips. Who am I?

“Forget this new plan. We should just kill him,” the coarse voice insisted. The listener now sensed it was an old man who spoke, his voice harsh with many winters.

“No,” the other answered. This was a young voice, full of youth’s strength.

“Why? What difference does it make? The wit’ch will still come. She will believe him dead. Why not make it true?”

“Whether the child comes or not does not bear on my decision.”

“But Elena should be…”

Around him, the voices and room faded. One word rose to shine like a torch before his awareness: Elena. An image bloomed to replace the single word: eyes of commanding green, cheek and neck softly curved, hair the color of a fiery sunset. With this one memory, the rest began to return.

At first just a trickle of images: An iron hand raised toward a black sculpture… The rip of reality as the stone of the statue became a pool of black energies… His struggling body caught and dragged by a fierce tidal pull toward the pool’s black maw… Then… then… a darkness so deep and ancient that there were no words to describe it.

He shuddered against the memory, pushing it away.

As he did so, other memories rushed back in, a raging torrent of old faces, old tales. Five centuries of memories quickly refilled the yawning void in his awareness.

Mother above, what had he done?

Er’ril gasped as his thoughts were again his own. He struggled to sit up, anger and pain heating his naked skin. “Elena…” he mumbled in apology.

To either side of him, two figures stepped into sight.

He knew well the dark-robed elder, his hoary face ravaged by time, his eyes gone cloudy from centuries of passing winters. “Greshym.”

The old darkmage bowed his head mockingly and raised his stumped right wrist in a crude salute. “So I see your mind finally wakes, too.”

Er’ril ignored him and turned to the other man. Where the darkmage was bent-backed and crooked, this other stood tall, straight, and broad of shoulder. Under black hair neatly cropped, eyes that matched Er’nl’s own stared back at him. They were the gray of a snowy winter morn, the mark of a true Standi plainsman. But instead of finding the warmth of a shared heritage in the other’s gaze, only coldness and blackness shone forth, as if Er’ril stared into an open grave. Too shocked, he found no words to speak.

The other was not so incapacitated. “Welcome, dear brother,” he said, “it’s been a long time.”

“Shorkan,” Er’ril finally croaked out.

His brother’s smile held no warmth, only the promise of pain. “It’s about time we were reacquainted.” Er’ril spat in his face. “You are not my brother, only a beast who wears his face.” Shorkan did not bother to wipe the spittle from his cheek. He only sighed. “You will learn to love me again.

That I promise.”

“Never!” he answered with a snarl.

Raising a hand, Shorkan signaled with his fingers. From behind Er’ril, a third spectator stepped forward, a spy who had so far remained silent.

As Er’ril recognized this other, the shock almost thrust him back into dark oblivion. “No!” he said, remembering that night in the inn so long ago, his sword thrust through the back of the boy, pinning him to the planks. “I slew you!”

The small lad shrugged, his eyes bright with a feral light. “Don’t worry, plainsman. I don’t hold it against you. It would take more than an ordinary sword to sever my ties to this world.” It was Denal, the boy mage—and the third and final member of the coven who had forged the Blood Diary five centuries ago. Or at least it was what was left of him, the evil that had been freed by the spell. At the time, Er’ril had thought he had slain the boy’s evil half.

Shorkan stepped forward. “Now that we have all the parties reunited from that fateful night in Winterfell, we can proceed.”

Er’ril stared at the coven. “I will not let any of you harm Elena.”

“You mistake my intentions, Brother. With you finally here, the wit’ch hardly matters. If we succeed, she will be but a plaything of the master.”

“Succeed at what?”

Greshym answered, his voice cracking. “At correcting our mistake.” Er’ril glanced around the group of heartless faces and brutal eyes.

Shorkan finished the explanation. “Together again, with your help, we mean to recast the spell and unbind the book. To destroy forever the Blood Diary.”