She nodded and soon found herself in a spacious room. The place was warm and inviting. Along one wall, shelves were crammed with weathered texts and crumpled scrolls. A desk stood nearby, a thick book spread atop its surface. Across the room, two goose-down chairs stood before an actual stone fireplace. A thick iron grate kept the burning logs within the small hearth during the storm’s tumult. The high keel waved Sy-wen to one of the thick chairs. She accepted the invitation, glad to get closer to the warm fire. The chill of their flight had set deep into her bones. The Dre’rendi clothes she wore dripped and clung damply to her skin. She wished she had kept her sharkskin breeches.

Once seated, she pulled Sheeshon into her lap. The girl raised her legs to heat the bottoms of her bare feet.

Bilatus was invited to the second chair, leaving the high keel and his son, Hunt, to stand. The two tall men flanked either side of the hearth. Side by side now, their distinct similarities were obvious: sharp eyes squinted at the corners, strong clefted chins, wide mouths made for easy smiling. Even their broad shoulders and stance were twins of each other.

Sy-wen found herself trusting these two and leaned deeper into the goose-down pillows.

“Tell us your story,” the high keel said simply.

Sy-wen cleared her throat and did as he asked. She explained about the coming assault on A’loa Glen, about the Gul’gothal forces fortifying the islands, about the hope of the lands placed in the hands of a young wit’ch. She related all she had shared with Pinorr— except for the secret of Kast and the dragon. She suspected none would believe her, and right now, she needed all the trust she could muster from these three men. “So I have come to ask you to lend your ships and warriors to our battle.” The high keel had remained silent during the entire discourse. Finally, he spoke. “I believe you speak with a noble heart, Sy-wen of the mer’ai. I even believe your cause just and righteous. The Dre’rendi (AMES tLEMENS

share no love for the Gul’gotha, but likewise we share no friendship with the mer’ai either. Why join old enemies to fight new enemies? What matter to us that the Gul’gotha torment the people of the lands?“

Sy-wen sat up straighten “The Gul’gothal lord will never be satisfied with just the land. Right now his eyes are turned toward the coast, but once that is fully subdued, his gaze will turn to you. Then who will be left to come to your aid?”

“The Dre’rendi are a free people. We call no lands our own. If the Gul’gotha push, we will give way. As long as there are seas to sail, we will never fall to another man’s yoke.” He glanced significantly at Sy-wen. “We remember too well when once we bowed to another’s sword. We won our freedom with our blood then and mean to keep it now. Why should we join this battle and earn the enmity of the Dark Lord?”

“You are already an enemy of the Gul’gotha. Any who don’t serve him are his foe.” Sy-wen swallowed hard. “Is it truly freedom if you are on the run from the Gul’gotha? Are you on any less of a leash if his forces herd you this way and that? That is not freedom. It’s blind cowardice!” The fat shaman gasped. Hunt’s hand dropped to his sword hilt. The only reaction from the high keel was a reddening of his cheeks. Then he burst out with a hearty laugh. “No one can say you are not blunt, lass!” Sy-wen blushed at his words. “I meant no true offense.”

Again the high keel laughed.

“Father,” Hunt said. His face was dark red, but not with amusement. “Will you allow such insult to the Dre’rendi?”

“What insult? The young woman speaks her heart. I would wish more would speak so plainly.” He waved to Sy-wen. “Fine. I can see your point. The Dre’rendi should sail where the winds dictate, not the Gul’gotha. If we run from the Black Heart’s beasts, we are cowards.” Bilatus stared at this confession with wide eyes. “The sea gods will protect us. We have no need to fear the Gul’gotha.”

The high keel shook his head, the humor fading from his lips. “Spoken like a shaman. But I’ve learned that the sea gods protect those who protect themselves.” He patted his sword. “This is the only true defense.” Sy-wen could not believe her luck. The high keel warmed to her cause. “So you will consider lending your forces?”

He stared at her silently for three long breaths, then answered. “No.” Sy-wen sat stunned. Her voice was meek when next she spoke.

“But why? This is the best chance to strike a blow against the Dark Lord.“

“Perhaps. But the Dre’rendi will never fight alongside the mer’ai. When last we battled the Gul’gotha, your people fled, leaving us to the teeth and axes of the enemy.” Sy-wen bristled. “But it was not as if we betrayed you. You offered your aid freely, allowing us to escape.”

“Still, it bespeaks your people’s craven hearts.” Now it was Sy-wen’s turn to react to being called cowardly. “What of your old oaths?” She pointed to his tattoo. “Do you break your own vows? You promised to come to our aid one last time when we requested it.” The high keel remained silent.

Bilatus answered. “That was long ago. Since then we have come to worship the seven gods of the sea. Our hearts and spirits are bound to them, not to the mer’ai. We are slaves to you no more.” The high keel slowly nodded his head. “Whatever debts we owed your people are long faded to dust.” Sy-wen wished she could show him how strong the tattoo’s mag-ickal bonds still remained, but she had already bonded to Kast and could not bring forth the magick of the tattoo in another. She sighed, knowing that only one chance lay open to them, the path Pinorr had suggested.

She glanced to Sheeshon, who had begun to doze in the warmth of her lap. Her heart went out to the small child. She had hoped to avoid Pinorr’s full plan. Perhaps if Kast had been here She shook her head and raised her eyes toward the high keel.

“You place much on the differences between our two people__

mer’ai and Dre’rendi.“ He shrugged.

Sy-wen’s voice grew firmer. “I will share with you a mer’ai secret, something to which even most of my own people are blind. I revealed this to Shaman Pinorr, and he sent his only granddaughter not only as proof of his support, but as proof of my next words.” Bilatus sat up straighter at the mention of a fellow shaman.

The high keel narrowed his eyes. “What?”

“We are not different people.” She stared intently at the high keel. “Mer’ai and Dre’rendi are in truth one tribe.”

Their shock halted further discussion. Finally, Bilatus made a rude noise with his blubbery lips.

“Impossible.”

Sy-wen placed her palm atop the head of the napping Sheeshon. “Here is the proof.” The high keel glanced at the child, then back to Sy-wen. “I see no clue here, only an addled child with a face that half droops.”

“You will.” Sy-wen clenched her fist. She hoped her words proved true. Glancing up at Hunt, she indicated Sheeshon. “Can you carry her?”

After getting a nod from his father, the young Bloodrider lifted Sheeshon from Sy-wen’s lap. The sleeping child only moaned a bit, then latched her tiny arms around Hunt’s neck.

Sy-wen stood. “To show you, I will need blood from the dragon.” Bilatus had to push twice to extract himself from the chair. “How do you propose to get—?” Sy-wen slipped the long dagger from her wrist sheath. “With this.” The sudden appearance of twin swords at her throat quickly taught her the foolishness of such rash action.

Sy-wen had not even seen the high keel or his son move. The tips of their weapons held steady in the hollow of her throat.

Sy-wen finally found her tongue again. “I mean no one harm. I only need the knife to draw blood from my mount.” Sy-wen flipped the dagger in her hand and caught the blade, proffering the handle toward the high keel. “If you’d feel better, please keep it. I will even allow you to stab the dragon to gain its blood.” The high keel squinted at her, clearly trying to weigh the truth of her words and intent. Sy-wen did not waver from his hard gaze, though the dagger trembled a bit in her scared fingers.

Finally, the leader of the Dre’rendi lowered his sword and waved his son to follow his example. “No, Sy-wen of the mer’ai. If anyone is to poke that slumbering beast atop my decks, I think it best be you.” Again the whisper of a smile flashed on his lips.

Sy-wen slowly slipped the dagger back into its sheath with a long sigh. “I apologize for startling you all. I was not thinking when I bared my knife. I had only thought to clarify my purpose.” The high keel sheathed his sword. “And what purpose might that be?” Sy-wen cowered a bit. After their reaction to her knife, maybe it would be best to leave Shaman Pinorr’s theory unspoken. But all their eyes were upon her.

A sudden knocking at the door saved her from answering. Bilatus opened the door to an excited crewmate.

The man pulled off his soaking hat as he entered, his eyes excited. “High Keel, sir. It’s the Dragonspur .

Word’s come across the storm. Her mast’s been lightning struck. You kin even see her sails aflame!” Hunt glanced to his father. “That’s Shaman Pinorr’s ship.” Again Sy-wen found all their eyes upon her—and for the hundredth time, she wished Kast were here.

Behind Pinorr, cries of alarm echoed down the passageway. Shrill frightened voices mixed with barked orders.

Pinorr ignored them and continued through the narrow corridors toward the ship’s bow. The bodies of Jabib and Gylt must have been discovered. He quickened his pace, sensing that if he slowed, the fire in his blood would fade—and this was not a night for cool heads or wise counsel. What festered aboard this boat could only be cleansed with flames.

Suddenly, as if the gods had heard his thoughts, thick smoke billowed down from an open hatch somewhere behind him. Pinorr coughed. He smelled burned wood and again heard snatches of bellowing voices. His pace slowed. He turned back the way he had come. Past the smoke, a hatch slammed shut amid frantic calls for help. Overhead, the tread of running feet clattered as men fled the galley just above him.

The entire ship was being roused.

Pinorr could almost smell the desperation behind the smoke. Something was wrong, something more urgent than even murdered crewmen.

Pinorr glanced at his bloody sword and the limp length of braid in his left hand. Was this commotion a new trick of Ulster’s? Something staged to distract the crew while the keelchief’s minions disposed of the shaman?

He gripped his sword tighter; its hilt felt right in his fist. Whatever alarm had been raised, for whatever reason, it was no

longer his business. He was no longer the Dragonspur’s shaman, nor even her warrior. This night Pinorr was the gods’ vengeance given form and steel.

Continuing toward the lone cabin in the forward section of the bow, he marched toward where, if Pinorr judged the keelchief correctly, the craven cur would be ensconced in his own cabin. Pinorr tightened his grip on his sword. He would enjoy seeing the keelchief’s expression when the man learned his assassins had failed—though in all likelihood, the sight would be Pinorr’s last. For whether justified or not, Pinorr had no misconceptions that he himself would be spared for his attacks. It was forbidden for a ship’s shaman to touch steel, and it was death to draw blood.

Still, Pinorr knew his duty. Ultimately, the spiritual fate of the ship rested in his hands. He could no longer allow Ulster to befoul its decks.

Finally, Pinorr reached his destination. Stopping before a wide door banded and studded in iron, he waited a single breath. Then he raised his sword and pounded its hilt on the frame.

A voice snapped at him. “I know of the fire! I’m coming!”

Pinorr blinked at this response. What fire? Before he could ponder the mystery any further, the door flew open. Ulster stood before him, pulling into a jerkin. Half dressed, the keelchief froze when he saw who stood in his doorway.

Neither man moved for several strained heartbeats.

Finally, Pinorr tossed Jabib’s braid across Ulster’s boots. It was the gesture of a warrior for a leader, a token of a kill done to protect the ship. The bloody tail slapped the planks like a length of soaked kelp. “I believe this belongs to you,” Pinorr said coldly.

Ulster’s eyes flickered toward the braid, but his gaze remained mostly on the sword. It was clear that the keelchief was more shocked to see Pinorr with a sword than he was concerned for his first mate’s fate.

“What have you done, Shaman?” he asked with a note of horror.

“What I should have done long ago—cut away a festering canker before the disease spreads to the rest of the fleet.”

Ulster backed from Pinorr’s sword. In his hurry, the keelchief had forgotten to don his own weapon belt. It hung from the back of a chair in the room.

Pinorr followed Ulster, step for step, words pouring out that had been bottled in his heart. “I loved your father. It was only his memory that kept my hand in check for so long. But when your brother Kast arrived, I finally recognized how little of your father’s blood runs in your own veins, Ulster.”

The keelchief spat bile to match Pinorr’s fury. “Not like my father?” Ulster laughed harshly. “And you think these words insult me! The old man was more like me than you could imagine, Shaman. Were you at my side when my father lashed me bloody after my defeat in a sword spar with Zinbathi’s son? Were you there when my broken ribs were wrapped after one of his savage beatings? Or how about when the burns on my arms peeled and cracked for an entire moon?” Ulster pointed to the doorway. “Behind closed doors, men whose faces you think you know can change, Pinorr. Only I saw my father’s true countenance, the one he hid from the rest of the crew.”

Pinorr stumbled a step at such lies. “How dare you blaspheme your father’s memory!”

“You were always blind, Shaman. Though you may have been gifted with keen sea senses, my father’s heart was kept hidden from you.” Ulster’s gaze narrowed. “Or were you just too scared to look deeply?

Did you suspect what lurked there, but feared losing such a skilled leader? ” Pinorr stopped his pursuit of Ulster across the cabin. As much as he would wish to deny it, Pinorr could not disavow how hard the old high keel had ridden his son. But he had never suspected such depths of wrath.

“But your brother—?”

“Kast?” Ulster snorted. “The bastard escaped before the worst, leaving me to face our father’s anger alone.” The fire seemed to die in Ulster, like a spent candle. “I can never forgive him for that.” Pinorr had to struggle to keep his own anger lit. “Whether your story is true or not, what right do you have to wreak your father’s old savageries upon my family?”

Ulster’s eyes never left Pinorr’s. “Because you had the power to stop my father. He would have listened to you, Pinorr.” Ulster’s voice cracked, then hardened back again. “But instead, you only looked out toward the glories on the horizons, rather than at the evil that stood beside you. So do not seek sympathy in me.” Ulster turned and reached for his sword belt.

V> L E, M’t,

“

Stunned by his words, Pinorr could only watch numbly as the keelchief drew his weapon.

“No longer will I let you ignore the evil of my father.” Ulster faced Pinorr again. “What it forged stands before you now.” With those words, Ulster lunged.

Pinorr barely had time to raise his own sword. Steel clashed steel. Luckily, Ulster’s attack was guided by anger more than skill. Still, Pinorr fell back under the assault. The keelchief was younger and stronger of limb. It was only Pinorr’s instinct from his warrior days that kept Ulster’s sword from his belly.

Pinorr fought desperately. The furious fire that had ignited his blood earlier had waned to mere embers.

How could he righteously despise that which his own hand had helped forge? Pinorr retreated. His left foot slipped on the discarded braid of the first mate. He toppled to the deck, his sword clanging out of his grip as he hit the floor.

Ulster towered over him now, sword raised. His eyes glowed red with rage, his breath ragged and panting.

Pinorr knelt up to face his death.

The keelchief looked him in the eye. “You should have heard my cries, Shaman.” Pinorr nodded once, briefly. “You’re right, Ulster. I’m sorry.” The anger in the young man’s face twitched with confusion. His sword arm trembled as he held the weapon poised.

Raising his face higher, Pinorr spoke quietly. “But I’m also not your father, Ulster.” The keelchief shook his head and stepped away, his brows tight, his gaze shaky. “I know you’re not my father…”

“It’s not too late to try to heal what he wrought.” Pinorr saw the pain in Ulster’s stance. “I can help.” Swinging toward Pinorr again with wild eyes, Ulster laughed and pointed his sword. “You think you can help me? If you knew all, you’d curse me as resolutely as my father did during one of his rages.”

“I wouldn’t,” Pinorr insisted, sincere in his words. He persisted in an attempt to reach the young man—not to save his own life, but to salvage what was left of Ulster’s. “Will you let me try?” Ulster lowered his sword—but only slightly. His eyes had narrowed to slits. “Do you know how your son died? Sheeshon’s father?”

Pinorr flinched from Ulster’s words. The keelchief touched upon an old wound that had never completely healed. “He… he died during the Kurtish clashes. He took an ax in the brow.” Pinorr had no desire to revisit that memory. A black pigeon had brought word to Pinorr from the far coast as Sheeshon’s mother had labored in birthing. When word reached the struggling woman, she wailed, and something broke in her.

Blood poured over her thighs. She died shortly thereafter, almost stealing away the life of her daughter, too.

“Wh-why do you ask, Ulster?”

Ulster leaned closer. “It was my hand that wielded the ax.” Pinorr’s eyes flew wide. “No!” Ulster leered. “It was an easy thing. I thought little on it. During a skirmish aboard the Broken Fang , I discovered myself alone with your son. He turned to me, a smile on his blood-splattered face, the thrill of the battle bright in his eyes. But it was that grin—proud, boastful. I couldn’t stand it. So I buried my ax in his face. But even as he fell, the bastard still smiled.”

The horror must have been clear on Pinorr’s face. “How… how could you?” Ulster leaned nearer. “Now that you know the truth, do you still wish to heal me, Shaman? ” he asked with disdain.

A growl of pain exploded from Pinorr. He lunged at Ulster, knocking aside the blade, and tackled the man to the floor. Ulster gasped as he struck the planks. His head struck the wood with a resounding blow.

Dazed, his sword fell free of his grip.

Pinorr did not wait. He snatched up the dropped blade, and using both hands, he raised the weapon and plunged it through Ulster’s chest. The blade passed cleanly between his ribs and dug deep into the boards beneath. But Pinorr shoved even harder, his arms shaking with exertion. He drove the sword until its hilt was pressed hard into Ulster’s chest. Dark blood welled around the hilt. Unable to push any farther, Pinorr fell atop the keelchief like a spent lover. “How could you? ” Pinorr cried in his ear, tears blurring his vision.

“He was like your own brother.”

Ulster choked on blood, but still he struggled to answer. “That… that was why I killed him, Shaman.” The keelchief’s gaze grew dull. “He was like my brother—happy and proud. I could not stand to see that light in another’s eyes.”

Pinorr shook with sorrow and rage. Sobs wracked his old frame as he rolled off Ulster’s chest.

The keelchief’s head lolled to face Pinorr. He spoke through bloody lips. “I couldn’t stand to see what was stolen from me.” Ulster’s voice faded, but his eyes found Pinorr. “You should have judged my father’s heart as severely as you judged my own. You should have listened for a young boy’s cries from behind closed doors.”

Ulster continued to stare at Pinorr. It took a long moment for Pinorr to realize Ulster had died. He reached with trembling fingers and closed the young man’s eyes. “You’re right.” Pinorr pushed slowly to his feet. He stared at the dead man. His legs were numb under him. “I will mourn the boy you once were, Ulster, but I still cannot mourn what you became. I cannot mourn that death.” Pinorr turned away, emptier than a hollow bone. He staggered from the room.

Shutting the door of the keelchief’s cabin, Pinorr turned and traced his way back up toward the deck. He would blame all the bloodshed discovered here on mutiny. His lie would be believed. None would question a shaman too closely. None would dare look too deeply.

Blindness, he had learned this night, was often self-inflicted, a defense against what one wished not to see.

He wiped the blood from his hands as he walked the corridors, rhythmically rubbing his palms on his shirt.

Pushing out the hatch, Pinorr found the decks awash in flame. The aft mast was a torch in the stormy night.

As Pinorr looked on, crewmen with axes chopped the burning mast free and toppled it into the sea. Steam hissed and writhed as the fire was extinguished, and the charred section of mast sank under the waves.

A cheer arose from the gathered men and women. The ship had been saved from certain death, the danger cut away and flung into the sea.

Someone finally spotted Pinorr.

Mader Geel crossed to him, her gray hair blackened with ashes. “I think the worst of the storm has struck.

But that was too close,” she said with a tired grin. “We almost lost the ship to the fire. But what a glorious sight it was! Flames leaping and dancing in the rain.” Pinorr nodded slowly. “Yes, evil often wears a handsome mask.”

Sy-wen stood at the rail of the Dragonsheart. The high keel con-ferred with his son, Hunt, on her left. On her right, Bilatus grasped the rail with one hand in a white-knuckled grip while clutching his robe tight to his neck with the other. Wind bit at them. Rain stung exposed flesh.

“You can smell the smoke on the wind,” Hunt said. He still carried little Sheeshon under one arm. She clung to his neck.

“But at least they’ve put the fires out,” the high keel noted. He swung to another crewman. “Order the pilot to swing us about. We should see how the Dragonspur fares.” The crewman nodded and dashed off across the slick deck. Thankfully, the storm’s fury seemed to be dying down. Lightning only flickered across the skies along the far horizons, and the roar of thunder had faded to a pale echo of its former fierceness.

Turning her back on the wind, Sy-wen saw that Ragnar’k still lay unmoving on the deck. Thick oiled ropes trussed his frame to mast and stanchions. Her heart ached to see such a majestic beast laid low and bound.

The high keel must have noticed her gaze. “You mentioned earlier that dragon’s blood will reveal how our two people are alike? ”

“Not just alike,” Sy-wen mumbled. “We are xkyesame . We are one tribe.” Bilatus huffed. “Impossible. Look at you. Webbed toes, webbed fingers.” He shook his head in disbelief.

Sy-wen glanced at the three men. “I had hoped that I could convince you, that you’d honor your old oaths.

But Shaman Pinorr spoke wisely. He knew you’d doubt my words without actual proof.” Hunt spoke up.

“What do you keep hinting at? What proof?” Sy-wen chewed her lips. “I’d best show you.” She crossed toward the slumbering black giant and slipped the dagger from her wrist sheath.

Once at the dragon’s side, she ran her free hand along an edge of wing and sent a silent apology to her mount—and to the man inside. Before fear slowed her hand, Sy-wen stabbed the dagger into the beast’s flank. She gasped as fire exploded in her own side. But she knew it was only a phantom pain, a whisper of shared senses with the dragon.

By now, the others had circled behind her, still keeping a wary distance. Only the high keel braved a step closer. “Are you injured?” he asked with true concern, noticing her pained expression.

Sy-wen shook her head and pulled free her dagger. Dragon’s blood welled over its blade. She flinched slightly and rubbed at her own side. The burn quickly subsided. Turning, she faced the others and held forth the fouled knife.

“So your dragon bleeds like any man,” Hunt said. “How is this any proof of your claim?”

“It’s not,” she answered. “Not by itself.”

Confusion shone on all their faces.

Sy-wen felt a coldness settle over her. She suddenly balked at doing what Pinorr asked of her. The knife trembled in her hand, blood dripping from its tip. But she knew she must not fail here. Too much depended on her. She raised her face to Hunt. “To prove my claim, I will also need Shaman Pinorr’s granddaughter.” The young first mate of the Dragonsheart glanced to his father. The high keel nodded. Hunt detached the small girl from around his neck. He crossed to Sy-wen and knelt with the girl in his arms. “What purpose does this child serve?” he asked.

“Shaman Pinorr sent her as proof of his support.” Sy-wen raised the knife and plunged it into the girl’s chest. “And as sacrifice.”

Sheeshon cried out, her tiny arms spasming wide.

Hunt reacted quickly, jumping back and pulling the child free of the dagger. Before Sy-wen could move, she found a sword at her throat. She dropped the dagger; it clattered on the deck. With her role complete, the strength drained from her. Sy-wen dropped to her knees. “I… I had no choice.” The sword stayed at her throat, borne by the high keel. “What foulness is this!” he bellowed at her, leaning over her. “You come seeking a boon from us and think killing an innocent will win our hearts?” Tears ran down Sy-wen’s face as she looked up. “It was Shaman Pinorr’s idea.” Sy-wen watched Hunt carefully drape the child, now unmoving, on the wet deck. Bilatus crouched nervously beside the pale girl.

“You lie!” the high keel snapped. “Pinorr would not order this. Stories of your people were always cruel!

But I had never suspected the depths of your depravity.”

“Father!” Hunt called out. “The child lives!” The high keel’s son knelt over the girl. He had ripped open Sheeshon’s shirt. With a scrap of the child’s shift, he wiped away the blood from her pale chest. Her skin lay unblemished. “There is no wound!” Sy-wen sobbed in relief. “It’s the dragon’s blood.” Bilatus nodded his head. “Blood from such a beast is valued for its healing properties. But it is forbidden for the Dre’rendi to use such a cursed balm. It is one of our oldest dictates. The sea gods forbid it.” Hunt rubbed the child’s wrists. Sheeshon still lay limp on the deck. “But if the blood kept her from injury, why doesn’t she wake? ” he asked, concern in his voice.

All their eyes swung toward Sy-wen.

The high keel lowered his blade from her throat, but the fire in his voice was still present. He would not end her life until he had answers. “What have you done?”

“I already told you. It was Shaman Pinorr’s plan. He knew a blade drenched with dragon’s blood would not kill his child. The magick would protect her from a mortal wound. But I don’t understand…” Sy-wen waved to the limp girl. “She should be hale, uninjured. I don’t know why Sheeshon won’t wake.”

“What was supposed to happen? ” the high keel demanded. Deaf to his words, Sy-wen stared at the pale child. “Pinorr placed too much trust in the ancient tales passed down among our elders— stories of the birth of our people. The first mer’ai, our forefather, was said to have been forged by a savage mixing of Dre’rendi and dragon’s blood. And to this day, dragon magick is still necessary to maintain our current forms.” Sy-wen waved her webbed fingers. “Mer’ai who are banished from the seas eventually lose their unique features and become like ordinary men and women.”

“I don’t understand,” Hunt said. “What are you suggesting? ” Before Sy-wen could answer, a gasp arose from Sheeshon. The girl twitched on the deck. Her arms batted feebly at some unseen menace. Then her eyes fluttered open. Hunt helped her sit up. Sheeshon stared at those gathered around her, then down at her chest. She rubbed at the spot where the knife had struck. “It tickles here,” she said.

Sy-wen let out a startled gasp of relief. “Sheeshon! Thank the Sweet Mother.” The girl’s palm wandered to her face. “It tickles here, too.” Sheeshon ran her fingers along her left eye and down her cheek to her lips. She smiled—a full grin, not lopsided. The side of her face that had been dead and slack had come back to life, also healed by the dragon’s blood. Sheeshon must have felt the change. Her hands rose and cupped her cheeks, her eyes full of wonder.

A sudden gust of wind blew across the ship, and quicker than the flutter of a bird’s wings, clear inner lids snapped up within Sheeshon’s eyes, protecting the child’s vision against the sting of rain.

Sy-wen gasped. She was the only one close enough to witness the event.

“What’s wrong?” the high keel asked, noticing her startled

reaction.

Sy-wen pushed off her knees and crawled closer to the girl. She was too stunned to hope, too shocked to articulate.

Hunt went to reach for his own sword in defense against Sy-wen’s approach, obviously fearing she meant the child further harm. But the high keel waved him off.

Reaching the girl’s side, Sy-wen tenderly picked up Sheeshon’s hand. “Pinorr was right,” she whispered.

“Right about what?” the high keel asked.

Sy-wen lifted the child’s hand and spread her fingers wide. Small webs now traced from finger to finger.

“The blood of the dragon! It has made her mer’ai.” Sy-wen turned to the high keel. “Here is the proof of our shared heritage. Dragon’s magick can still transform Dre’rendi into mer’ai. We are one people!” The portly shaman’s voice filled with awe. “No wonder the gods forbid us to touch dragon’s blood.” Sy-wen stood and pointed to the girl, who was now playing with the folds between her toes and giggling.

“Can you deny it now? Can you not see we are one people?”

The high keel glanced from the dragon,back to the girl. His eyes were bright. “It… it could be some trick,” he said warily, but his voice was unsure.

Sy-wen winced. What more could she do to convince him?

Overhead, the clouds parted, blown apart as the storm rolled away from the fleet. A bright moon shone down, almost as bright as the sun after the storm’s gloom. Everyone glanced upward, bathing in the moonlight.

Nearby, Hunt suddenly moaned.

The high keel and Sy-wen turned his way. Hunt still knelt beside Sheeshon, but the tiny girl’s ringers now brushed across the young man’s cheek. The tattoo of a diving seahawk seemed to glow with her touch.

Again Hunt moaned.

Sheeshon mumbled familiar words to Hunt, old blood oaths from the ancient past. “I have need of you.” Hunt stood, pulling the child up in his arms. “I am yours to command,” he answered.

Bilatus stepped back. “It’s the ancient spell. The binding of our two people!” Hunt began to drift toward the rail.

The high keel went to stop him. “Hunt, what are you doing?” The young man’s voice was dulled by the magick. “I must return Sheeshon to her papa. I have been ordered.” Sy-wen touched the high keel’s arm. “Do not try to stop him. Once bound, he must complete his mission.

After Sheeshon is back with the shaman, the spell will break, and your son will be free again.” Sy-wen recalled her own dealings with Kast. “But in the future, I suggest that Hunt keep his tattoo covered when around the child. Or he will find himself running many errands for her.” The high keel nodded, hesitant.

“Get a skiff ready for Hunt.” With the storm dying down, the seas were still humped with swells, but the waves were not as fierce. Sy-wen glanced to starboard and saw that the Dragonsheart had already pulled near the fire-ravaged Dragonspur . Even from here, in the bright moonlight, Sy-wen spotted the familiar robed figure of Pinorr.

Sy-wen turned back to the high keel. “Do you believe me now? ” He turned hard eyes on her. “You leave me little choice.” Relieved, Sy-wen sighed. “So will you reconsider your refusal to aid the mer’ai in the battle to come?”

The high keel remained silent, glancing over the seas at the many other ships of the fleet. Moonlight turned the waves to silver around his boat. “We are one tribe,” he said quietly, amazement thickening his voice.

“How can I refuse my brothers and sisters? That is not the Dre’rendi way.” He turned to face Sy-wen and placed a hand on her shoulder. His next words were spoken firmly and solemnly. “We will join you, Sy-wen of the mer’ai. We will honor our old oaths.” Kast struggled through darkness back to the light. He blinked against the glare of the sun. The taste of the air, the scent on the wjnd—how long had he been asleep? He somehow sensed that more than a single night had passed.

A yell of warning burst out too loud, too near his ear. He felt a scurry of activity around him.

Wincing against the noise, Kast pushed up on one elbow. Where was he? Blinking away the sun’s glare, he found himself naked and draped in wet ropes. He shook free of the slick cords. Overhead, sails billowed in a fresh wind. The smell of salt helped clear his head.

It took a moment for Kast to recall his last memory: the frantic flight through stormy skies and his struggle to control the dragon. He sat up as memories flooded back. The last he remembered was the tumble through the skies and the crash upon the deck of the Dragonsheart . But what of Sy-wen?

As if in answer to his heart’s fears, a door flew open only a short distance away. Sy-wen stepped forth.

She stared at him, a hand at her throat. Her face was deeply lined with worry and fatigue. A breeze caught her hair and blew it into a green sail about her face. Kast found himself choking in relief. Tears welled up in his eyes. She was safe.

Crying out, Sy-wen rushed toward him. “Thank the Mother, you’re all right.” Ignoring his nakedness, she fell into his arms.

“Wh-what happened?”

Two other figures crossed from the open hatch. One was the robed figure of Shaman Pinorr, but beside him hobbled another familiar silver-haired elder. “Master Edyll?” Kast gasped with shock.

“I’m not sure this walking on hard surfaces is natural,” the elder grumped as he finally reached their side, but he wore a smile of amusement.

Pinorr studied Kast, cocking his head one way, then another. “It seems you are correct. The blood of another dragon finally healed Ragnar’k and allowed the stunted spell to release.” Master Edyll nodded. “But I had not thought it would take so long.”

“Another dragon?” Kast’s brow crinkled in confusion. “I don’t understand.” t Sy-wen pulled back, but she kept one hand on his shoulder as if afraid he would vanish like the dragon.

“You and the dragon were injured. You were both lost to us. But a draught of blood from my mother’s dragon, Conch, was used to treat Ragnar’k. The injuries healed, but we still weren’t able to revive you or break the spell to release you.” Sy-wen’s voice cracked. “I thought you lost forever.” She fell back into his arms, but not before striking him hard in the shoulder. “Don’t ever do that again!” Kast hugged her tight. “Gods willing, I’ve no intention of ever leaving you again. But just where are we?” He pushed to his feet with Sy-wen’s help. Someone tossed a rough blanket over his shoulders, but Kast scarcely bothered to draw it over his nakedness. He was too stunned by the sights he discovered around him.

All about their ship, the seas bloomed with scores of white sails, spread from horizon to horizon. It was the entire Dre’rendi fleet! But the true miracle was what else shared these same waters. Among the many boats, hundreds of dragons plied the waves, like jewels strewn across the sea’s blue surface. In the distance, even the humped backs of the giant leviathans rose like living islands from the seas.

“We are only two days out from the Doldrums,” Sy-wen commented softly. “We should just make the rendezvous with the wit’ch.”

“You did it,” Kast said in hushed tones, still staring at the spectacle before him. “You brought our two peoples together. All the Dre’rendi. All the mer’ai.”

Sy-wen clung to his shoulder and pulled the blanket around them both. She burrowed tight to him, sharing her warmth. “Yes, but I’m more relieved to bring this one Dre’rendi and this one mer’ai back together.”

Kast grinned down at her upturned face. Their smiles melted away as they recognized the passion in each other’s eyes. He leaned down to her, his lips brushing hers. “I have need of you,” he murmured, then kissed her deeply.

SARGASSUM

Elena knelt in the hay. In the dimness of the ship’s hold, the gray mare seemed more ghost than flesh. After six days at sea, the horse was still skittish, shying from everyone. Elena held out a slice of apple. “C’mere, Mist. That’s a good girl,” she urged in soft whispers. The mare refused to step nearer, even for her.

Sinking into the hay, Elena knew why Mist still balked from coming closer. Elena had grown a head taller and fuller of figure. She was not the same girl who had combed and curried the mare since she was a foal.

The abrupt change in Elena’s appearance and the strangeness of the boat all tweaked the small horse’s edginess. The mare panicked whenever Elena neared, refusing even to recognize her scent.

From the neighboring stall, Er’ril’s horse, the snow-dappled Steppe stallion, huffed and pawed at his hay. Of hardier stock, the larger horse had adjusted quickly to the roll and lurch of the Pale Stallion. And the tall beast knew that any apple refused by Mist would end up in his own feed bucket. So the stallion was more than happy to see Elena fail.

“I have enough for both of you,” Elena called out sadly to the other horse. Even her voice made Mist skitter back a pace. Elena sighed. For the sixth morning in a row, she had failed to coax the mare to her. Though she understood the horse’s trepidation, it still upset her. Mist was a member of her family, and to be shunned like this wounded her deeply. The mare had always been there to comfort her when she was in pain.

And now more than ever, Elena needed to be comforted. The loss of Er’ril was still as raw as the day she had awoken aboard the ship, a dull ache in her heart that made the sun less bright and food bland and unappealing. Others tried to help, but no one understood. No words could ease this pain. The others thought Er’ril no more than her guardian, some knight who was more sword than man. They thought she had only lost some weapon, not a man who shared her heart.

Also, the others were all too busy with their own activities to offer any real compassion. Flint was constantly harried with running the ship and directing his sailors, the dark-skinned zo’ol warriors. Meric, though not as busy, was distracted by the appearance of his queen’s sunhawk. His eyes were always on the horizon, and when Elena happened to catch his attention, he was stiff and formal with her. Even her brother, Joach, seemed more interested in discussing his staff’s magick than in understanding Elena’s pain.

Only Tol’chuk and Mama Freda offered Elena any real warmth—but neither was family.

If only Aunt My hadn’t left on her own quest… Elena could use the woman’s practical advice. Aunt My always knew what to say. For the thousandth time, Elena wondered how the others fared: Fardale, Mogweed, Krai. Now with Er’ril gone, too, it felt as if everything was falling apart. Elena stared sadly at Mist.

The scuff of heel on wood drew Elena’s attention around. Beyond the stall’s gate, a short man stood, peering in at her. His eyes glowed in the single lantern hung on the stall’s post. Elena felt a flicker of fear, a shiver of tiny hairs. It was one of the zo’ol pirates assigned by their guild’s leader to man this boat. The dark-skinned sailor, his chest bare, wore only a set of knee-length breeches.

“Can I help you? ” she asked, her voice sharp and curt as she tried to hide her nervousness. Besides the two horses, Elena was alone in the hold.

Without an invitation, he swung the gate open, slipped in, and closed the stall’s door behind him. Elena heard the latch click.

Quickly pushing to her feet, Elena brushed hay from her knees. With both her hands renewed with power, one from the sun, one from the moon, there was little she needed to fear from this man. She touched her magick, and it gave her the strength to straighten

and face the intruder. “H-have you come to change the horse’s bedding? ” Elena frowned at the crack in her voice.

The sailor held out an open palm. Elena backed a step away. Mist huffed at her movement.

Elena stared at the man. The zo’ol sailors understood her language but seldom spoke. He just stood there, arm out. The man had a shaven head, except for a tail of black hair that ran from the crown of his head down his back. Feathers of azure and rose adorned his hair. His eyes, lit by lantern light, shone a deep jade.

But his most striking feature was the design of pale scars that crisscrossed his dark forehead. Each of the four black-skinned sailors were marked with a different design, their meaning known only to the zo’ol. This man’s symbol appeared to be the edge of the sun peeking above a horizon, or maybe an eye just beginning to open. Elena found herself staring at it, transfixed.

Motion drew her eyes back to his raised arm. In his palm, there now rested a bright red apple. Elena blinked at the sudden appearance. Where had it come from?

The zo’ol, still expressionless, stepped toward Elena.

She moved aside warily, but he passed her without a glance. The sailor approached the nervous mare, a whistling tune flowing from his lips. Mist pawed at the hay, clearly ready to bolt away. The man continued his approach, slightly more cautious but still whistling softly. Mist’s ears pricked at the tune, her head cocking slightly as if listening.

Soon the man had reached the mare and offered the apple. Mist sniffed at it, then pulled back her fat lips to nibble at the fruit. Elena could hardly believe the sight. No one had been able to approach the mare. Elena watched as the tension in the horse’s withers relaxed. Even Mist’s tail, which had been slashing back and forth, settled to a more contented swish.

The small sailor reached and rubbed the ridge between the mare’s eyes. It was Mist’s favorite spot to be scratched.

The man nodded for Elena to approach. She hesitated—not from fear of the man, but in trepidation at spooking Mist. Still, he persisted, his brow wrinkling with his demand.

Slowly, Elena drifted closer. One of the mare’s eyes rolled to watch her approach, but Mist made no motion to bolt. Elena reached the horse’s side.

The sailor shifted the apple toward Elena. Mist followed the half-eaten fruit with her nibbling teeth. He placed the apple into Elena’s hand, and Mist continued her meal. With his palm now free, the sailor took Elena’s other hand in his own and drew it up to replace the hand that scratched and rubbed the mare’s brow.

Once Elena had taken over his role completely, he stepped away. Soon the apple, core and all, was gone.

Mist sniffed at Elena’s gloved fingers, looking for more. Elena glanced to the sailor. He indicated for her to remove her glove.

She did. Mist snuffled her bare palm. Then the mare seemed to tense. Elena braced for the horse to bolt, but instead, Mist pushed her nose firmer into Elena’s hand. A soft whinny of joy flowed from the horse.

Mist stepped into Elena, rolling her head into her chest, sniffing and rubbing. She was asking for Elena to hug her.

With tears rolling from her amazed eyes, a small laugh escaped Elena’s lips. She hugged her mare, arms tight around her neck. Elena buried her face against the horse. Mist had finally recognized her, remembered her.

Crying now, Elena hung on the horse, almost too weak to stand. As her nostrils filled with the scent of horse and hay, she was home again, at least for a brief moment. She rubbed and whispered nonsense to Mist, sometimes laughing, sometimes crying again. In her heart, the losses she had endured recently were still present, but a small bit of healing had begun. The ache could be shared in the warmth of the mare, in the remembrance of family, in the whisper of home.

Elena finally turned to thank the zo’ol sailor. But the stall was empty. He had gone.

Tol’chuk crouched by the ship’s prow as the sun crested toward midday. Salty spray misted over the bow as the Pale Stallion rode the waves. Once again he raised his heartstone toward the horizon. In the bright sunlight, the chunk of crystal radiated sharply, but little else. He frowned, baring his fangs, and pushed up with one of his long arms. He slowly turned a full circle, the heartstone outstretched in his other arm. Still the jewel failed to do more than glimmer handsomely in the midday sun.

Sinking back down to the deck, Tol’chuk studied the faceted stone. Ever since the Heart had led the og’re to Elena in the burning ship, it nad begun to grow quiet—no, not just quiet, almost dead. Tol’chuk still sensed that the elemental power remained behind its facets, like the tremble in rock near an underground river. In the past, the stone had always guided him in some manner, given him some direction.

But now it was muted, dull.

Rolling the stone in his claws, Tol’chuk prayed to his ancestors for guidance. With danger all around him, why had the Heart grown so silent? Tol’chuk shook his head. Fingering open his thigh pouch, he began to burrow the stone inside.

“May I see your jewel please?” a voice said behind him. Tol’chuk craned his head around to find the healer from Port Rawl standing at his back. The small gray-haired woman leaned heavily on a cane. The cool dampness of the ocean voyage did not seem to agree with Mama Freda’s joints. She kept to her cabin mostly, wrapped in warm blankets, and only braved the decks when the weather was bright, like now.

Though, in truth, her isolation was not as complete as it seemed. Her pet tamrink, Tikal, could often be found scampering through the rigging, nagging the sailors with its constant mimic. Tol’chuk knew that Mama Freda was listening and watching through the beast’s eyes and ears.

“Please, may I just see your stone for a moment?” she repeated. “It be nothing but a bauble to you,” he said with a trace of irritation. “Why wish you to see it?”

Mama Freda turned toward Tol’chuk. Her lack of eyes made the bristles on his back quiver. Tol’chuk turned his gaze to her true eyes—those of the tamrink. Tikal perched on her shoulder, his fiery cowl of fur framing two rich brown eyes. The pet blinked at him, tail wrapped tightly around the woman’s neck.

“Cookie?” it squeaked at him, digging at a large ear.

“Hush, Tikal,” the old woman scolded. “You’ve already eaten.” Mama Freda turned her attention back to Tol’chuk. “I would see your stone. I smell a corruption in it. As a healer, I find it draws me.“ Tol’chuk hesitated, then passed the stone to her. Perhaps the old woman might discover some clue to ridding the stone of the black worm in its heart. Tol’chuk explained the stone’s history to her and its purpose in helping guide the spirits of his tribe on to the next world. “But the stone be fouled by a creature called the Bane, a curse. The worm has trapped the spirits of my people and feeds on them to sustain itself. I go on this journey to find a way to lift the curse, to rid the stone of the Bane. Before rescuing Elena, the spirits in the stone guided me on my path, told me where I must travel… but… but now…“ Tol’chuk’s voice trailed off.

Mama Freda had listened to his story in silence, turning the stone one way, then another. Tikal bent down from her shoulder to sniff and eye the crystal. “But what?” she asked, obviously wanting him to continue.

“But now the stone has grown silent. It guides me no longer.” She nodded sadly and passed the stone back to him. “It is no wonder.”

Raising his eyes, his features tightened. “What do you mean? ” She patted his thigh and remained quiet for a moment. “I can sense traces of life force in the stone, but they are faint. The corruption— this Bane—fills almost the entire stone.” She turned away and shook her head. “I’m afraid that… these spirits of yours are almost gone.”

“What?” Tol’chuk clenched the stone as his own heart trembled. He suddenly found it difficult to breathe.

He raised the stone in disbelief, but in his chest, he felt the truth of her words. In some small corner of his mind, he must have known this himself. It was what kept drawing him atop the decks to check the stone.

With the healer’s words, Tol’chuk was forced to admit that the pull of the stone had been fading gradually over the past moon, ever since the trials in Shadowbrook. He could no longer deny it. The Bane was growing stronger .

Tol’chuk stared into the stone. His own father was one of the spirits trapped within the crystal. If the old woman spoke truthfully, Tol’chuk’s father, along with the rest of his people’s spirits, was now fading, consumed by the worm.

Mama Freda turned back to him, her expression pained, her voice a whisper. “I had not thought to bring you such dire news.”

Tikal reached out a small paw and touched Tol’chuk’s cheek. “Cookie,” the beast said mournfully. “Bad cookie.” Tikal pulled back his paw and sucked his thumb, pulling tight to Mama Freda’s neck. Mama Freda lifted an arm to comfort Tol’chuk, but something in his face must have warned her that no solace could ease this wound. “I’m sorry,” she said and turned away.

Tol’chuk remained on deck, hunched over his stone as the sun shone brightly. If the spirits were fading, who would guide him now? He glanced to the horizons. Was there even a reason to continue this journey? With the Bane near triumphant, was there any purpose?

He stared up into the merciless sun. Tears welled in his eyes. His heart was as hollow as his stone. He silently cursed the trio of ancient og’res, the Triad, who had sent him on this futile mission. Had he not suffered enough already—born a half-breed and cursed with shame of his ancestor, the Oathbreaker? Must he now bear the loss of

his people’s spirits, too?

Tol’chuk raised the stone between him and the sun. He stared into the dark interior of the stone. Behind the glinting facets, he saw the true source of all his anguish—the slow churning of the black worm.

Growling deep in his belly, Tol’chuk squeezed the stone until its sharp facets cut into his palm. Blood dripped from his claws and down his arm to splatter on the damp deck.

Though no longer guided by the stone’s pull, Tol’chuk would not forsake his journey. Even if he should fail to rescue the spirits of his ancestors, he promised himself one thing: Before he died, he would find a way to destroy the Bane! That he swore on his own blood.

“We should reach the Doldrums by the next morn,” Flint an-nounced. He glanced around the table in the small galley, studying the faces of his companions. Each evening, they all met to plan and discuss the upcoming day. “I had hoped to hear some word already from Sy-wen and Kast, but we can only hope that they’re on their way to the rendezvous point with the ships of the Dre’rendi.” Joach glanced to his sister on his right, then back at Flint. “What if the Bloodriders don’t come?”

“Then we will continue the journey to A’loa Glen with just the mer’ai.” He leaned both fists on the table.

“We cannot wait. The Blood Diary must be retrieved before the Dark Lord gathers more forces.“

Elena spoke up. “But only Er’ril knows… um, hnew where the book was hidden.“

“Not exactly,” Flint answered. “All knew the book was hidden in the catacombs beneath the Great Crypt, but the tome is protected in

a spell of black ice that cannot be breached without the proper key. It is that key that Er’ril has kept an enigma.“ Flint’s eye settled on the iron fist resting on the table. ”But I can guess Er’ril’s secret. He placed much value on retrieving the iron ward. I believe its magick is the key to unlocking the spell that holds the book safe.“

“But you’re only guessing,” Meric said from the other end of the table, disdain ringing clear in his voice. “I say we wait until the queen’s armada arrives from Stormhaven. With the elv’in warships—”

“Your queen will be too late,” Flint answered, cutting him off. “Our best chance for success is a quick assault. We cannot let another moon pass, or the enemy will be firmly entrenched.” Flint drove his fist into the table. “Whether we gain the support of the Bloodriders or not, we strike now or lose any chance for success.”

Sitting opposite Elena and Joach, the og’re grunted his approval. It was the first time Tol’chuk had spoken during the evening’s discourse. “What be your plan, Brother? ”

“A simple one. The mer’ai and their dragons will lay siege to the island, distract the eyes of the darkmages, while a small team slips past the island’s defenses. I know of a hidden way into the catacombs, a passage known only to my sect. Gods be willing, it should be unguarded.” Flint stared at the others. “But this night, we must settle who will accompany Elena and me to the island.” Elena glanced around the table. “I see no reason we need any others. Flint will guide me, and my magick will protect us. The fewer who come, the better.” .

“I’m going,” Joach declared sharply. He turned to face his sister. “Father told me to watch over you, and I will not let you walk into that nest of vipers without my staff to protect you.” Elena shook her head. “It is the darkmage’s staff. He may sense when it is near, especially if you call forth black magicks. You will draw the mages to us like lodestone to iron.”

“I can give it my blood. Transform it into the blood stave before we leave. Your wit’ch magick will keep the staff’s darkness hidden.”

Flint watched Elena’s mind try to fathom other ways around this problem. Flint ended her consternation.

“Joach should come with us. His magick may help us forge a path to the book or cut a swath of escape.

We dare not limit our protection.”

“For the same reason, I must also go with Elena,” Meric an-

nounced. “I will not let the last of our king’s bloodline end here. My skill with the wind will help keep her safe.”

“As will my strength of arm,” Tol’chuk added.

Elena stood, shaking her head. “No. Too many will draw attention.”

“To guard you, four is not too large,” Flint said softly. He could read the fear in the young woman—not for her own life but for the others. He recognized the look of hopelessness in her eyes. The death of Er’ril had struck her too deeply. Flint rubbed his eyes. Curse the man for weakening the wit’ch when her strength was most needed. Why had he challenged that foul statue on his own? Sighing, Flint lowered his hands and crossed around the table’s corner. He knelt beside Elena. “We offer our lives not for you, but for Alasea.

You have no right to tell us to sit on our swords while others struggle to throw the yoke of the Gul’gotha from our necks. Four is not too large.”

“Neither is five,” a quiet voice said at the table. All eyes swung toward Mama Freda. She sat straighter in her chair. “My skill with healing may prove of more value than the sharp edge of a sword.” Flint smiled and reached to pat the woman’s wrinkled hand. “I appreciate your offer, but I’ve seen you walk the deck with your cane. In this venture, speed will be vital.” Mama Freda’s lips turned hard and thin. “Do not belittle me, old man. Here on this ship, I merely conserve my strength. But among my potions is a draught used by warriors of my home jungles to heighten their reflexes and stamina—an elixir combined from heart-root and hemlock with a pinch of nettlebane. Fear not.

Its potency will keep me at your heels on any excursion.”

Frowning at her words, Flint nodded. He turned to Elena. “A healer would be of aid. It could make the difference in saving one of our team.”

Elena waved her arm in submission, but she was clearly not happy. “Fine. Let her come then.” Flint settled back to his own seat. “With that settled, we should all get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow will be a fateful day.”

“And let us pray,” Joach said as he scooted back the chair, “that Sy-wen and Kast were successful in their search for the Bloodriders.”

Flint watched the others mumble amongst themselves and drift away. Only Elena refused to move. She still sat hunched over the table. Flint studied her in silence.

Finally, Elena raised her face. “Have we lost already?”

“What do you mean?”

“Prophecies all said that Er’ril would be the one to take the wit’ch to the book—but he is gone. How can we succeed when even the tides of fate work against us now?” Flint slid over to the empty seat beside her. “Only blind fools trust prophecies.” Elena’s eyes grew wider.

He smiled. “I know. Strange words coming from a Brother of the prophetic order of Hi’fai, but true nonetheless. Most prophecies are not chiseled in granite. They’re often just the shadows flickering on the walls of caves, vague glimpses mtopossible futures. But the future is like ice. It may appear solid and unchanging, but with the slightest heat, it flows and pours into strange new channels.” He reached and squeezed Elena’s hand. “We are not without choices. It is our actions that will forge the future, not the words of some long-dead prophet. Only a fool bows his head to the fates and lets the ax fall—and you, Elena Morin’stal, are no fool.”

“But Er’ril—?”

“I know, child. He was a good friend of mine, too. But even he made his own choices when he decided to investigate the ebon’stone statue. Do not let his mistake take your future away. You are strong enough to forge your own path.”

“I don’t feel so strong,” she mumbled.

He tilted her face until she met his gaze. “There are depths to your heart that you are blind to, Elena, but that others can sense. That is why Er’ril cared deeply for you. You were more to him than just someone to guard.” The shock on her face drew a sad smile from Flint. “For those who knew how to look, his heart was plain— as is yours, young lady.”

Elena twisted from his grip. “I don’t know what—”

“Do not deny what your heart cries loudly. If you are ever to heal from this loss, you must admit its depth.

Only then can you move ahead.” He patted her hand and stood. “It is late. Think on my words. Now is the time to grieve for all you’ve lost, grieve honestly. Only then will your heart be truly healed, only then will you be ready to move on. To forge a future, you must be staring ahead, not behind.” Elena glanced up at him, tears moistening her eyes. “I will try.”

“I know you will. Like Er’ril, I too sense the depth of strength in your spirit. You will succeed.“ With those words, he strode away, leaving Elena to tend her grief.

Elena felt numb, as if her body were not her own. The old

Brother’s words burned in her mind. What had Er’ril truly meant to her?

In the past, she had refused to acknowledge her feelings. Even when his presence had fired her blood—the touch of his hand, the brush of his breath on her cheek, his crooked smile—Elena had dismissed her reactions as inconsequential, as something childish. How could Elena dare consider herself worthy of a man who had lived for

over five centuries?

But Flint had judged her correctly; she could not deny her own heart. In the past, she had labeled her warm feelings toward the plainsman as merely the familial love for a father or a brother. But Er’ril had meant more to her.

Elena confronted her true heart for the first time in the empty room. “I loved you, Er’ril.” Her voice caught on his name, cracking. By speaking those words aloud, something in Elena broke. Tears flowed down her cheeks, and wracking sobs shook her frame. Elena collapsed upon the table, face cradled in her two gloved hands.

It was as if a dam had burst within her heart. Walled-off emotions flooded her: sorrow for never speaking these words while Er’ril was still alive, shame at her cowardice, rage at Er’ril for leaving her too soon. But mostly a profound sense of loss washed over her. She could now admit that it wasn’t just Er’ril who had died aboard the pirate’s ship, but the secret dreams of her heart as well.

Finally understanding the nature of the pain that had strangled her heart, Elena allowed herself to cry—not just for Er’ril, but also for herself. She hugged her arms around her chest, rocking slowly in her seat. Her sobs and tears flowed from her unchecked. She did not try to rein them in. For now, she let herself be weak.

The passage of time became meaningless as grief overwhelmed her. Her fingers found a pocket and pulled forth the length of leather cord. It was the scrap of dyed leather that Er’ril had once used to tie back his lanky hair. She pulled it to her lips. The scent of smoke and fire still clung to it, but under this reminder of his death there still

remained a hint of Standish loam and the salt of his sweat. Taking the length of red leather, she slowly braided it into her long tresses. Silently, she said her good-byes.

It was time to release the ghost that had haunted her.

With her heart still bruised but healing, Elena wiped the last of her tears. She had lost any sense of the night’s passage. It seemed that dawn must be near, but she was not sure. Slowly she became aware of soft music wafting though the open doorway behind her. It arose from somewhere on the upper deck. Her spirit was drawn to the mournful chords. It spoke to her own loss.

Elena straightened in her seat as the music wrapped around her. She knew the instrument that sang with such a sorrowful voice. It was Nee’lahn’s lute, carved from the last of the nyphai’s dying trees. Its notes reminded her of the other companions not here— Mycelle, Krai, Mogweed, Fardale. Without even knowing she had moved, Elena was on her feet. She was called toward the music like a moth to flame.

In the strum of strings and echo of wood, Elena heard the whisper of her deceased friend. Nee’lahn had given her own life, like so many others, to bring light back to Alasea, but death was not what the ghost mourned in the whisper of the strings. It sang softly of the wonders of life. It whispered of a cycle of death and rebirth. In the flow of chords, sadness and joy were mixed.

She stepped into the cool of a late summer night. The stars shone brightly, and the sails flapped sluggishly as they caught the occasional stronger breeze. Moonlight bathed the damp decks in silver. Near the prow, Meric sat, leaning against the rail, the lute in hand. He seemed to be staring up at the moon as he played.

Near his feet, the young boy Tok sat mesmerized by the elv’in’s music.

Under the stars, the power of the strings and wood swelled. Elena was lost in the wonder of its song.

Where the reminder of Nee’lahn’s death should have heightened Elena’s grief, the opposite proved true.

Elena’s eyelids drifted lower. She let the music soothe her aching heart. Death was not an end, the lute sang, but a beginning. A picture of green life springing forth from seed bloomed in her mind’s eye.

The music guided her feet toward the ship’s prow. Tok mumbled something as she neared, but his voice could not break the spell. Elena soon found herself at the rail, staring out across the seas. In the distance, ghost trees seemed to sprout from the waves, as if the music had conjured a forest to appear.

Elena smiled at the sight.

Suddenly, under her feet, the decks trembled, and the ship lurched harshly. Elena came close to tumbling over the rail as the boat’s course abruptly slowed. She clutched the rail with a gasp.

The lute’s enchantment shattered as Meric flew to his feet. He joined Elena at the rail, searching the waters. He clutched the lute by its fragile neck and brandished it like a weapon.

Tok had clambered to the other side of Elena. “What happened?” In the distance, the ghostly forest had not disappeared with the lute’s music. In the moonlight, it became clear that whatever lay ahead was as real as their own flesh. Elena stared at the tall boles sprouting from the seas. Their fronded tops waved in the silvery light. Thousands of trees filled the horizons. It was as if they were about to sail into some drowned forest.

By now, Tok had climbed atop the lower rail and was bent over the top rail to stare at the waters under the keel. “Look at this!” Elena and Meric joined him. The boy pointed below. “What is that?” Meric asked.

Elena shook her head. To either side of the ship, the waters were thick with a red vegetation. It seemed to choke the dark waters all

around them.

Flint suddenly appeared behind them. “It is sargassum weed.” His voice was not fearful, but oddly bright.

“It grows heavy in this region, trapping many a boat. That’s why few come this way. One must know the safe channels through the weeds or be forever lost.”

“So why are we here?” Meric asked.

Glancing over her shoulder, Elena saw Flint staring toward the ghostly forest. He seemed deaf to the elv’in’s words. His voice was far away. “Ahead lies the expanse of the sargassum forest. Only the foolhardy venture there.”

Elena’s eyes narrowed. “Where are we?”

Flint nodded toward the trees. “The Doldrums.”

As HE RESTED IN THE DARK CORRIDOR, GrESHYM CURSED THE LOSS OF

his old staff for the thousandth time this night. He leaned heavily on the oily length of his new poi’wood staff. The fresh stick was still

weak in its power. He had been too busy to bathe the rod in virgin’s blood, sanctifying it for the blacker arts. Presently, it could hold only the mildest spells. The original, lost somewhere in the drowned bowels of A’loa Glen, had been honed for three centuries into a dire tool of black magicks, and over time, it had grown to be an extension of himself. Its loss wounded him deeply, as if one of his own limbs had been hacked off.

Scowling at the fates above, the bent-backed mage continued his trek through the crumbling heart of the citadel of A’loa Glen. He kept his route circuitous through its lowest levels. He did not care for prying eyes to know his comings and goings this morning. He had to be cautious, keep his true purpose hidden. But he was well accustomed to this game of masquerade. Just a moon ago, Greshym and Shorkan had disguised themselves in white robes and pretended allegiance to the Brotherhood hidden here. His centuries of subterfuge among those white robes would serve him well this morning among the black. Before the sun fully rose, he had two allies to meet; one who had already been forged to his cause and one who would still need convincing.

With his joints aching and his head pounding, Greshym finally reached the barred double doors that led to the Edifice’s row of dank cells. He paused to rest, studying the iron door.

While the Brotherhood had held the island, the cells had been seldom used. Only the occasional drunken cook would be looked away until he sobered. But after the Praetor had wrested control, the dungeon had been reopened in all its bloody glory. Shorkan had collected all the white-robed Brethren and corralled them into the cells. Then he had gone to work on them. The screams had echoed from these shadowy halls for almost an entire moon. Those who couldn’t be converted into ill’guard or bent to the Black Heart’s will were fed to the demon spawn or spent as fuel for the creation of black spells. It seemed there were never enough hearts for all the spells Shorkan wished to cast.

Sighing, Greshym tapped his staff on the iron door of the dungeon. A small peephole opened. Eyes studied him. Greshym did not bother speaking. He was well known by all the dog soldiers who manned the key stations of the keep. Greshym had made sure of that, He heard the scrape of a key in a lock and the shift of bars. The door swung open.

As he passed through, he waved his hand before the guard’s hel-jneted face. “Forget all who passed this way. None entered the dungeon this night.”

“None entered…” the guard repeated dully. The quick spell of influence would keep the guard forgetful of his movements. It was a crude spell, but Greshym had already primed and worked on the key guards so that a small push was all that was necessary for them

to do his bidding.

Greshym continued down the short stair. Let Shorkan busy himself with the bigger schemes. Let him gather dire forces and work black magicks as he prepared for the arrival of the wit’ch. With the Praetor diverted, Greshym devised his own small magicks.

In only four days, the moon would rise full again and the plot to unbind the Blood Diary would commence.

Greshym must succeed before that happened. When in the company of Shorkan or that nefarious boy Denal, Greshym continued to voice his eagerness for destroying the book. He wet his lips and plotted along with the others. But in the blackest corners of his heart, he knew he must thwart them. The book must not be destroyed—not until he gained the magick to return his youth.

Anger built up in his chest. Both the boy and the Praetor had been gifted with eternal vigor and vitality.

Neither was marked by the passage of centuries, unlike Greshym. Though he could not die like ordinary men, his body continued to rot from his bones. He shunned mirrors to avoid glimpses of his wrinkled and bent form. He was no more than a walking corpse.

Greshym shook his head. Only the Blood Diary could correct this injustice. With the cursed tome in hand and wielding a spell he had learned from ancient scrolls, Greshym knew he could return vitality to his decaying body. But if the book was destroyed first—if it was unbound—all would be lost.

He must not let that happen. If it meant betraying the others, so be it. He would have his youth back.

At last he reached the bottom stair and spotted his first quarry of the night. The slim figure stood nervously under the single lamp in the dungeon’s empty guardroom. His brown limp hair and small mustache were familiar, though now his eyes bore a hollowness that had not always been present. The poor golem had been sorely abused of late.

Greshym pushed into the room. “Rockingham. Did you have any trouble getting here unseen?”

“No.” Rockingham shifted his feet. He kept his arms wrapped around his chest as if his limbs alone could keep the Dark Lord from knowing of the treachery that was plotted here. Greshym knew the man was a dark conduit to the Lord of Blackhall. The golem had once carried foul creatures under his skin but had now been infested with an evil even fouler. In his hollow chest, the man’s heart had been replaced with a chunk of ebon’stone blessed with the magic of the Weir. This tiny Weirgate was too small to allow the Dark Lord himself to pass here, but it was large enough for his black Spirit to enter the man and peer through Rockingham’s cracked ribs.

“Are we alone?” Greshym asked, nodding toward Rockingham’s chest.

“He is not with me for the moment.”

“Good,” Greshym said. “Now tell me what you reported to Shorkan.” Rockingham’s pale face grew whiter. “You… you said you’d give me a sample of what you promised.”

“After you tell me what you know,” Greshym said as he leaned in closer. He had bought this one’s loyalty with a simple treasure. “What have you learned?”

“The few sea goblins who did not flee after the death of their queen succeeded in following the wit’ch’s boat. It has sailed south of the Archipelago’s islands.”

“Do they seek to flee?”

“I don’t know. Once they rounded the Blasted Shoals, the boat entered waters that even the drak’il fear entering, seas choked by a forest of floating vegetation.”

“Yes, the Doldrums,” Greshym commented. “Wise move. It would be hard to trace them through the sargassum forest. But what of the mer’ai and their dragons?”

“No word.”

Greshym scowled. “If only the wit’ch would attack before the full moon,” he grumbled. “Any distraction would suit my needs well.” He turned to face Rockingham. “Anything else?”

“Only one thing… Something you will want to hear.”

Greshym’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

Rockingham tugged at his mustache nervously but shook his head. “First what you promised.” Greshym clenched his fist around his staff. He had needed an ear among those who plotted against the wit’ch. After he had lost Elena’s brother, Shorkan had cut him off from the main flow of information.

Rockingham, his old companion, however, now filled that role. At first, Rockingham had balked at sharing what he knew, but every man has a price—and Rockingham’s was cheap. Greshym bought information with information, an even exchange. Greshym wanted to keep updated on the whereabouts of the wit’ch, and Rockingham wanted the darkmage to fill in the gaps of his own memory. It seemed lately that Rockingham had been getting disturbing glimpses of a life he could not recall. Like bubbles rising to the surface, strange smells, snatches of conversations, and other bits and pieces of fragmented memories had been rising to the surface. Rockingham wanted Greshym to bring forth his memories in full. He wanted to know who he had once been. “Please tell me,” he begged.

“I will give you one more piece of your past, but until I have the Blood Diary in hand, you will never know your complete heritage. Serve me well, and I promise you that all will be made clear.”

“Anything… Tell me anything.”

Greshym had to choke back a laugh at the man’s desperation. “I will tell you this, Rockingham. It was not without merit that the Dark Lord sent you as emissary to the sea goblins. In ways, you are not so unlike them.“

Rockingham scrunched up his brow. “What nonsense is that? You give me riddles when I ask for answers.“

Greshym shrugged. “That is all you will get. Bring me information that will put the Blood Diary in my hands, and I will sit and tell you your life’s history in full. Otherwise, bring me scraps and that is all you will get in turn.” Greshym pointed his staff at Rockingham. “Now tell me what else you’ve learned.” Rockingham seemed hesitant, but Greshym stared him down. “Do you never want to know the mystery of… Linora ?” the darkmage teased.

The woman’s name had its usual effect. Rockingham jolted with its mere whisper. His eyes filled with agony; his fists clenched in

frustration. Greshym waited. He knew the woman’s hold on the fool’s heart was still as strong as ever.

Love truly blinded a man. Even when the physical memories were obscured, the emotion still remained to bind the heart with thorns. Greshym smiled at Rock-ingham’s pain.

The golem’s shoulders finally sank, defeated.

“So what else have you learned?” Greshym repeated. “I won’t ask again.” Rockingham’s voice was dull. “Shorkan has moved the date of the book’s unbinding forward by one day.”

“What?” Greshym could not keep the shock from his voice. Rockingham shrugged. “He has perused some ancient texts and determined that the stars are in better alignment on the first day of the full moon, rather than the second.”

Greshym’s vision dimmed. All his careful plans would have come to naught if this vital piece of information had been kept secret. For a moment, Greshym wondered if Shorkan suspected his betrayal. But Greshym’s vision cleared. Impossible. Shorkan had his nose too buried elsewhere to notice the bent-backed mage. No, this slight in not informing Greshym was just another example of the Praetor’s lack of interest in the wrinkled old mage.

Greshym would eventually teach the fool how blindness kills. Turning to Rockingham, Greshym waved him off. With a day less to plan, he did not have time to tarry with the golem. “Keep your ears and eyes open,” he warned. “If you have more information to trade, you know how to reach me.” Rockingham stood another moment, wringing his hands, clearly wanting to beg for more substantial answers. Finally, though, he nodded silently, turned on a heel, and disappeared up the dark stair. Greshym waited until the iron door above clanged shut, then turned to face the door that led to the prisoners’ cells.

He still had one more meeting this morning, one more ally to hire. But he did not worry overmuch. As with Rockingham, he knew this man’s price.

Crossing the room, he pulled open the thick oaken door. The smell of human waste and dried blood assaulted his nose. He took a moment to choke back the rising bile in his throat. Once ready, he entered the dungeon proper.

As he walked, he passed rows of small doors on the left, so low that one had to crouch to enter. From beyond some of the doors,

small moans and sobs issued. None slept in these cells. Terror kept one’s eyes pried open. As he clopped by one door, something huge slammed into the wood; an inhuman mewl erupted from the beast. It had smelled his blood. Claws scraped at the wood. It was hard to believe that what lurked behind that door had once been a man. Greshym shook his head. Shorkan had grown in skills. Greshym stopped before the next door. Here was his goal. Bending with a slight groan, Greshym moved his staff to the crook of his stumped arm, freeing up his hand. He pointed a finger at the ¦ lock and twisted his wrist. The catch snapped open.

Greshym smiled. He too had his skills. Shoving the door open with his staff, Greshym crawled into the cell.

“What are you doing here?” a voice inside growled. Greshym straightened and kicked aside a rat. “Your brother does not treat you well, Er’ril.”

The plainsman spat at Greshym but could do little else. Naked except for a soiled loincloth, Er’ril was trussed by chains to the far wall. Shorkan could not kill his brother; Er’ril was too vital to the unbinding spell. But neither did he care if his brother suffered until then. Fouled in his own filth, bruised from beatings, and smelling of disease from where the iron cuffs had cut into wrist and ankles, the once-proud plainsman appeared a beaten man.

Shorkan had ordered Er’ril strung up in chains mostly to restrict the man from killing himself. The Praetor could not let that happen—at least not until after the book was unbound.

Greshym leaned his staff against the wall and slipped a dagger from his robe. He himself had no such qualms. Er’ril’s death would mean the book was forever safe from Shorkan’s spell. Greshym watched as Er’ril eyed the blade, almost hungrily. But Greshym dispelled such hope. “This is not for you, Er’ril. You are worthless to me dead.”

“You might as well kill me now,” Er’ril said hoarsely. “I will never help you unbind the book.” Greshym’s eyebrows rose. “Who said I wanted you to? I have less of an interest in seeing the book destroyed than you do. As a matter of fact, I come to make you a proposal.” Er’ril’s eyes narrowed warily. His lips cracked as he spoke, blood dripping down his chin. “And what might that be, traitor?”

“I offer you your freedom.” Greshym waved his dagger about the rank cell. “Unless you have grown fond of your accommodations?”

“Do not toy with me, foul one.”

“It is no idle offer, Er’ril. I want the Blood Diary for myself, and you are the only one who knows the secret to unlocking the spell that protects the book. It’s that simple. Free the book, hand it to me, and I will free you.”

“And why should I trust a traitor?”

“Because I am your only hope. In three nights, Shorkan will unbind the Blood Diary and kill you afterward.

That much is certain. So what do you have to risk? Even if I betray you, you are none the worse off. But if I speak the truth, you will have your freedom— though the book will be kept from Elena. You can run back into the arms of your little wit’ch. And who knows? Maybe someday I will tire of the book and gift it to her.

I have no love for the Black Heart. Let her take on the Gul’gotha. What do I care?” Er’ril’s brows darkened. Greshym knew the plainsman balked at joining in any such bargain with the enemy, but the man was no fool either. Danger or not, it was a chance to do something. Er’ril had lived as a warrior all his life. How could a swordsman decline an offer to shake free of these chains and at least attempt to fight for his cause? Greshym knew Er’ril’s decision even before the plainsman’s gaze confirmed it. “What do you propose?” Er’ril asked, fire returning to his tired eyes.

Greshym smiled. Every man had his price.

Taking his dagger, Greshym sliced a small sliver from his new staff. “Let me show you.” At dawn, Elena stood with the others gathered along the ship’s bow rails. The Pale Stallion drifted toward the sargassum forest, its bow parting the red seaweed before it. Elena’s nose curled. The vegetation reeked of brine and decaying roots, and the odor grew more pungent as the ship delved deeper into the Doldrums.

In the distance, from beyond the tree lines, gulls and nesting terns warned them back from the forest’s edge.

Overhead, the sails had been reefed on Flint’s orders. He had said the sea current would propel them from here. His words proved true. The pace was slow with the weeds choking their progress, but Flint seemed to know where the vegetation grew less thickly. Positioned around the boat, the zo’ol sailors called orders to one another in their foreign tongue. Manning the wheel at the stern, Flint listened and seemed to understand. He made tiny adjustments in the

rudder.

As warning against any mistakes, the hulking ruins of ghost ships dotted the seas. Rotting behemoths, half submerged in the weeds, spread to all horizons. Nearby, a section of a mast poked through the red vegetation, a scrap of stained canvas flapping from its tip as they passed, as if begging for release from this choking death. “It be a haunted place,” Tol’chuk grumbled. Meric agreed. “A long-neglected graveyard.” About them, the chatter among the zo’ol sailors died down as the line of forest grew. A hush descended over the party. With the sun rising, the trees ahead lost their ghostly haziness. They towered twice the height of the Stallion’s masts, but their trunks seemed too thin to support the waving canopy of branching fronds.

“Look!” Joach said, pointing up toward one of the trees. Unlike the inland forests, these growths sprouted leaves the color of sunset, burnt orange and pale rose. A stray breeze fluttered the foliage. Buried among the leaves, delicate flowers were also revealed, so darkly red they appeared almost black. “Those must be the flowers Flint told us about,” Joach continued. “The ones his sect harvested for sleep powder.” Elena nodded and stared as their ship slipped into a narrow channel through the wood. According to Flint, the forest was not exactly composed of trees. Each “tree” was in reality a single shoot from the mass of red weeds, fronded growths thrust up to better catch the sun’s light. But entering the forest now, Elena doubted his words. It was as if they drifted along a river that had only flooded its banks, swallowing the roots of the surrounding trees. The open seas seemed far away, a figment of some terrible dream. The world was now trees and water.

As if to enhance this effect, in the distance, hillocks of red weeds sprouted so densely that they appeared almost like land. Upon some of these matts, other flowering plants had taken seed. One tall hill was covered with what looked like yellow-petaled daisies. Elena even spotted a small furred animal scampering across one of these patches, its bushy tail sticking straight up. It darted up into a tree and vanished as their ship passed.

“It’s hard to believe we’re in the middle of the ocean,” Joach said.

Mama Freda nodded. “It reminds me of sections of my own jungle home back in Yrendl. In some regions, the rainfall is so constant and heavy that the jungle has become swamped like this.”

“But is this place safe?” Meric asked grimly. “We could be easily trapped here. Why did that old man pick this place to meet up with the mer’ai?”

“He must have his reasons,” Elena said.

Flint spoke up suddenly from behind, startling them. Their conversation had drawn him from his wheel.

“Fear not,” he said. “For those who know the Doldrums, there is no safer place to hide a large force. This maze of channels, trees, and weeds has hundreds of exits and escape routes. But for those who don’t know its paths, it can be a deadly trap.”

“And you know this forest well?” Tol’chuk asked.

“Aye, the sect of the Hi’fai, my order, has mapped these lands in detail. Besides the sleep powder, it is a bounty of botanical treasures.” Flint gazed at the surrounding trees. “But there is another reason I chose this rendezvous spot.”

They waited for elaboration, but Meric grew impatient. “Why?” he snapped.

Flint waved an arm to encompass the forest. “These trees may appear like those that grow on land, but it’s a deception. Each tree here sprouts from a common root—the sargassum weed. All around you are not individual trees but one single growth. This entire region— the submerged weeds, the entire forest—is all one creature.” Elena stared out at the wide landscape. “A creature?” Flint nodded. “In its own way, it is as intelligent as you or I. But it has a very foreign mind. It existed here before anyone stepped foot upon the shores of Alasea. It measures its life in centuries, as we measure days. The passing of a man’s life is but a blink in its long existence. We are but gnats to this great giant.”

“So why are we here? How does this help us?”

“Long ago, centuries before the Gul’gotha plagued our shores, a Brother of the Green Order, Brother Lassen, made contact with the intelligence here. They conversed. Unfortunately, the forest thinks and speaks as it lives—over winters, instead of breaths. Just their initial greeting took one decade in the Brother’s life. Their entire conversation consisted of four sentences and took six decades to complete. The entire time, Brother Lassen had to sit quietly in the heart of the Doldrums. Food was brought to him. He slept between syllables of the giant’s speech. The poor Brother aged and died while saying good-bye and passing on his thanks.”

“What did they talk about?” Elena asked. “It must have been important to cost a man’s entire life.” Flint shook his head sadly. “No, their conversation consisted of a discussion of the weather. Nothing more.” Meric scoffed. “Foolish waste.”

“Perhaps, but the forest here respected the man’s death. It seemed to sense the sacrifice the man made to simply acknowledge and pay his respects. Ever since, these lands have been a welcome haven for any of the Brotherhood. It has learned to be more responsive, listening for us. It now protects and cherishes us.

There is no safer place.”

“How do you know it will protect us now?”

Flint pointed to beyond the ship’s stern. “It has heard my silent pleas, and even as we speak, it hides our path from those that might hunt us.”

Elena turned. The channel behind the ship had vanished. Trees and matts of weed blocked their way back to open waters. They were now surrounded by the floating forest, swallowed within its belly.

Elena hugged her arms tight around her chest and gazed out at the landscape of draping trees and hills of weed. She tried to absorb all she had heard. So the forest was all one creature, some strange intelligence who viewed the lives of men as mere flickers of a candle’s flame. Elena stared out at the endless spread of trees. It seemed to stretch forever. Elena was lost in the enormity of the beast’s size and life span.

She glanced to her brother. Joach shared her same expression.

Flint’s revelation had been meant to ease their worries.

It had failed.

ROCKINGHAM KEPT VERY STILL. K.NEELING ON THE THICK WOOL CARPET

in the Praetor’s study, he tried to shrink into the background as the trio of darkmages argued. With his head bowed, he concentrated on the whorls of reds and golds in the rug under his knees. His calf muscle cramped, but he ignored it. He knew better than to massage the limb or even to shift to accommodate the cramp. A spasm of pain was nothing compared to drawing the gaze of the Praetor. So he sat frozen and listened as his fate was discussed.

He had brought word this morning from his drak’il spies. The wit’ch’s boat had been discovered entering the sargassum forest of the Doldrums region, inhospitable waters even for the sea goblins. The drak’ils had refused to follow.

“We need further information,” the boy mage argued in his childish voice, sibilant and whining. Denal, a sandy-haired youth, lounged in one of the overstuffed chairs, kicking his heels against one of its legs.

“Denal is right,” Greshym agreed, grumbling a bit. “We know they seek the mer’ai. If they should join—”

“There is only one thing the wit’ch seeks,” Shorkan said, interrupting starkly. His words frosted the air in the small tower chamber. “She needs the Blood Diary. Let her scurry and gather scraps of supporters. I invite them all to come and dash their bones on our rocks. None can hope to penetrate the forces here.

From the carnage, we will collect the Black Heart’s prize, dead or alive, and deliver the girl to Blackhall’s dungeons.”

Greshym dared to argue. “Shorkan, as long as I’ve known you, you’ve always put too much trust in your power. Has the wit’ch not shown that she and her companions are devious? They’ve defeated drak’il forces and demon ravers. Only a fool would underestimate

her.“

“Watch your tongue, old man.” The room’s warmth suddenly chilled. “Those were minor battles, meant only to hinder her

progress.“

Out of the corner of his eye, Rockingham glanced at the combatants. The Praetor, dressed in white robes, towered over Greshym. Small flames of darkflre danced across the pristine whiteness of his robe as he threw back its hood. Rockingham could not mistake the kinship of this fellow with his brother, Er’ril—a rugged face built of hard planes, piercing gray eyes, and hair as black as a moonless night. Before this one’s youth and vigor, Greshym appeared like

some crippled beggar.

Still, the old mage stood steadfast before the gale of Shorkan’s anger. “But what about her blocking the shipment of the ebon’stone

Weirgate?“

“Only luck played a role in her victory there. Who knew Er’ril’s iron ward had the magick to activate the gate?“

“But luck or not, she still thwarted you.”

“She did not thwart us, only delayed us. We still have plenty of time to establish the Weirgate at Winter’s Eyrie. It is only a minor inconvenience.”

Greshym scoffed. “You describe the fact that she almost stumbled upon the Black Heart’s ultimate design as minor}“

“They will never suspect—at least not in time.” The boy Denal added his voice to the fray. “What of the other

Weirgates?“

Shorkan seemed to regain his composure, his back straightening, his spate of darkfire dimming. “The gates at the South wall and the Northwall are almost complete. Once the wit’ch is neutralized, either by killing her or unbinding the book, then none will have the strength to combat the Weir.”

“Perhaps,” Greshym argued. “But do not turn your back on this wit’ch, or you may find her at your throat.”

“So what do you propose? ” Shorkan finally relented. “We attack her before she can gather her strength.” Shorkan dismissed the idea with a wave of a robed arm. “For now, she is too well protected. The forest will honor its pledge to our ancient Green Brother, Lassen. The sargassum weed will keep her hidden. We would waste forces hunting her in that watery maze.”

“Maybe not,” Greshym said. Shorkan glowered at the crippled mage.

Greshym simply continued. “Perhaps we could send an emissary whom the weed will take better to heart—someone the weed will trust more than the companions of the wit’ch. With the forest as an ally, it would be a simple thing to shred the defenses of our enemy and capture the wit’ch. With the right emissary, we could forge the weed into a tangled trap.” Greshym’s gaze flickered toward Rockingham. Rockingham cringed. He had caught the meaning in Greshym’s milky eyes. He was to be this emissary. A tremble began to build in his shoulders as he continued to kneel. What was the foul darkmage plotting?

Shorkan had the same concern. “What is your scheme?”

Greshym seemed to enjoy the sudden attention and interest of the other two mages. “If we sent our dog here out with a stick, a token of our affection for the sargassum, it might listen to our plea for aid.”

“Speak plain. Out with it.”

Greshym bowed his head in feigned obeisance. “We must learn to use the resources that our ancestors conveniently stored here. Among the dusty relics of the Edifice’s libraries and storerooms, there are many unusual items of worth.”

“Like what?” Denal asked, sounding like a child begging for a treat.

“Like the old staff of Brother Lassen,” Greshym answered. The old mage simply crossed his arms, as if this was answer enough.

“So you propose to send this lackey out to the weed bearing Brother Lassen’s old staff as herald?”

“The weed will remember. Time moves oddly for the great beast. Though centuries have passed, it is only a handful of days to the sargassum. It will honor the man who comes bearing Brother Lassen’s staff. It will do his bidding.”

Shorkan seemed to warm to this idea. He turned his back on the others and pulled up his hood as he contemplated. “It is worth attempting. But our man here will need more support than a scattering of stray sea goblins. If we attempt this, we must strike vigorously. No more teasing and nipping at the heels of the wit’ch. This time we strike with full force.” Shorkan swung back to the others. “Fetch Brother Lassen’s staff,” he ordered Denal, then turned to Greshym. “And you prepare your man for his role.” Greshym nodded as he stepped toward Rockingham. “And what will you do, Shorkan?” Black flames again blew forth and coursed in rivulets of darkfire along the Praetor’s white robe. “I will loosen a legion of skal’tum from the island’s defenses to go with the herald. We strike at nightfall.” Though Greshym’s lips spread into a wicked smile at these words, Rockingham quaked. He suddenly found it hard to breathe. He feared the winged servants of the Dark Lord with their poisoned claws and shredding teeth. To be accompanied by a hundred of such demons was a terror beyond reckoning.

Greshym reached Rockingham’s side and nudged him with his staff. “Come. We will retire to my room.” Rockingham rose on numb legs and stumbled after Greshym. The Praetor’s room topped the westernmost tower of the Edifice. It was a long trek down. Once free of the chamber and upon the tower stair, Rockingham found he could breathe again. Denal, on his young legs, had long since disappeared into the descending gloom, leaving the crippled mage to struggle his way down on his own. Alone with Greshym, Rockingham finally felt free enough to speak. “Wh-what is your real plan? I smell a plot behind the one you speak aloud.”

“Do not concern yourself with my plans,” Greshym wheezed. “Obey me in this matter, and what you wish will be granted. You will learn your true past, Rockingham.”

“And there is nothing you are willing to tell me now?” Greshym paused at a landing. He leaned heavily on his staff, exhausted already by the steep descent of the winding stair. “I will grant you a boon. I will give you a question to ponder, a clue to your prior life.“ Rockingham knew the old mage wanted him to beg. He did not care. He was long past worrying about such minor concerns as dignity. There was only one drive that kept him from flinging himself from a tower, and that was to discover the mystery of his past. “Please tell me what you know. I beg this of you.” Greshym smiled. After dealing with the haughty Praetor, it obviously soothed the old mage’s wounded pride to have Rockingham bow and scrape before him now. “I will grant you a farewell gift then. A riddle to ponder on your journey to the Doldrums. There was a reason we dragged you from your shallow grave up in the mountains after the wit’ch defeated you the first time, a purpose in reinvigorating your corpse and making you our spy along the coast. But why? Why did we do this? What makes you so special? The answer is a clue to your past life.”

Rockingham had to restrain himself from throttling the man. What clue was this? How was he ever to answer this dark riddle?

Amusement shone in Greshym’s eyes. “The sea is where you will find the answer, Rockingham. The sea is your clue.”

“Wh-what do you mean?”

Greshym turned on a heel and continued down the steep stairs. “Come. Half the day is already gone. By sunset, you must be off to set a trap for the wit’ch.” Greshym glanced back over his shoulders to where Rockingham still stood on the landing. “And who knows what else may fall into our watery snare? Often the oddest things can be dredged from the sea.”

With rage building in his chest, Rockingham followed, fingering the closed scar on his sternum. He sensed the corrupt shadow that lurked at the edges of his awareness. He let his fingers drop. No matter what horrible deeds had haunted his past, this punishment was still too steep a price. No man should have to suffer this fate.

On leaden feet, Rockingham traversed the stairs and made a promise to himself. Before he left this world, he would know his true past, know why he had been cursed with such a burden, and have his revenge on those who had yoked him to such a fate. This he swore.

P

gy MIDDAY, JOACH WAS ALONE ON THE DECK, EXCEPT FOR THE STRANGE

black-skinned sailors who kept the Pale Stallion languidly gliding through the endless forest of red-fronded trees. His other companions had all retreated below to escape the sun’s glare or to pursue individual goals.

Left alone, Joach had nothing but his own thoughts to occupy his time. He sat cross-legged in the shadow of the mast. His gloved hands kept rolling the dark staff across his knees nervously. He stared out at the passing forest’s edge. After learning that the sargas-sum weed was intelligent, Joach could not escape the sensation that the forest was staring back at him. Joach wet his lips. It was as if a thousand eyes examined him: every hair, every patch of skin. The sensation worsened the deeper into the forest they sailed. Was this the true reason the others had fled below? Had they sensed the immense presence judging them?

Something touched Joach’s shoulder. He gasped and rolled away, his staff coming to his grip. He found himself staring up into the face of one of the zo’ol sailors. This one was marked with a pale scar of a rising sun on his dark forehead. The fellow showed no sign of noticing the staff that Joach still held threateningly.

Instead, he simply stared into Joach’s eyes.

Feeling foolish, Joach lowered the length of wood. “I’m sorry. You startled me.“

The fellow nodded and waved for Joach to follow him to the starboard rail.

Not understanding but afraid to insult the fellow further, Joach followed his bidding. “What is it?” Joach whispered. With the sailor so silent all the time, Joach felt as if his own speech was loud and crass.

The dark-skinned man turned back to Joach. “Eyes watch us,” he said, struggling with their language.

Joach’s skin crawled with these words. So the sailors sensed the forest’s presence, too. “It’s the trees,” Joach said.

The small man nodded. “Many eyes… but one heart.” He turned back to study the passing forest. “It watches us as we watch it.”

“Brother Flint says it means us no harm. It barely knows we’re here.“

The zo’ol made a noncommittal grunt. “It knows,” he mumbled. A long stretch of silence followed, each lost in his own thoughts as

the forest grew more dense around them. The leafy limbs now spread high enough to filter out most of the sunlight, an arched bower overhead. It was as if they floated down some shadowy tunnel.

Joach glanced sidelong at his companion. He realized that, during the many days at sea, he had never learned any of the black-skinned sailors’ names. They usually ate and lounged together, rarely socializing with the others.

The man turned to him. “Names have power,” the zo’ol said plainly.

Joach could not hide his shock. It was as if the man had read his thoughts.

“No,” the man said, staring directly at Joach. The sailor traced the pale scar upon his dark forehead with a single finger. “I am a tribal wizen. I see only what is written on a man’s heart.” The small sailor then reached and placed his palm upon Joach’s chest. “I read what is written here, not what is shadowed by thoughts.”

Joach’s face scrunched up as the sailor removed his hand. “You mean emotions. You can sense another’s feelings.”

The man shrugged and moved his hand toward Joach’s face. He traced a symbol on the boy’s forehead, the same as marked the sailor’s brow. “You are wizen, too. I sense your hidden eye.” Leaning away from his touch, Joach rubbed his forehead. He could still feel the trace of the man’s finger.

Joach realized the scarred symbol was not a rising sun, but an awakening eye.

The sailor continued to stare at him, waiting for an acknowledgment.

Joach found he could not deny the man’s words. He knew the sailor would sense any falsehood. “Yes. I have a talent… like you. I can read the truth of dreams, see paths of the future.” The sailor bowed his head solemnly and remained silent for several breaths. Joach saw the man’s lips move, as if in some silent prayer. Once done, he raised his face and lifted his arms openly. “Fellow wizen may share names in brotherhood. I would share my name with you.” Joach bowed his own head. “It would be an honor.”

“Not an honor…” the man intoned. “A responsibility. To take a name is to accept a burden.” The man slipped a hand into a pocket and removed a small object. “I offer a gift for the weight of my name.” The man held out his hand. Cradled in his palm was a rare black pearl the size of a robin’s egg. Joach hesitated to accept such a precious offering, but the sailor shoved his hand brusquely toward the DOy. Joach sensed that it would be an insult to refuse.

Taking the pearl, Joach closed his fist around it. “I accept your offering and your name.” The man bowed. “I am called Xin.”

As the sailor spoke his name, the pearl seemed to grow warm in Joach’s fist, but it may have been just his own nervousness. He sensed that to this black-skinned sailor, a name was more precious than all the ocean’s treasures.

Xin straightened from his bow and looked expectantly toward Joach.

Blinking, Joach realized he would need a gift to offer this sailor, too. He patted his pockets. Empty. He glanced at the staff. No, he was blood bonded to the length of wood. He could not part with that. Then he remembered. Pocketing the pearl, Joach reached to his throat and removed the dragon-tooth pendant that hung from his neck. It had been a parting gift from Sy-wen before she left to search for the Bloodriders with Kast. Joach did not think she would mind this exchange. It was done with honor.

Joach held out the dragon’s tooth. “A gift for the weight of my name.” Xin nodded and accepted the offering.

Joach bowed, as the sailor had done. “I am called Joach, son of Morin’stal.” Xin placed the cord around his own neck, touching the dragon’s tooth to his lips for a moment. The white tooth shone starkly against the black hollow of the man’s neck. It seemed to belong there.

“We are brothers now,” Xin said. “We bear each other’s names in our hearts. Names hold power. When either heart needs the other, they must come.”

Joach reached and clasped the sailor’s hand, understanding that a commitment was being forged here. “We are brothers.”

A commotion suddenly erupted near the bow of the ship. Breaking their handshake, both turned to see one of the zo’ol sailors frantically point past the ship’s bow. He chattered in the tribal tongue of the zo’ol.

Joach rushed forward with Xin.

Once at the bow rail, Joach saw the reason for the outburst. Ahead, the tree-lined channel ended in a huge expanse of open water. At first Joach had thought the ship had traversed the entire weed and that the ocean itself lay ahead. But he quickly realized his mistake. These waters were too still. Not a wave disturbed the glassy surface. As they floated closer, Joach spotted more forest through the mists on the far side of these calm waters.

It was not the ocean. It was a lake.

As Joach stared, the Pale Stallion drifted into the wide blue waters. Forest lay all around them, encircling their ship. With the channel closing behind them, soon there was no break in the continuous spread of weed, no path out from this weed-choked lake.

Joach sensed that they had just entered the sargassum’s heart.

Beside him, Xin motioned for his tribesman to go belowdecks and fetch the others.

Joach stared up at the open skies. After almost the entire day hidden by the trees, the full sun seemed too bright. Joach suddenly felt exposed. A knot of edginess formed in his chest.

“Something comes,” Xin said behind him.

Glancing to the small sailor, Joach saw that Xin stared up at the skies, too. Joach followed his line of sight.

At first he saw nothing but thin, scudding clouds high overhead. Then the sun’s glare seemed to wane, and he spotted the small dark speck against a white cloud.

Joach’s staff responded. Small flares of darkfire trickled along its length. But Xin touched his shoulder, calming him. “I sense no threat… only… only…” Xin shook his head. “It is too far away.” By now, others began to gather on deck. Flint crossed to them, Elena at his side. Joach pointed to the slowly circling beast up in the sky. He met Elena’s glance and saw the matching worried look in his sister’s gaze.

No one spoke.

Flint raised a spyglass to his eye and studied the interloper. “Thank the Sweet Mother,” he said, relieved.

“It’s the dragon.” Flint turned to one of the other zo’ol. “Light the signal fire. Let them know it’s us!” Elena clutched Flint’s shirtsleeve. “Is it truly Ragnar’k?” Flint smiled. “And Sy-wen. They made it.”

Though relieved himself, Joach could not shake off the sense of unease. As a signal fire was lit among cheers from the others, Joach

remained at the bowsprit. He stared at the circle of forest. Xin remained at his side.

Joach glanced to the zo’ol wizen. “You sense it, too.” Xin nodded. “Many eyes still stare at us.” Overhead, a roar cracked across the sunny skies. Ragnar’k had spotted their signal fire. Joach shuddered.

It sounded like an approaching storm.

“Look!” It was Elena’s excited voice.

Joach drew his eyes from the forest to stare at the waters around the ship. Bubbles rose all around, disturbing the waters’ placid surface. It was as if the lake had begun to boil. Joach clutched his staff tighter.

Soon hundreds of scaled heads surged forth from the salty waters. Dragons of every jeweled shade rose from hiding in response to the roar from Ragnar’k. The entire lake filled with their twining necks and humped backs. Atop the dragons, riders waved to the boat in a salute of greeting.

Overhead, Ragnar’k swooped over the boat’s masts. Another roar of greeting flowed from his black throat.

The dragon slowly tilted on a wing above the gathered army; sunlight sparked off his pearlescent black scales as he turned. It was a wondrous sight. But just as a handsome face can suddenly reveal a malicious soul, Joach caught a glimpse of the horror hidden behind the jubilation.

Joach froze at the rail, his heart clenched in a knot. Sensing the boy’s distress, Xin touched his arm, but Joach could not move. His sense of foreboding trapped him.

“I can read the fear in your heart,” Xin said.

Joach found no words to describe the claw of dread that pierced his throat. For the briefest moment, as Ragnar’k had banked over the mer’ai army, a phantom scene had appeared before Joach’s eyes, overlaid atop the one before him now. He had seen the lake turn bloody, dragons writhing in death, the skies full of demons, the waters frothing with slaughter. But in a blink, the scene had vanished, leaving Joach frozen and bewildered.

He was no longer sure of what was real and what was imagined. Had the appearance of Ragnar’k somehow ignited his weaving talent? Had this horrible sight been a glimpse of the future? Ragnar’k, once a font of elemental magick as the dragon slumbered under A’loa Glen, was still potent with magicks. Even now, in the wake of the dragon’s passage, Joach’s blood tingled with flared energies.

But magick or not, Joach also remembered his false dream of battling Er’ril atop a tower in A’loa Glen.

With that clear mistake, he had no confidence in his prophetic abilities.

Joach touched his forehead, confused.

Xin whispered at him. “Share, Brother. Spread the fear to loosen its hold.” The small man’s calming words finally broke through to him. His voice trembled as he spoke. “I… I saw a massacre. I think we were betrayed.”

Xin studied Joach for a moment, his head slightly cocked. Then he reached to Joach and again traced the awakening eye upon his forehead. “You are wizen.”

The steadfast gaze as Xin traced the mark on Joach’s brow helped clear the muddle in his mind, and Joach suddenly sensed the truth of his vision. He turned toward the others gathered around the rails. “Flint was wrong,” Joach said, his voice growing as firm as his resolve. “The sargassum weed is a trap.” Voices argued across the crowded galley table. Elena listened, one hand resting in her brother’s as they sat beside each other.

“The weed would not betray one of the Brotherhood,” Flint insisted.

A tall stately woman frowned from across the table. She encompassed both Flint and Joach in her displeasure. Her skin was the color of ivory, while her hair, hanging straight and long, shone like a cascade of sunlight in the glow of the chamber’s torches. Elena recognized the similarity of features between this woman and Sy-wen, who was seated nearby with Kast. There was no question that this was their friend’s mother. “I entrusted half of the mer’ai forces to join you here in this sea of weeds. You promised it to be a safe haven. Now word comes of a trap.”

“Not word,” Flint insisted. “A vision. Even if the boy’s sight was truly prophetic, a weaving is only a possible view of a future, not a certain one. The future is fraught with many paths.” Elena heard the exasperation in the old seaman’s voice. The brief moment of jubilation at the arrival of the mer’ai and their dragons had quickly ended when Joach had rushed from the foredeck to warn Brother Flint of some unknown menace in the forest. Joach

had described his vision of the attack upon their forces here. With such threatening news, Flint had quickly called an assembly of leaders to discuss their options.

As a representative of the Council of Elders, Sy-wen’s mother had been sent with the expeditionary force into the sargassum forest. She would speak with the voice of the mer’ai. Kast, on the other hand, had been given the aegis to speak for the Bloodriders by their leader, the high keel. Since the Dre’rendi fleet was too large and cumbersome to traverse the weed, the Bloodriders had anchored on the southern fringes of the Doldrums to await the others. So far, Kast had added no word to this argument. He had just sat silently, stone faced, as the others argued.

Everyone seemed split on what to do. Flint had suggested they wait until he could at least study Joach’s vision to judge its veracity. Meric, though, had insisted that Elena was too vital, that they should leave the sargassum now. Sy-wen’s mother had frowned even at the elv’in’s plan. She spoke of not only leaving the sargassum, but of abandoning their planned assault on A’loa Glen entirely. It was as if all their careful plans were being shredded before Elena’s eyes.

Glancing down the row of worried and angry faces, Elena knew that the fate of Alasea rested on what was decided in this room. Without a united army at her back, she would never retrieve the book from the clutches of the Dark Lord. And if the Blood Diary was not retrieved, Alasea had no hope.

Elena knew she must somehow find a way to unite this group. Kast finally spoke, clearing his throat loudly enough to draw the others’ attentions. Since he had yet to speak, they all listened raptly, hoping the Bloodrider would add his support to one of their individual sides. Kast leaned forward. “Are you all blind?

We must not hide!” He turned to stare over Sy-wen’s head toward her mother. “Have we not fled for generations from the Black Heart of the Gul‘-gotha? Are you not tired of tucking tail and running? If we ever mean to shake these foul shackles, we will have to fight sometime. Yes, men will die. Dragons will perish. Did any of you come here expecting otherwise?”

Kast pointed to Joach. “The boy has brought us a word of warning. I repeat: warning.” Kast glowered at Flint. “I care not if his vision tests true. He has warned us of an attack. Instead of testing him, we should prepare. An ambush only works if the victim is blind to it.

Forewarned, as we are now, we can pull the fangs from this beast, turn their ambush back upon themselves. Why flee? “

Elena’s eyes grew wide with the Bloodrider’s passion. She found herself on her feet. Here was the ally she needed. Kast had forged an opening, and she must break through it. She slipped the gloves from her two hands. “Kast is right,” she said before anyone else could speak. She felt all their eyes upon her. “If we flee, we run blind. Here, at least, we know what comes.”

“But what if Joach is wrong?” Flint said.

Kast came to his feet, adding his support physically to Elena. “So? Then we move on. It costs us nothing to prepare.” Flint nodded, clearly considering their case.

Elena persisted. She could not let the momentum slow. “There is another view that no one has voiced,” she said. She glanced specifically at the cold countenance of Sy-wen’s mother. From the woman’s expression, the mer’ai elder had been little swayed by Kast’s words. Elena pointed toward Joach’s staff. “My brother is already touched by black magicks. What if his vision itself is a trap?”

“What do you mean?” the elder said with disdain. “What if the vision was sent by the enemy, meant to trick us into fleeing the safety of the sargassum? Maybe they know we’re hiding here and hope to flush us out by sending visions of death if we stay. They hope to send us fleeing into their true snare.” Joach stood, meaning to interrupt. Elena knew her brother meant to argue against her words, to insist his vision came from within himself. But that would just weaken her arguments. She glanced sharply at him and he held his tongue, adding his quiet support.

Elena went on. “Joach’s vision offers no clear path. Death can be awaiting us just as surely outside the forest as within. Kast offers us the wisest path: Proceed as if an attack is coming. Catch the enemy in its own snare.”

Flint stood. “Elena makes a good point. With danger possible all around us, we might as well make a stand here as any other place.”

Though her countenance had paled, Sy-wen’s mother remained unconvinced. “There is one safer place,” she said. “Under the waves. In the endless expanses of the Deep, the Gul’gotha will have a hard time finding the mer’ai.”

Sy-wen, red faced, pushed to her feet. “Mother! Do you propose to flee once again? Do you expect these good people to lay down

their lives so that we might once again run and hide? Are we fated forever to repeat our craven history?“ Sy-wen’s shoulders shook. She grabbed Kast’s hand in her own. ”I will not! Flee if you must, but I am staying!“

A flush rose in the elder’s cheeks, angry or embarrassed.

“We will stay, too.” Elena glanced to where Meric and Tol’chuk were now standing.

The healer from Port Rawl slowly pushed to her feet. “If you’re all staying, I guess Tikal and I aren’t goin‘

anywhere.”

This left only Sy-wen’s mother still seated. She seemed little impressed by the assembled group standing around the table staring down at her. Elena sensed that the pressure here would likely just stiffen the stubborn back of this woman. Waving her hand, Elena indicated for everyone to sit. Chairs shuffled as she was obeyed.

Only Elena remained standing, staring at her opponent. She did not want to lose the support of the mer’ai during the coming assault. She spoke quietly, the fire gone from her voice. “I’ve lost parents, uncles, aunts, friends. So I have the right to ask this of you—of all the mer’ai. Join us now. Heed my brother’s vision and make it false. The future is not set in granite. After over five centuries, one thin hope for driving the Gul’gotha from these lands and seas now exists. I beg that you don’t flinch from making the hard choices this day. The fate of freedom rests on the back of your dragons. Please do not turn away.“

The woman stared at Elena silently, lips pursed tightly. Slowly her face relaxed. “For someone so young, you speak boldly, with perhaps too much passion. Over the years, I’ve learned passion leads to mistakes.” Her eyes seemed to turn inward. “I’ve paid dearly for those mistakes and have learned from them. I now do not make decisions

in haste.“

“It is not haste that—”

The woman silenced her with a single raised finger. “I have not finished. Besides passion, you also argue well. Dare I say that you would even do well seated on the Council of Elders?” She bowed her head slightly in Elena’s direction. “The mer’ai will stay. We will help set this trap. It is time the dragons rose from the seas and were heard

again.“

Elena’s knees weakened. “Thank you,” she muttered. Elena found everyone’s eyes upon her. She knew words were expected

from her. Flint had told her yesterday that those assembled here gathered not for her, but for Alasea. Yet as she stared into the others’ eyes, Elena knew Flint was mistaken. As much as she might object, she represented Alasea: They were here for her .

Still standing, she spoke as if to herself. “My uncle once told me stories of Alasea’s past: stories of cities whose magick-wrought towers scraped the clouds, tales of gilded streets and lands of plenty where creatures from every land gathered in peace. As I listened, I thought such tales were just myth, mere childish fancies. How could such beauty and grace have ever existed in this world?” Elena lowered her hand slightly to stare at those gathered, tears in her eyes. “I see that grace here now—and know such a world is truly possible.”

Before anyone could respond, the door to the galley burst open, startling them all. The young boy Tok rushed inside. He led one of the mer’ai, bare chested and still wet from the sea. Tok waved to the man. “I told him you was discussing plans, but he says he has news you must hear.” The mer’ai warrior gasped words between panting breaths. “Something… in the water… It… it… !” The elder woman’s voice snapped at him. “Bridlyn! Speak clearly.” The man gulped for a moment, then swallowed hard. “The channel we came through. It’s closed. There’s no way back.”

“What do you mean?” Flint asked.

Sy-wen answered. “While Ragnar’k and I flew over the forest, the other dragons swam under the floating weed. They came up here through a hidden passage below the lake.” Bridlyn nodded. “We had sentries posted near the channel leading out from here. Just at dusk, the passage wove closed, weeds choking shut.”

Flint raised a hand, a scowl on his face. “Calm yourself! The weed did the same to our channel here. It’s only hiding our paths.”

Bridlyn looked at Flint with horror. “It drowned both our sentries! Even their dragons were choked in weeds. Strangled!”

In the moonlight, Rockingham stood atop a hump of red weeds. His boots were soaked down to his cold toes. The bottom fringes of his green robe hung heavy with saltwater from his lone venturing into the edges of this drowned forest. With one hand, Rockingham drew the robe tighter around his neck. Greshym had insisted he wear the heavy garment—it was the raiment of the Brotherhood’s old sect that communed with the green life. In Rockingham’s other hand, he bore a long white staff whose end was topped with a carved cluster of wooden leaves. It was Brother Lassen’s ancient oaken stave. Rockingham continued deeper into the strange wood, the footing treacherous in the bobbing matts and hills of weed.

Earlier that day, he had been sent by swift ship to the Doldrums and unceremoniously dumped into this forest just before sunset. Once here, Rockingham had knelt at the forest’s edge and performed the rites Greshym had taught him. He had begged the weed to hear him and to hold the wit’ch’s group in its grip.

Though Rockingham had not heard any acknowledgment from the sargassum, he had felt it. A weight, not unlike a wind, had rolled over him and hovered over the branch of oaken wood in his hand. Then the weight had vanished. Rockingham somehow knew the intelligence here had understood his plea.

His only role now was to act the part of the Green Brother, to wander this wet land until the legion of skal’tum arrived from A’loa Glen. Greshym had told him that he would have to traverse Brother Lassen’s old steps and venture into the forest alone, bereft of

any black magick. Greshym had warned that the use of the arcane arts risked overshadowing the faint traces of Lassen’s spirit in the wood. If they were to maintain their ruse, they dared not touch black magick—at least not until the weed was won to their cause.

Afterward, once the weed had trapped the wit’ch, a quick strike should destroy the forces gathered here before the slowly dreaming forest could even realize it had been betrayed.

Rockingham peeked at the stars shining through the mesh of branches overhead, searching for any sign of the skal’tum. The legion should have taken wing just at sunset. It would not be long until the skies filled with their pale, scabrous wings.

Casting his eyes back to the forest’s floor, Rockingham continued deeper into the wood, thankful for only one thing. Through the fabric of his robe, he rubbed the long scar on his chest. As long as he maintained this foolish masquerade, the Dark Lord was forced to vacate him, leaving him in peace. Yet Rockingham knew such a reprieve would be short-lived. Once the ruse was shed, Rockingham’s chest would again swell with dark energies and burst open with the Black Heart’s foul presence. He would again be swallowed in the immensity of that one’s evil.

Tears, unbidden and surprising, rose in Rockingham’s eyes. For the moment, he was somewhat his own man. Using the boles of the trees and his staff as support, Rockingham worked his way deeper into the forest. A part of him wanted nothing more than to disappear forever into this quiet and wet place. He would be glad to drown in these brackish waters. But he knew death was no escape. He had died twice already—once by his own hand and once while battling the wit’ch. And each time, death had failed him. He tried to grasp the reason for his first death. He recalled a tumble from a high cliff into a surging surf. He could not recall anything before that, no matter how hard he struggled to remember.

“Why?” he called out to the silent forest. “Why can I never rest?” No answer was offered. Sullenly, Rockingham climbed a larger hillock of tangled weed. As he reached the summit, a thrill suddenly trembled down the length of the wooden staff. Rockingham almost dropped the stave in fright, but he recognized where he stood. Before him, a small granite pillar topped this rise. Here was where Brother Lassen had sat for decades communicating with the great forest. Here was where Lassen had also died.

]t was also where Rockingham was supposed to await the skal’tum.

Shivering, he strove to collect himself. He stared at the unadorned stone pillar, a monument to the ancient Brother. Rockingham knew some words were needed to acknowledge the site and the man’s deed.

j-Je grumbled as he stood over the man’s grave. “Lucky bastard.” With this utterance, the staff again trembled in his grip. Rockingham jolted. Against his will, his arm rose, reaching the staff toward the stone. As the carved leaves touched the plain granite, an explosion flung Rockingham backward. Catching a handful of weeds, Rockingham managed to keep himself from tumbling down the steep hill. Rolling up on his knees, Rockingham saw the staff hovering by the pillar. A hazy white cloud seemed to seep out from the stone and envelop the length of oak.

As Rockingham watched, the cloud swirled and shrank in on itself, coalescing tighter and tighter, until the mists seemed to gain substance. As it did so, a shimmering glow grew even brighter, and a figure was formed from cloud and light. It was a robed man. He held the oaken staff in his right hand. The mists swirled at the edges, but Rockingham could not mistake the face glowing from under the hood. He had seen the paintings when Greshym had instructed him in this duty.

It was Brother Lassen.

The apparition spoke, his voice echoing as if from far away. “Who calls me?“

Rockingham sat frozen, unable to form words.

The ghostly eyes found his. It pointed the staff at Rockingham. “Why do you disturb me?”

“I… I did not mean to.” Rockingham raised his arms in supplication. “Forgive me, Brother Lassen. I did not know your spirit resided

here.“

The coldness in the shade’s eyes grew focused. “I am no longer just Brother Lassen. You also speak to the forest. I have been communing with this wood for so long that the line between the two of us is blurred. I am the forest, and the forest is me. We are now one. The forest allows me to see time for what it is-—an endless sea. I give the forest the ability see the beauty in tiny movements of time, to appreciate the flight of a bird across the sky, to value the span of a single day, to see life through the eyes of a man. Each is a gift to the other—to see the long and short in life.”

“I… I am sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb either of you.”

“You are not to blame.” The shade lifted the green staff and examined its length. “I can sense you in the wood. Your pain has drawn me from my slumber in the stone. There is a corruption in you that cannot pass my grave unchallenged.”

Cringing back, Rockingham feared the ruse of the darkmages was about to be exposed by this Brother of the wood. He dreaded the wrath of this strange forest and even stranger ghost.

But the shade continued speaking calmly. “Do not fear. Though I sense the corruption in you, I also sense that your spirit rails against the evil inside. This is good. But in truth, it is no matter to me.” The shade’s glowing eyes swung toward Rockingham. “It is not revenge that drew me from my grave, nor wages of war. Neither the wood nor myself dwell any longer on the wiles of men’s hearts. Here time is endless.

Around us, cities rise, and kingdoms fall. It is of no matter. It is just another cycle of life. Instead, I come to you because your kindred nature calls to me.”

“I… I don’t understand.”

“That is because you are blind. Though you do not know it, we are both the same—spirits entombed in stone.”

“Wh-what?”

“When I shed my body, allowing its substance to rot and nourish the roots of the sargassum, my spirit remained here to commune with the great forest. As the grave marker was erected, I bound myself freely to the stone.” He indicated the granite pillar. “Stone does not rot. It is not a part of the cycle of life and death. In stone, a spirit may reside for eternity.”

Rockingham spoke before fear restrained him. “But what does this have to do with me? ”

“You are also bound in stone—but I sense the binding was against your will. It is your pain that has called me forth.”

Finding it difficult to breathe, Rockingham dared hope. “How? Why was I bound ?”

“Why? I cannot see that far. I am no god to see into the mind of your tormentor. But I can see who stands before me now. I can see your heart and know it to be stone—a chunk of black rock from the land’s bowels.”

“Ebon’stone,” Rockingham groaned, raising a hand to his scarred chest.

“There your spirit is entombed forever.”

“Is there no way to free me?” Rockingham asked, almost a moan. “Ah…” The shade’s lips drew into a sad frown. “Here is your desire spoken aloud.”

“Can you answer it?”

“Yes, but once I do, I can answer no more. It is this need that has drawn me forth. Once I have answered, I can remain no longer. I do not belong to this world.”

Rockingham fought to voice his heart’s most intimate desire. “How? How do I free myself?” The shade smiled, almost fatherly. “It will mean your death. Your spirit has already been cast from your body and can never return to inhabit it. If freed of the stone, your spirit will simply move on.”

“I care not. I just want to be free.”

“Very well then. To unfetter your spirit, the stone must be broken.”

“But how can I—?”

“Shatter the black rock in your chest, and you will be free.” With these few words, the apparition slowly began to unravel, fraying at the edges first, then dispersing in folds of mist and cloud.

Still kneeling, Rockingham sank to his hands, hopelessness dragging him down. “But… but there is no way to break forged ebon’stone. Only the Dark Lord himself can do that.” Rockingham raised his face, begging for more of an answer.

But the stone pillar continued to draw the mists back into its cold embrace. Unsupported, the staff tumbled to the damp weeds. “Please!” Rockingham cried to the empty forest. A faint whisper answered him, a voice from an unimaginable distance. Brother Lassen’s final words echoed out to him. “There is a way, my friend. Only time itself is unchanging. Know yourself, and a path will open.” With that, the hill grew silent. Only the pillar remained as if to mock him. He had come so close to answering the mysteries of his life, only to have more riddles cast at his feet. Rockingham pushed up out of the tangled vegetation. In the moonlight, the weeds were the color of dried blood.

Standing now, Rockingham stared at the pillar. “Know yourself, and a path will open,” he said, repeating the shade’s final words. “Useless words for someone whose past has been stolen from him.” Rockingham turned his back on the stone and stared at the skies.

Greshym had promised to return his lost memories if he succeeded in his duty this night. “ ‘Destroy the wit’ch, and you will have what you desire.’ ‘

Rockingham sighed. If the shade spoke truthfully, regaining his past could perhaps hold a key also to freeing his spirit. He pondered this realization. If true, was this the reason why his past had been kept from him? To keep him forever trapped in stone? But what mystery of his past life could break ebon’stone?

Somewhere, buried in a guarded corner of his memories, a scent similar to honeysuckles and soft whispers still existed. It was a single rose growing in a barren field. He knew the name of this sweet flower— Linora

. But there was nothing more, only that fragile memory he kept near his heart, protecting it from harm. Who was she? he cried in his head.

Rockingham shook his head at this useless quandary. There was only one way to answer the mystery.

“Destroy the wit’ch,” he mumbled to the stars.

As if he had been heard, the northern stars winked out one after another, swallowed away by an approaching storm. But it was not thunderclouds that rolled toward his position. Rockingham watched a single winged shape blacken the moon’s glow overhead. His skin crawled at the sight.

The legion of skal’tum had arrived.

A crash of breaking limbs sounded off to his left. Swinging around, Rockingham saw stalked branches shatter as something large forced and clawed its way through the canopy. Rockingham fled back a few steps.

The pale-muzzled face of a skal’tum burst from the shredded foliage. It hissed at him, needled teeth shining in malign mischief. A long snaking tongue licked its lips, and its tall ears twitched this way and that. It tore itself free from its perch and crashed to the hill, knocking over the stone marker of Lassen’s grave and snapping the Brother’s staff under its claws. It stepped toward Rockingham. Its twin black hearts could be seen beating through its translucent skin. Behind its skeletal shoulders, wide pale wings shook and spread menacingly.

Rockingham stood his ground.

“It is time to cast assside our masksss,” it wheezed at him. The heat of the beast’s skin steamed in the damp weeds.

Rockingham shrugged. He knew their masks were no longer

L f. M C IN

needed. The wood, through the shade of Lassen, had already declared its neutrality. From here, each side would fight alone.

Stepping forward, Rockingham opened his arms to the foul beast. It had been assigned to carry him to the ship of the wit’ch. “Let us be off,” he commanded the creature.

“Ssso eager,” it hissed at him, then scooped the small man up in its oily arms. “Do you lussst so much for the bloodshed to come?”

As the skal’tum’s leathery wings spread for flight, Rockingham answered. “Yes. I am ready for death.” It was now more than ever that Elena missed Er’ril. Alone at the rails of the Pale Stallion, she stared across the silent moonlit waters. She did not miss his sword or his strength. What she missed most was simply his quiet presence—how, whenever danger lay ahead, he would stand at her shoulder, speechless but never silent. His scent would whisper to her of his Standi plains, of home and peace, while his breathing, steady and unhurried, spoke of calm power and untapped vigor. Even his slight movements, the rustle of leather on wool, the scuff of boot, sounded like a stallion testing its bit, ready to explode forward with the slightest flick of a rein.

All this she would hear. And as he stood guard, a part of his iron would enter her. He gave her the strength to face even the worst horror. With Er’ril nearby, anything seemed possible.

But no more.

Elena glanced back to the empty decks and sighed. Other of her companions were also missing. Right now, Elena could use the stony calm of Krai, the flashing blades of Aunt My, the stout heart of Far-dale. Even the tricky wisdom of Mogweed would be welcome now.

Across the ship, Flint must have noticed her melancholy. The grizzled Brother finished his discussion with the zo’ol sailors and crossed toward her. One of the zo’ol followed. Flint’s face was grim as he joined Elena at the rail.

“Strange news,” he said. “I just got word from the mer’ai guardsman, Bridlyn, that something has changed in the weed. The channels leading out from the lake have again reopened. The sargassum no longer holds this region clenched in its strangling grip.”

“But does it open a path for us to escape or open a channel so the enemy can reach us?” Elena asked.

Flint shook his head.

Surprisingly, the zo’ol answered. “Neither. The forest no longer looks at us. I sensed its distaste for a moment, then nothing. It has abandoned us.”

“But why?”

The zo’ol simply shrugged and turned away, as if the question held no interest for him. The tiny man stared out across the glassy surface of the surrounding sea. At sunset, the dragons of the mer’ai and their riders had retreated beneath the lake’s placid surface. Hiding in ambush, they lay in wait for any attackers. To any who would spy upon them, all that would be seen was the Pale Stallion, drifting alone in the center of the great lake.

Elena swung back to Flint. “Maybe we should take the chance and leave? Should we reconsider our—?” The zo’ol spoke again, talking to the empty seas. The black-skinned sailor raised a hand toward the northern skies. “A sickness approaches.”

Flint pushed forward to study the dark skies. A few thin clouds obscured the stars, but otherwise the skies were clear of any enemy. “Call the others to their stations!” Flint ordered the small man.

“What—?” Elena began to ask, but then she heard it, too: a distant flapping, like a large rug fluttering in a strong wind. At first it was faint; then it grew in volume and number. It sounded to her like the angry thrum of wings heard from a toppled hornet’s nest. Something vile disturbed the night skies and flew this way.

Elena glanced to Flint. The zo’ol sailor had already left to raise the alarm. His other tribesmen lit signal torches along the boat’s rigging. In the distance, Elena heard the soft splashes as some of the mer’ai sentinels who had been stationed in the branches of trees along the forest’s edge dove down to alert the hidden army.

The grizzled Brother spoke to the skies. “It is time.”

Elena slipped the pair of lambskin gloves off her hands. They were no longer needed; she dropped the gloves to the deck. From here, it was useless to hide her heritage. The wit’ch could no longer be denied.

Vaguely, the faint sound of drums carried on the wind. The rhythmic beat, though just a whisper, drove to the bones, shivering the marrows. It made Elena want to bolt.

Flint gripped her elbow. “Dreadlords. SkaPtum,” he whispered. “They sound their bone drums to unnerve their enemies.”

“How many do you think?”

Flint listened, then spoke with worry. “I judge at least a legion.” The hatch to the lower decks crashed open. Tol’chuk, bearing the d’warf warhammer in one huge claw, led the others atop the deck. Once the og’re was out of the way, Meric and Joach pushed to the decks.

Joach clutched his staff under the crook of his arm. As he approached, he pulled off one of his own gloves with his teeth and spat

it to the deck.

Before he could grip the length of wood with his bared hand, Elena touched his arm, halting him. “Not yet. Save your blood until it’s needed.” From the fire in her brother’s eyes, she knew the magick called to him. The lust shone bright in his eyes.

Joach positioned the staff before him, still holding it with his one gloved hand. Small flames of darkfire coursed its length, drawing the warmth from the night. “Should I try striking with black magick first?” He glanced to Flint.

“No,” the older Brother said. “As your vision revealed, it is skal‘-tum that approach. Striking with black magick will only heighten the creatures’ dark protections. Do only as we planned. Change your staff into a blood weapon and use its magick-wrought skills to guard your sister. Imbued with Elena’s magick, your staff should strike blows that will harm the beasts at close range.”

“But how can we hope to defeat an army of them?” he asked.

“We must trust in our plan,” Flint said. He nodded to Elena.

She already had her silver wit’ch dagger in her grip. She sliced a small cut in each red palm, the hilt of the dagger now bloody. She then turned to Meric. “Rein the winds to your will, but wait for Flint’s signal.“

The elv’in nodded. “I will stay at your side. None of the winged beasts will get near you.“

Elena gripped Meric’s shoulder in thanks. He and Joach would be her bodyguards: Meric keeping any of the skal’tum from reaching her, and Joach guarding her back with his blood stave. Tol’chuk and Flint, along with the zo’ol, would man the stone-weighted nets along the ship’s rails. Though the skin of the skal’tum could resist

most attacks, the creatures were still beasts of the land. They could drown like any other. Their best weapon of attack this night would not be a sword, but the sea itself.

A tiny voice whispered above Elena’s head from the rigging. “Tikal, good puppy… Want cookie…” Elena glanced up to where Mama Freda’s tiny pet clung to ropes high above and hid behind a fold of unfurled sail.

Its dark eyes were huge as it stared at the skies, too. Mama Freda remained below with Tok. With the boy’s help, she had set up a ward in the galley, her elixirs and balms already bubbling on the hearths in preparation for the injured. As she readied herself, Tikal was her eyes and ears above the deck.

“There!” Tol’chuk bellowed from near the bow. He pointed his d’warf hammer toward the northern skies.

“The stars vanish!”

All eyes swung to watch the black cloud sweeping across the night sky. “Sweet Mother,” Elena moaned. It was as if the entire horizon swarmed with the beasts. How could they ever hope to survive this night?

Flint stood at her shoulder. “Do not let their enormity overwhelm you. Battles are not fought across wide landscapes. They are won at the length of your sword or flight of your arrow. Ignore all else around you but the foes within reach. Let the rest of the battle rage around you.” He then raised his voice as he stepped away. “To your stations! The battle begins!”

Flint gave her a quick smile, a fire lighting his eyes that had nothing to do with magick. After so many centuries, the Brotherhood was once again on the attack. He strode toward Tol’chuk and the nets.

Elena glanced to Meric. The elv’in’s eyes were partially closed, and his cloak billowed about his form, even though not a wind stirred this night. As she watched, he floated until the toes of his boots just brushed the deck. “I am ready,” he intoned. He lifted one hand toward the slack sails, and Elena felt the brush of stiff winds on her cheeks. The sails filled, and the Pale Stallion drifted back from the approaching horde filling the sky. Meric would keep the boat tacking and turning across the lake, trying his best to keep the ship clear of the worst fighting.

Joach touched her shoulder, a question in his eyes. Elena nodded. Her brother gripped the staff with his bare hand. Elena saw his knees buckle slightly as his blood was drawn into the wood. Around hjs hand, the dark wood paled to a stark white. With each beat of her brother’s heart, the darkness was driven from the wood, spreading from end to end. Vaguely, streaks of red, Joach’s blood, could be seen coursing within the staff, fusing wood to wielder. Once the transformation was complete, Joach regained his footing. The staff was no longer a shaft of black magick, but a blood weapon bent to Joach’s will.

With lips tight, Joach lifted the staff. He practiced a few parries and blows with the weapon. The flash of wood moved too fast for Elena’s eyes to follow. Joach seemed satisfied and halted his staff’s twirl. He met Elena’s eyes. “I only wish Father could see this,” he

said quietly.

“He would be proud of you, Joach,” Elena said. They shared a sad smile for their lost family.

From the rail, Flint signaled her.

Swallowing hard, Elena turned away from her two bodyguards. She faced the cloud of winged death that now dove toward their tiny ship. Flanks of darkness spread to either side, meaning to encircle the small boat.

Sheathing her dagger, Elena raised her head and unfettered the magick locked in her heart. Her palms burst with flame; her right bloomed with the rosy flames of a sunrise, while her left burned with the cold blue of the moon. “Let it begin!”

She thrust her arms toward the night skies, reaching for the two flanks of her enemy. Tossing back her head, she screamed as the magick ripped out from her very bones. Elena felt herself lifted from the decks by the burst of energies. Above her head, twin shafts of fire—one red, one blue—split the black night.

Where the flames struck, the dark clouds were shredded. As Elena had learned in the streets of Winterfell so long ago, the dark protections of the skal’tum were no barrier against her blood magicks. All around the boat, pieces of blackness tumbled from the night sky to crash into the seas. But even such an assault could not entirely block the horde of demons that flew this night. Drums beat at her ears, and winds whistled as Meric fought to keep the Stallion from the grip of the beasts. He tried to buy the ship as much time as possible.

Suddenly overhead, sails ripped. A yardarm snapped. Too soon, Meric had lost his chase. Distantly, Elena heard the thud of massive bodies striking the deck. Screamed orders echoed. She ignored them as Flint had told her. Her battle was with the mass of demons still flocking above. She cast her magick across the night sky, searing the darkness. But these were not dumb beasts she hunted; they were sly and learned quickly to avoid her flares of fire, banking and swinging away from her flames.

Elena noticed from the corner of her awareness that the decks had become a battlefield. Meric had given up maneuvering the ship and had turned his fight upon the winged creatures. He blasted the beasts as they tried to land, buffeting them into the seas. Meanwhile, those that did manage to land soon found themselves entangled in the weighted nets of the sailors. Tol’chuk would then heave the writhing creatures over the ship’s rail and into the drowning depths. The og’re’s roar of blood lust echoed across the decks, drowning out even the bone drums of the skal’tum

While the battle raged, Joach danced around Elena, his staff a weapon of death. Christened with Elena’s blood magicks, the stave penetrated the skaPtum’s black magick and struck deadly blows. The heightened skill of the magick-wrought weapon forged Joach into a murderous force. But even skill and magick could be overwhelmed with sheer numbers. Elena saw the deep wound in Joach’s shoulder. It steamed with poisons from a demon’s claws. Her brother could not maintain his dance much longer.

Still, Elena fountained her power into the night sky, destroying and fraying the horde above. She knew she must not abandon her own post, not even to help her brother, or all would be lost. If she relented in her attack, the boat would be instantly swamped with winged beasts. Elena knew she was all that stood between the mass of the horde and this boat.

Finally, Flint yelled to Elena, giving her the sign. “Now, Elena! The flock is all above the lake!” Sighing in relief as the magick sang through her blood, Elena opened herself fully to the wit’ch. For the moment, she and wit’ch must be one. Bringing her palms together, she merged the coldfire of her left hand and the wit’ch fire of her right. In her heart, wit’ch and woman also fused into a deadly force. From these unions, Elena released her final weapon: stormfire.

From her joined palms, the frigid cold of the moon’s ice exploded with the searing fire of the sun. A gale of winds mixed with

hails of fire and spears of iced lightning tore up from her body. She gasped as a torrential whirlwind of energy coursed out to envelop the winged army.

Across the lake, the scream of her own magick was greeted by the bellowed roar of a dragon. It was Ragnar’k. The flare of Elena’s stormfire had been the signal for the mer’ai to strike.

Elena fell to her knees as her magick continued to hurl skyward. Around her, the battle grew more fierce across the decks of the Stallion. Overhead, the moon and stars were still masked behind the wings of the demon horde. No matter how many of the foul beasts died, the flow of skal’tum seemed endless.

As Elena struggled with her own magick, she prayed the dragons would prove enough. But she still couldn’t shake Joach’s prophecy of doom—a vision of the dragons drowning in a sea of blood.

Sy-wen clung to the back of her dragon. Ragnar’k bellowed his rage at the demon horde as he flew toward the flock’s underside. Off to the right, a torrent of flaming storm winds attacked the massive host of winged monsters and illuminated the ship far below. The boat seemed such a tiny target on the calm lake, a child’s toy bobbing in a puddle. How could they possibly protect such a defenseless target from this blanketing host?

We must get atop the monsters! she sent to her mount.

Ragnar’k roared his answer, arcing on a wing and stretching higher.

Soon they were among the beasts. Wings, claws, teeth assaulted them. But Ragnar’k was no ordinary seadragon; he was the stone dragon of A’loa Glen, a font of elemental magicks. Once the great beast had faced the Praetor himself; the dragon’s roar had blown back the black magicks of the Dark Lord’s lieutenant, snuffing the flames of the mage’s darkfire and leaving the man without a source of power. And now Sy-wen hoped the same proved true here.

As Ragnar’k attacked, he bellowed at the beasts and ripped at them with silver claws and daggered teeth.

The dragon’s roar washed away their dark protections. Skal’tum screamed, wings torn and shredded. They fell, fluttering and struggling with broken wings, to crash into the sea.

A single beast grabbed at Sy-wen. Even before she could scream, Ragnar’k was there. His head snaked back, snapped the monster’s neck, and spat its flailing form into the roiling flock of its brethren. Tastes bad, Ragnar’k complained.

Chaos reigned as the skal’tum realized the dragon’s deadly potency. A hole opened in the flock, and Ragnar’k dove through the opening. Sy-wen knew there was no way Ragnar’k could significantly hurt the flock alone. There were too many. For every one the dragon killed, two more took its place. But conquest was not their plan.

We must get higher, Sy-wen urged.

Ragnar’k thrust upward, ripping his way clear of the flock. Soon he winged above the flow of beasts.

Sy-wen glanced to the sky, appreciating the starlight and moonlight. It gave her some small hope to see the moon shining brightly. But she must not tarry. Glancing down, she prepared once again to assault the gathered host. Below her, the moonlight shone off the monsters’ pale flesh, a sick sea of wings and claws that spread across the wide lake.

Sy-wen bit her lip against the hopelessness of their cause. But she gave Ragnar’k the signal: three thumps of her hand, her old signal for Conch to submerge. They must assault this foul sea.

Ragnar’k swung on a wing tip and dove toward the massive host. The dragon roared, and the flock fled from him, dipping lower to escape the dragon’s wrath. But Ragnar’k persisted, sailing back and forth over the host, driving the beasts lower and lower toward the lake’s placid surface. From the dragon’s throat, a constant cry flowed. Occasional stragglers would attempt to attack Ragnar’k, but their broken bodies were soon tossed back into the pale sea of writhing forms. At times, Ragnar’k would reach with his silver claws and pluck one of the beasts out from its brethren, rip and tear at it, then drag its bloody corpse over the host, dripping gore over them as warning.

Slowly, as Ragnar’k wove a deadly pattern overhead, the sick flock was driven lower and lower. Like a herder’s dog among sheep, the great black dragon forced the host toward the lake, nipping at its heels.

Sy-wen knew that eventually the waters would pin the skal’tum and force them to deal with the dragon above, but Flint’s assurance of the monsters’ cowardice proved true. The demons had grown to depend on their dark protections and were not accustomed

to fearing anything but their lord. When faced with a true threat, they chose to flee rather than fight.

Their cowardice here would prove their downfall.

As the flock was finally driven close to the lake’s surface, Sy-wen sent a final message to her mount: Now!

Ragnar’k stretched his neck, and a trumpeting blare burst from the dragon’s throat. The bright sound split the night.

Upon this signal, the entire lake erupted. Snaking heads of hundreds of dragons shot up from the water’s dark depths and grabbed at the skimming skal’tum flock. Though not imbued with magick like Ragnar’k, the seadragons had their own weapons—fangs and sea. Across the lake, dragons seized limbs and wings of the flying monsters overhead and dragged them down into the lake. The lake became a frothing battlefield.

Dragons screamed; mer’ai yelled; monsters wailed. It became hard to say where the sky ended and the sea began.

Attacked from below, sections of the flock attempted to flee, but Ragnar’k was there with claw and tooth.

Those few that broke past the great dragon were still not safe. They tried to band together, but the night sky was still afire with a magickal torrent arising from the boat. There was no safe haven. The lake was a bloody trap, and the skies were menaced by the black dragon and by flaming spears of magick. Though many of the beasts yet survived, perhaps enough even to swamp the ship, their ranks had been shattered.

The skal’tum panicked among the chaos and fled toward the trees.

Sy-wen watched the tattered fragments of the foul army flap away but felt little cheer, numb from all the blood. A chorus of screams tainted the air. The battle still raged below. Sy-wen urged her mount lower to help her people finish the monsters trapped in the lake. Below, Sy-wen saw many dragons torn and lolling in the waters, most too far gone for even draughts of dragonsblood to cure. Mer’ai swam beside their dying beasts, offering what little comfort they could. Moonlight, now unblocked by the broken host, shone on the water like molten iron, the blue seas ruddy with the blood of the slain.

Tears rose to Sy-wen’s eyes but were quickly blown away by the winds of their flight. “Oh, Sweet Mother,” she moaned as more and more of the slain came into view, “so many.” Tol’chuk heaved the writhing form over the rail. Poisoned claws scrabbled at the entangling net, but it was too late. The screaming beast plummeted into the lake, and the stone-weighted net dragged it under the surface.

Straightening, Tol’chuk snatched up the d’warf hammer and stared at the slaughter around the ship and in the skies. He knew the skal‘-tum host had been broken by their trap, but he also knew that now was the most dire time of the battle. The skal’tum would make one last furious strike at the boat.

Tol’chuk eyed Flint. The grizzled Brother panted, almost bent over with exhaustion. Across the foredeck, the four zo’ol masterfully teased and trapped another of the skal’tum in the net they carried. It wailed as it became fouled in the snagging ropes. Farther away, Joach held off two of the beasts with a blur of polished wood. Meric stood guard beside Elena, blasting demons from the deck with gales of wind, but the elv’in clearly weakened. Elena herself seemed lost to the battle, her eyes on the skies and her fierce sprays of magick.

Flint drew back Tol’chuk’s attention by lifting the edge of a net in his hand. “This is the last one!” From the old man’s face, Tol’chuk knew Flint understood the situation as well as he did. Though the battle had been turned, it was hardly over yet.

As if reading his thoughts, a scream of rage tore above them. Four of the slavering beasts crashed to the deck, dividing Tol’chuk and Flint.

A pair of the skal’tum grinned at Tol’chuk, yellowish fangs glinting brightly. “We’ve never tassted og’re meat before,” one of them hissed.

A cry of pain arose from where Flint fought the other two beasts with his flailing net. Tol’chuk saw Flint stumble, his left leg torn and bleeding. Still, the man fought to keep the creatures from where Elena stood on the middeck; injured, he would not last much longer.

The og’re raised the hammer in his claw. The lightning-wrought iron glowed like spilled blood in the moonlight.

The other eyed the hammer. “So you think to ssslay those who can’t be harmed with a stick, do you?” Tol’chuk roared, leaping and swinging his weapon with all the might of an og’re’s back. Before the skal’tum’s smile could even fade, the iron split the beast’s crown and drove into the softer matter inside. Gore splattered out. Poisoned blood burned where it struck Tol’chuk’s bare chest.

The other skal’tum froze, stunned by the damage to its

companion.

Tol’chuk yanked his weapon free. “This be no ordinary stick!” Turning, the og’re drove the hammer into the face of the remaining

beast.

Around him, more skal’tum, the final wave of the assault, crashed aboard the ship. Tol’chuk carried his fight to the two creatures who harried Flint. His gaze reddened as a growing fire stoked his blood.

Tol’chuk hammered his way through to the grizzled seaman.

Once free of the two demons, Flint warned Tol’chuk, leaning on one of the zo’ol. “We’ve no more nets.

It is up to you to keep the monsters back.”

Tol’chuk only grunted. He was beyond words. The fire of the^r-‘ engata, the blood lust of an og’re, was upon him. Lifting his hammer, now steaming with blood poisons, Tol’chuk hewed a swath of death across the deck. All the strangling rage in his heart at the loss of his ancestor’s spirits fueled his march.

Guilt, anger, despair—all exploded out in raw savagery.

Unaware, Tol’chuk howled his clan’s ancient war cry as he struck and bludgeoned his way throughout the ship. His sight became a red blur. One skal’tum swiped at his chest, gouging long burning tracks in his thick skin, but still Tol’chuk did not pause. He continued his deadly march. None would keep him from his revenge.

He sang his rage against the cruelties of fate. Half-breed, orphan, cursed seed of the Oathbrea’ter …

Skal’tum now fled from him, leaping in the air and flapping away. Still, he continued his swath of destruction, leaping, hammering, even tearing at the beasts. If he was descended from a cursed heritage, then let him not deny who he was any longer. He howled his lust and rage and opened his heart to the monster within.

Suddenly, a small figure stepped in front of him. Tol’chuk struck at him, but the man darted to the side.

As the iron slammed into the deck, Tol’chuk was jarred enough to realize he had almost killed one of the zo’ol.

From off to the side, words finally penetrated his grief and rage. It was Flint. “Stop, Tol’chuk! Put down the hammer.”

The og’re raised red-rimmed eyes toward the old Brother.

Flint limped closer, leaning on another of the zo’ol. About the ship, only two or three skal’tum still survived, but Joach and Meric dealt with them. Flint indicated the zo’ol pushing to his feet near the splintered deck.

“The man sensed you were about to lose all control, to become a larger menace than even the monsters here. He tried to stop you.”

The hammer fell from Tol’chuk’s limp fingers, clattering to the deck. The og’re sank to his knees. Tears finally began to flow, washing the blood lust from his eyes and his blood.

His heart felt as drained as the stone in his pouch.

Flint crossed to him, shooing away the zo’ol. He knelt beside the og’re. “Do not despair, my friend. I know from where this pain and rage arose. There is evil in this world, but trust an old man—it does not lie in your heart.”

Tol’chuk reached a claw to grip Flint’s hand. “Do not be so sure.” As THEY FLEW, RaGNAR’k ROLLED AN EYE TOWARD Sy-WEN. It SHONE

brightly in the moonlight. Still, Sy-wen could sense her mount’s growing exhaustion. Even a dragon’s heart had limits. For an endless time, they had thrust themselves into countless skirmishes between skal’tum and dragon, slashing and roaring from above to slay the floundering monsters.

Little dragons die well, Ragnar’k sent to her. For once, the usual disdain of the great black for his tinier brethren was not present. Sy-wen sensed the sadness in his huge heart.

Sy-wen leaned and rested her cheek upon the scaled neck of her mount. She shared her grief with Ragnar’k. Below, the battle slowly died down. The skal’tum had no defense against the drowning sea. The cries of war dwindled to spates of shouted orders and the occasional pained trumpet from a dying dragon.

Little green one died well, too.

Sy-wen just rubbed her great dragon’s scaled neck. It took her a few heartbeats for these last words to penetrate her grief. Her heart suddenly clenched. Ragnar’k could not mean—?

Pushing quickly back up in her seat, Sy-wen asked, “Do you mean Conch, my mother’s jade? ” Yes. Tiny green dragon, friend of my bonded.

:

Sy-wen’s breath choked in her throat. Sweet Mother, no! Conch and her mother were not supposed to engage the flock, only direct and supervise. Conch was too old to fight. Ragnar’k must be mistaken. The black dragon had a huge heart but was not too bright. Ragnar’k must be wrong!

“T-take me to where you saw the tiny green dragon,” she said, unable to mask the pain in her voice.

The equivalent of a dragon’s shrug was sent to her; Ragnar’k swung upon a wing and swept over the carnage below. Small pale rner’ai faces turned up to watch the great black pass overhead. A few raised an arm in salute, but most were as dull eyed and shocked as

she was.

Too soon, Ragnar’k skidded onto the lake’s surface, wings stretched wide to cup the air and slow their landing. Once drifting across the lake’s surface, the floating corpse of a skal’tum bumped Sy-wen’s knee.

It seemed to claw at her even in death. Crying in disgust, Sy-wen kicked it away.

Ragnar’k worked through the bloody waters. Just ahead, Sy-wen saw the green hide of a jade dragon bobbing in the gentle swells. Its huge head lolled lifelessly. It was not Conch. Sy-wen was sure of it.

But as Ragnar’k neared, Sy-wen spotted her mother clinging to the far side of the dead beast’s neck. As the black approached, her mother lifted a face whose usual cold countenance had broken into a mask of pain and grief. Wet locks of normally sun-bright hair clung damply across her face. Her eyes were sunken and hopeless.

“Oh, Mother,” Sy-wen moaned. “No…”

“He… he tried to protect me.” Her mother’s eyes drifted back to the body of Conch.

Sy-wen still could not believe this dead dragon was her dear companion. Where was the gentle humor that always seemed to cling to him? Where was the ever-present love in his eyes? With his spirit gone, this bulk of green scale and torn wing was not Conch. Still, Sy-wen could not move her eyes from the lolling form.

Her mother continued to moan the details of her story. “One of the monsters broke free. Under the sea, the creature thrashed and twisted.” Her mother raised panicked eyes toward Sy-wen. “I couldn’t get away in time. It came upon me and attacked savagely.”

“Oh, Mother, where was your personal guard? Where was Bridlyn?” She waved her daughter’s question aside. “Gone. Dead. I don’t know. Only Conch remained. He fought back.” Her voice cracked with sobs.

“Leave it be, Mother. We’ll talk of it later.”

Her mother did not seem to hear. “But… but the monsters are pure poison. They could not be harmed by a dragon’s tooth or claw. All Conch could do was hold the beast away from me. But all the while, the monster tore at his neck with claws and teeth. It was horrible. The blood… So much blood…” Sy-wen could tell her mother was near mad with grief and horror. The woman droned on, eyes wide with the recent pain. “Even after the skal’tum finally drowned, Conch clung to it, fearing it might yet attack.

Even as blood flowed in thick rivers from Conch’s wounds, he would still not let me near.” Her mother’s voice broke into sobs. “Only when his great heart finally ended, only then did he finally let the monster loose.” She raised her eyes up to Sy-wen. “Wh-why did he do it? I might have been able to save him. If only I had been quicker.”

Sy-wen urged Ragnar’k beside the sobbing woman. “No, Mother, you couldn’t have. Conch loved you. You know that. He died to protect you. It was the way of his heart.” Sy-wen reached an arm toward her mother. “Come, Mother, we must return to the ship.”

“No, let someone else go. I must stay here.” She wrapped her arms tighter to the jade dragon’s neck.

The pain from the loss of a bonded dragon was known to cripple its rider. Sy-wen could not let that happen.

She needed to get her mother away. A draught of numbweed tea and a warm bed was what her mother needed most right now—along with the love of her daughter.

Silently urging Ragnar’k lower in the water, Sy-wen was able to reach her mother’s shoulder. Once close enough, a great black wing rose under her mother, scooping her limp form from the water. She struggled slightly, but her grief had made her weak as a babe. The dragon’s wing slid the woman closer into Sy-wen’s embrace.

Hugging tight, Sy-wen wrapped her arms around her mother and pulled her into the seat, cradling the crying woman in front of her.

Sy-wen had not realized how small and light her mother was. It was as if the immense grief had not only broken the woman, but shrunk her also.

Sy-wen pressed her mother’s head against her chest and gently rocked. “I’m sorry, Mother,” she whispered as she stared at the dead and dying across the wide lake. “I’m sorry for everything.” She urged Ragnar’k toward the lone boat drifting amidst the carnage. In the distance, the boat still fountained with spears of flame. Sy-wen’s brow crinkled with concern. What were they still fighting?

With the battle in the sky won, Elena fought to rein in her surge of stormfire. Upon the decks of the Pale Stallion, clashes still raged with the last handful of skal’tum who had crashed to the boat. Elena sensed her power and magick were no longer needed skyward, but here.

As Elena struggled to guide her magick, the wild energies began to break free of her control. When first she had unleashed stormfire, back in the swamps of the Landslip, she had had only the dregs of power at hand. The magick had expired almost as quickly as she had lit it. But now, almost at full strength, Elena found the magick had grown beyond her ability to control. It took both sides of her spirit, the light of the woman and the darkness of the wit’ch, just to keep the force of her raging energies directed upward.

Elena knew that even this meager control was about to be lost. With all her will, Elena fought the stormfire’s wild bucking and writhing. Still, she could not keep her palms from beginning to slip apart. The spread of her hands, instead of weakening her stormfire, widened the scope of her magick. The larger force became impossible to harness.

Concentrating fiercely, she ignored the cries of those around her. As the stormfire spread, one of the ship’s masts cracked near the top, caught by the edge of her gale of magick. It crashed near the stern and rolled into the sea, dragging two skal’tum with it, tangled in its ropes.

Elena’s cheeks ran with tears, and not just from the strain. She had spotted one of the zo’ol sailors dragged overboard along with the pair of skal’tum. Elena had glimpsed the man’s panicked eyes as he had rolled over the edge, a noose of rope around his neck.

Elena fell to her knees.

Grief weakened her control even more. Shouts of alarm rose from the deck as the others sensed that her magick was about to tear the ship apart.

Joach’s voice barked near her ear. “Elena, we’ve won! Stop!” What did her brother think she was trying to do? She could not collapse the magick. It had grown too large. Her only hope was that her magick would burn out. Lost in the eye of the storm, Elena knew such a hope was futile. She sensed that her well of magick was still too deep. The ship would surely be demolished before the rage of stormfire ever blew itself out.

With her heart failing, Elena searched for guidance, for some means of chaining her magick. As if in answer, she suddenly sensed a presence nearby. She glanced over a shoulder. No one was there. But she caught a whiff of scent, a whisper of Standi loam. In her ears, she heard the rustle of leather. And from somewhere far off, someone called her name: Elena. It was Er’ril’s voice, and the tone was clearly scolding. Her heart clenched. Elena knew it was no ghost that visited her in this hopeless moment. It was only her own memory. With her guard so weakened, a corner of her heart had stirred. She had thought herself just wit’ch and woman, but she now realized she had grown into something more. Somewhere along this journey here, Er’ril had become a part of her, too. The iron he had gifted to Elena in the past had not died with the man. It still remained—in her own heart.

Elena shoved back to her feet. She must not die. She would not let this tiny spark of Er’ril expire forever because she was too frail. Only by living could she keep his memory alive. Standing once again, she fought the raging magick with a furious passion, part iron, part spirit.

Slowly, she began to pull the magick back into check, drawing her palms together. She screamed with the effort.

Above her, the fountain of energies died down to a savage spear. Finally, with a last wrench of her will, she clenched her hands together, entwining her fingers, stanching the flow. The stormfire blew itself out.

Sagging with sudden exhaustion, she fell to the deck. One of the zo’ol caught her, and Elena stared at the destruction around her.

Nearby, Joach leaned heavily on his staff among the wracked ruins of several skal’tum corpses, his eyes wide with concern for her. Flint limped upon a leg torn and bleeding. Tol’chuk helped support the man, but even the og’re was not unscathed. He bore deep

scratches across his chest. Meric looked haggard and sunken, his spent magick wasting him.

A tiny call arose from the waters beside the boat. “Help us aboard!“

Joach leaned over the starboard rail. “It’s Sy-wen and Ragnar’k. They have an injured woman with them.” He waved the others

to help.

Flint, though, ignored the commotion at the rails and stared up at the skies. The stars shone brightly. “It’s over.”

“No,” whispered the zo’ol at Elena’s side. His eyes were not on the skies, but on the dark forest around them. “It’s just beginning.”

From the bower of a treetop, Rockingham watched the slaugh-ter across the lake with dispassionate eyes.

Perched on a neighboring branch, his skal’tum lieutenant was not as calm. It hissed and worked its claws into the tree’s bark, ripping at its rough surface with undisguised frustration. The beast quivered with rage, but it had its orders: Stay beside the golem. Do its bidding .

Rockingham glanced toward the beast, and it cowered back. Naked from the waist up, the wound in Rockingham’s chest steamed with wisps of black fog. The Dark Lord had come here, and none dared disobey.

Satisfied, Rockingham returned to studying the dying army. He discovered no emotion connected with the annihilation of the skal’tum host. Not that he cared for any of the beasts. In truth, he wished them all dead.

Still, their brutal massacre should have shocked him; the bloody lake and cold corpses should have sickened him. But the presence of his master dulled any such feelings.

With the stone gateway open in his heart, the man who was Rockingham had dwindled to a tiny spark, lost in the enormity of the black spirit that had squirmed and rolled out from the ebon‘-stone. The golem had had no say in what had happened or in what was to come. The orders had all risen from the darkness inside his chest, from a being who nested far away in the volcanic creches of Blackhall.

From his mist-shrouded wound, a voice whispered out. The sound was an oily poison that ate at his sanity.

“Call them forth.”

Nodding, Rockingham raised an arm in the air. The Dark Lord could not be disobeyed. All around the lake’s edge, a rustling arose from the tree line. A full third of his skal’tum army remained yet un-bloodied by the previous assault. The master had sent the main mass of his host to draw out the enemy’s fangs. It had succeeded. The wit’ch and her companions would be unprepared for the true attack. “Now,” the voice ordered from his cracked rib cage. Rockingham snapped his hand into a fist. From all across the lake, a pale force rose from the canopies, flocking into the air. Rockingham’s lieutenant crawled atop him and grasped the man by the shoulders. With a rattle of bony wings, the skal’tum took flight, carrying Rockingham clutched in the claws of its feet.

As Rockingham flew across the lake, his host flanked him, a pale sickness spreading over the water toward the lone boat. While leading this final surge, Rockingham should have felt some sense of victory or revenge.

But he felt nothing as the mer people and their dragons stared at the passing horde with shock and dismay.

The attack was so sudden and unexpected that no resistance was tendered. With skal’tum again filling the skies, dragons and their riders fled under the lake. As Rockingham swooped toward the deck of the ship, he watched men scramble over tangled corpses, seeking to retreat belowdecks—as if that offered any protection. Still, Rockingham felt no emotion.

His lieutenant dove at the ship, throwing its wings wide to slow its dive, and settled Rockingham roughly to the deck. All around, sails ripped and rigging tore free as his hosts settled into perches among the masts and across the deck. Only a small section of the deck was

left free.

Rockingham recognized most of those clustered before the hatch to the lower decks: the wit’ch’s brother brandishing the darkmage’s staff, the og’re bearing a bloody hammer, the elv’in looking fierce but hard worn. Yet there were others who were strangers to Rockingham: a green-haired girl; the man beside her, a hulking, tattooed brute with a long black braid and an even longer sword; and a set of identical dark-skinned men who threatened with nothing more than

broken oars.

Yet none of these mattered. His true target hid behind them, though in truth, Rockingham hardly recognized the woman. What strange magick had transformed the young girl into this comely lass of thick curled locks and hard countenance? Curiosity arose in Rockingham, but he sensed it was only because the same emotion welled in the Dark Lord. It was this oddity that gave his master pause.

“Come forth,” the darkness called to the wit’ch. “You cannot win here. Give yourself freely, and the others will be allowed their freedom.”

“We would rather die!” Joach called back.

Unbidden, Rockingham’s shoulders shrugged. “If my beasts must dig the wit’ch from this boat, you will all wish for death. I can wield punishments far worse.”

As the skal’tum hissed in delight, Rockingham felt the others’ eyes meet his own. He stood as an example of how much worse the Black Heart’s punishment could be. The wound in Rockingham’s chest spread wider. He saw the gathered faces blanch at whatever was revealed.

Elena, though, pushed boldly through the others, shaking off restraining hands. “You hide behind this flock of winged carrion,” she spat at him. “And skulk in the hollows of dead men. Come out and face me! Let us end our battle here!”

A sound that could only be crudely defined as laughter answered her challenge. A flow of black energies rolled forth from Rockingham’s cracked rib cage and pooled at his feet. From this dark well, screams echoed up. The voice spoke again. “Then let it be!”

Elena stepped forward, thrusting her arms out and bringing her hands together. A tempest of searing flames and ice swept toward where Rockingham stood. Normally, Rockingham would have cringed and ducked, but even this instinctual fear was denied him. Instead, faster than his eye could follow, the pool at his feet burst upward in a black shield, blocking the flow of wit’ch magick before it struck him.

In the center of this conflagration, Rockingham watched the flames of dire energies cast by the wit’ch dash against his shield. Ice and fire roiled like living serpents around his barrier, seeking a way through the blockage. But it proved vain. The black shield was impregnable.

A cry of frustration arose from the wit’ch, and the torrent of magick flared brighter. Laughter answered her renewed efforts.

Beyond the shield, a harsh voice suddenly intruded, demanding r

and panicked. “Elena! Pull back your magick! He only seeks to drain you!“

With these words, the flames instantly died away. In turn, the black shield dropped. Rockingham saw a gray, grizzled elder leaning on a crutch, his leg bandaged from ankle to thigh. A silver stud marked the man’s ear. Agony was drawn in deep lines upon his face, but not all of the pain, Rockingham suspected, was from the injured limb.

Elena stood before the others. Her hands, still raised, were pale and white. “It’s too late,” she whispered.

A coldness spread through Rockingham, a touch of hoarfrost and ancient ice. Even under his master’s control, Rockingham shivered. The black energies at his feet grew even darker. Rockingham knew more of the foul one’s spirit had pushed through the ebon’stone gate in his chest. It was drawn by the despair of those gathered here. Elena glanced to the gibbous moon overhead. The Black Heart whispered with malign mischief. “Renew, wit’ch. The moon’s magick will do you no good.” Needing little urging, the wit’ch raised her left arm toward the night sky. Bathed in moonlight, her hand vanished. As she pulled down her arm, her fist returned, rich again with ruby energies. Elena faced Rockingham, her words fierce. “Useless or not, I will die fighting you with every scrap of iron and magick in my blood.”

From the black well, a hiss of amusement. “Submit, wit’ch, and I’ll still let the others live.“

Rockingham saw the girl hesitate, her staunch stance wavering.

The voice whispered now, trying to worm past the girl’s own shield. “There are none to save you.” From beyond the others, a new figure shoved forth. A naked woman, eyes wild and hair tangled, burst free. The green-haired girl reached toward the clearly mad woman as she rushed past.

“Mother! No!”

The woman shook off the girl and ran at Rockingham, hands raised in claws. “Y-you murdered Conch, you monster!”

Rockingham froze. The first image of the woman’s face, wild and tear streaked, seared his mind, obscuring all else. He gasped and clutched his chest.

Something broke deep inside him.