In response, a howl of rage echoed out from his chest. But Rock-ingham ignored it. Old memories swamped him, drowning him. Emotions flamed through his core, swiping away even the black chains that bound him. A black stone the size of a clenched fist tumbled from his open chest and clattered across the deck.

Rockingham stumbled from the sudden release. Raising his head, he moaned the name that had been imprisoned in his heart for too long, the name of the woman who had burst from the doorway.

<l T • lit

Linoral

Speaking aloud, Rockingham felt his legs give out. He crashed to his knees.

His outburst struck the woman just as deeply. She halted her lunge and fell to her hands on the deck. Her eyes rose from Rockingham’s wounded chest to his face. A look of recognition broke through her madness. She knelt back, covering her face with her palms. “No! It cannot be!” The small girl danced forward. “Mother? You know this creature?” Linora croaked, her voice lost. “He’s your father.”

Sy-wen dropped back in disbelief, her hand rising in horror. “No!” Kast gathered the distraught mer’ai girl within his arms. She sank gratefully into his embrace. “How could this be?” she cried. For so long, she had conjured pictures of her father in her mind’s eye. He was always as tall as Kast, even broader of shoulder, but bore none of Kast’s scars. She always pictured him with a perpetual grin and laughing eyes.

Not… not this creature of nightmare dredged from the foulness of the Dark Lord’s dungeons.

The golem lifted an arm in supplication. “Linora?” Before any further plea could be spoken, a screeching howl blew forth from the stone at the man’s feet. The noise tore at Sy-wen’s ears and shook the sails like a wind. The roosting skal’tum scattered from their perches into the night sky like a startled rookery of starlings. Pale leathery wings flapped and sailed away from the ship’s two masts.

Amid the chaos, Elena stepped forward, eyes on the retreating creatures, fist blazing with coldfire. Flint stopped the wit’ch with a touch and pointed down. “Look!”

Sy-wen’s gaze followed where the old Brother pointed. Upon the

¦leek, the remaining pool of dark energies around the stone crackled Ryith streaks of silver, matching the thin veins forking through the

¦rock. It was as if the remaining splash of dark magick was in fact melted ebon’stone. As they all watched, the well of darkness drew back into the rock until only the chunk of ebon’stone remained.

None dared draw near it.

Flint spoke. “Free of its host, the Dark Lord has fled.” Glancing back to the golem, Sy-wen noticed that only Rockingham and Sy-wen’s mother seemed oblivious of the stone’s transfor-Smation. Instead, the couple’s eyes were locked on one another. “I’m

sorry,“ Rockingham moaned.

Elena stepped as if to intervene, but once again Flint restrained her. “Let them be. Though I might not be as rich in weaving mag-

‘. icks as your brother, I can sense when a flow of fate is best left undisturbed.“

Clenching her fist, Elena slowly backed away. Sy-wen could almost feel the hatred pulsing from the wit’ch. Sy-wen knew Elena’s story. This man, her father, had once played a role in the murder of Elena’s family.

Deaf to those around them, Linora and Rockingham knelt near I one another. “What happened to you?” Sy-wen’s mother moaned. | She reached to touch the man’s face, but her hand faltered.

He looked away. “You should have had me slain, like the others. I… I didn’t deserve your m-mercy.” Linora touched his cheek tentatively. “I couldn’t live with that. I barely survived your banishment. If not for Conch and the babe…

your baby…“

Sy-wen realized they were talking of her, when she was a child. Sy-wen’s heart roiled with emotions.

Shock and anger, along with disbelief, confused her ability to sort out her feelings concerning this revelation. “He cannot be my father…” This was the man who had killed Conch. How could her mother touch the creature with

affection?

Kast leaned and whispered in her ear, reading her thoughts. “We cannot always choose our blood.

Ulster was my blood brother, but our hearts were different. Remember that. Even if this creature truly is your father in name, you do not have to take him to heart.” Kast’s words gave Sy-wen the strength to push free of his arms and step beside the two kneeling figures.

She deserved to hear the

truth finally. “I don’t understand. What happened, Mother?” she asked sternly.

Her mother would not look away from Rockingham. “We were wed on a midsummer’s eve. We promised to share the rest of our lives together. But then one winter, shortly after you were born, he tried to forge a pact with coastlanders. He broke the mer’ai code of silence.” A pang of anger etched her mother’s features.

“I could not help myself,” Rockingham explained softly. “I was so tired of our isolation. The world beyond the waves was so vast and varied. I wanted to bring these gifts back to the mer’ai… back to my newborn daughter.”

Sy-wen listened to his words and found her own heart responding. His descriptions sounded so much like her own cravings for new horizons, new experiences. She remembered the silent pull the coastlines had once had for her, too, when she and Conch used to sneak off and explore the Archipelago. Had she acquired this strange yearning from her father? “What went wrong?” she asked. Rockingham looked down, silent.

Her mother answered. “Dragon blood proved too rich a prize to the lan’dwellers. Dragons were slaughtered, and for such a crime, the code was exact. As punishment, your father was to have been killed.” Suddenly her mother’s voice cracked, and tears flowed. “But I couldn’t allow it. As an elder, I begged the older punishment instead: Banishment from the Deep.” Rockingham took her mother’s hand and held it between his own. “But such a gift was no kindness.” The man glanced up at Linora. “At first, I tried to live with my punishment. I wandered the coasts and islands until the webbing between my fingers dried and flaked away. Soon I walked like any other Ian’dweller.

Over time, I learned I could survive without the mer’ai.” Her father turned back to her mother, pulling Linora’s fingers to his lips. “But I could not survive without you. You were an ache in my heart. The ocean waves whispered your name to me every night. Rain on the water tinkled with your laughter. I should have left the coasts, but my heart bound me.” He lowered Linora’s hands to his lap, and his voice grew husky.

“One day, staring out at the seas from a high bluff, the pain was too great. I could stand it no more and sought to end my banishment.” Tears traced down his face as he looked into Linora’s eyes. “I stepped off the cliff.”

Sy-wen spoke, shocked. “You sought to end your own life?” Silently, her mother pulled Rockingham into her embrace as he dissolved into sobs. Her mother rocked him. Cradling the sobbing man, Linora held him until his wracking breaths slowed.

Rockingham continued, speaking between gasps. “But… but there was an evil festering in secret along the coast. It sensed my despair and was drawn to it. By forsaking my own life, I exposed myself to its corruption. It d-did things to me, horrible things. Its only kindness was in binding my old memories of you in stone. That pain was finally gone, but so was the man you loved. I became only half a man. What I did afterward…” He pushed from Linora’s embrace, facing her. “Conch… all the others… Can you ever forgive me?”

She melted toward him. “I can only love you. It was the evil that is to blame, not you.” She kissed him on the lips, then pulled slightly back. “Now that I’ve found you again, I will never let you leave my side.“

Her mother’s words only caused the man further pain. “It cannot be, my love,” he said. “I am dead. I know this. I can feel it in my flesh.” He nodded toward where the stone rested on the deck. “Only the magick in the ebon’stone holds me here.”

“Then we will keep the foul thing safe.”

Rockingham shook his head slowly. “No. The stone also binds me to the evil. The rush of old memories broke its cursed hold, but as long as it exists, they can always draw me back again, enslave me. It must somehow be destroyed. Only then will I be free.”

“No! I cannot allow it!”

Rockingham smiled sadly. He touched her cheek. “Do you seek to keep me alive no matter the cost, as you did once before?”

Sy-wen saw her mother wilt. She crossed and wrapped her mother in her arms. Linora trembled in her grip.

“Hush, Mother, you know he’s right.” The decision was not as hard for Sy-wen. She could not fathom that this man was her father. Kast was correct. To her, he was still a stranger. Sy-wen raised her eyes to the man. “How do we destroy it?”

His voice became hopeless. “I don’t know.”

“I do!” Elena’s stern voice drew all their gazes. Sy-wen saw hatred burning in her eyes. Just as with Sy-wen, these newest revelations had failed to sway the wit’ch’s heart. Elena saw only the murderer of her family. The wit’ch held no qualms about severing the man’s ties to this world. Elena nodded to Tol’chuk and the rune-carved weapon he bore. “The Try’sil hammer can smash ebon’stone.”

Rockingham pushed to his feet. With hope in his eyes, he faced the wrath of the wit’ch. “I know of no way back to grace in your eyes. But please, if it’s in your power, free me.” Sy-wen saw how Elena hesitated. Was the wit’ch’s hatred so deep that she would balk at even granting this final plea for death?

Flint spoke at her shoulder. “We must be quick. The skal’turn have only been spooked by the loss of the Dark Lord’s presence here. But in the skies, they already gather again. I think they mean to strike.” Rockingham still looked with strained hope at Elena, his eyes pleading. “Do this… And if I am able, I will find a way to help you here.”

“What? By betraying us?” Elena said coldly.

Wounded, Rockingham remained silent, eyes cast down.

Sy-wen turned from where she knelt with her mother. “Let my father go, Elena. Please.” Sy-wen turned and found Rockingham’s grateful eyes upon her. “I don’t know this man’s true heart any better than you do, but I know my mother’s. Let the man who my mother married on a midsummer’s eve die in peace.” Elena hesitated, staring fixedly at her; then slowly the woman’s shoulders relaxed. Wordlessly, she waved Tol’chuk forward. “Do it.”

Rockingham seemed to shrink in relief. Linora pushed free of her daughter’s embrace and climbed to her feet. Sobbing, she drew her lover into her arms. “Let me hold you. I want you with me for every last breath.”

He drew her tight.

From over her mother’s shoulders, Sy-wen met her father’s eyes. He smiled sadly at her. Father and daughter. Two strangers.

Tears rose in Sy-wen’s eyes, and her legs were suddenly weak. “Father.” She moaned the word so softly that only her own heart heard. She slid toward the deck with grief, but Kast was there to catch her. His arms were always there.

Before she could even lean into the Bloodrider’s warmth, a sudden thunderous crack exploded from nearby. Sy-wen jumped, glancing to where the og’re was bent over his hammer. He swung the weapon again, and the fist of ebon’stone was ground to dust under the mag-ickal hammerhead.

Sy-wen swung her eyes toward her mother. Linora still held Rockingham in her embrace, but from the way his head lay slack on her shoulder, he was clearly gone.

“Mother… ?”

Linora suddenly shuddered. A scintillating fog blew forth from Rockingham and passed through her mother’s form. She let the dead man slip from her arms, then swung around. The glowing mist swirled tighter to form a vague resemblance of the golem. He raised a hand toward Linora, but his fingers passed through her cheek.

“Good-bye, my love,” she whispered to the spirit.

The ghostly form stared a moment more, then turned to face the wit’ch.

Elena scowled at the shade wavering before her. Even just the wispy outline of the murderer set her blood afire.

Coldfire danced over her ripe fist. The mark of the Rose was now entirely masked behind spates of blue flame. Her shoulders trembled as the man’s ghostly eyes focused on her.

When he spoke, his words were as insubstantial as his form, whispers from another world. “Thank you,” he said. “There are no words to beg your forgiveness nor acts that can wipe away my atrocities, but as I promised, I will seek an ally to help you in the fight to

come.“

“I ask no boon of you,” she said with ice in her voice. “Only that you truly leave this world and never return again.”

The shade bowed his head. “So be it. But as I leave, I will still seek the shade of this watery wood and attempt to pry him from his eternal slumber.”

Elena did not understand any of this nonsense. She waved her fist of coldfire at the shade, but her fist passed through him with no effect. “Go then. Do not sully these decks with your presence any longer.“

The shade bowed his ghostly head. His form began to dissipate, fraying at the edges in swirls of mist and roiling tendrils of glowing fog. Suddenly, though, the ghost of her parent’s murderer grew more solid for a few breaths. “One last word, Elena.”

She shuddered. Just her name on his tongue rippled disgust through her body. “Begone, demon!” But the ghost persisted, his voice just a hushed trace sounding from much farther off. “You must know…

The plainsman, Er’ril… he lives.”

Elena gasped. The blue flames flared brighter, then died away. A part of her quailed. Er’ril’s death had almost torn her apart; it had taken all her strength to accept his loss—and now to think he might still be alive. She could not handle such a loss twice. Elena reached a hand and fingered the strip of singed red leather braided into her hair. “H-he lives?”

The ghost wavered before her, fading away. “He is a captive of the darkmages on A’loa Glen. In two nights, when the moon ripens full, they will use his blood to destroy the book. You must hurry.” The shade again began to mist away into nothingness. Elena reached with both hands toward the fading spirit, trying to gather its glowing remnants back into the semblance of a man. He must not leave yet.

As her hands wove through his ghostly substance, her pale right hand vanished when it drifted through a small cloud of scintillating mist. Elena yanked her arm back as if stung, expecting some last bit of malice on the shade’s part. Instead, as her limb pulled free, her hand returned, now aglow with a familiar rosy azure.

She raised the hand before her. Her palm and fingers were as insubstantial as Rockingham’s shade. She could see the scurry of her companions through her palm. Elena had momentarily forgotten Aunt Fila’s earlier lesson. Spirit light! When last with Fila, Elena had ignited this same magick while venturing too near the spirit world.

“Ghostfire,” Elena mumbled, naming the magick now imbued in her right hand. She raised her left hand still swirling with the ruby stain of coldfire and clenched her two fists. “Both spirit and stone,” she said, bringing her two fists together, one ghostly, one solid. Whether the shade of Rockingham spoke truthfully, Elena knew that if Er’ril still lived, she would tear down the towers of A’loa Glen to free him.

A strangled voice drew her attention back to the decks. “Elena? ” Lowering her hands, she saw Joach staring at her with his mouth hanging open. Tol’chuk and Meric stood at his shoulder, equally shocked.

Elena glanced around the deck. Other eyes were also fixed on her. “What?” Joach stumbled a step toward her. “Y-you’re gone. I see your clothes, but your body’s vanished.” Elena glanced down at herself. Not again. She remembered when last she had touched spirit light. Her flesh had become invisible to the eyes of others. Only her clothes had remained visible.

Flint neared her, walking in a slow circle around her, studying her. Still, he kept a wary eye on the skies.

The flock of skal’tum had gathered just at the lake’s edge, but the pale cloud now swept slowly back toward the ship, circling in a closing spiral toward the boat. “Perhaps it would be best if you disrobed, Elena.

If invisible, you might survive the coming attack.” His voice sagged with a note of hopelessness.

“Afterward, you could perhaps still join up with the Dre’rendi fleet south of here.”

“No! I will not sit idle while the rest fight and die,” she insisted. Elena raised her hand and studied her insubstantial right fist. From her first dalliance with this ghost magick, Elena had learned to mask a dagger held in her palm by flaring out her magick. But what if the opposite was also true? Elena willed the rosy glow to draw inward, rather than flow outward. She drew the magick of her ghostfire down to a small bright ember in the center of her palm, draining it from her blood and body. As she worked, her fingers grew more solid. Elena could no longer see through them.

Joach’s voice again gasped out. “El, I can see you again!” Elena ignored her brother. She must not break her concentration— not yet. Clenching her teeth, she bound the well of ghostfire in place, tying off the font of power until she was ready to release it again. Once done, Elena raised her face to the others. She knew they could all see her. She returned their stares, her gaze fierce. If the shade spoke truthfully—that Er’ril might still be alive—she would let nothing stand between her and the plainsman.

The pounding of the bone drums suddenly crashed into a thunderous cacophony. “The skal’tum strike!” Flint called from the starboard rail. “Ready yourselves!”

A flurry of activity burst across the deck. Tol’chuk swung the d’warf hammer to his shoulder and joined Flint at the rail. Joach and Meric posted themselves on the opposite rail. Even Mama Freda had abandoned the galley, leaving her brewing elixirs to the boy Tok’s care. She bore some strange weapon in her hands: a long slender pipe into which she fed a feathered dart.

“Poison from the Yrendl jungles,” she explained. “It will kill even these beasts if I can pierce their hides.” Elena did not argue against the old woman arming herself. Every means of exacting death would be needed this night. They must survive until dawn, when the sun’s light would weaken the dark protections of the demons.

A throat cleared nearby, drawing her attention. She found Kast and Sy-wen standing ready. Kast spoke.

“Should we call the dragon?”

“On my signal.” Elena raised her arm and faced the swarm of skal’tum. They now encircled the boat, sweeping toward them from all directions, low over the water but unfortunately not low enough for the surviving seadragons to reach them.

The ship grew hushed around Elena. No one spoke any further words. Only the beat of the bone drums disturbed the night. Still, Elena waited. She wanted the sudden appearance of Ragnar’k to startle the forefront of the legion, to perhaps cast them in disarray for a few critical moments.

As she held her breath, arm raised, Elena’s heart quailed at the sheer numbers they faced. Everywhere she looked demons flapped and glided toward their lone boat. She fought against the hopelessness of their cause. Even if she should live, how many on board would die?

Suddenly a shivering scream of rage burst from the countless throats of the beasts.

Elena could delay no longer. Let the slaughter begin! She began to swing her arm down, but her limb was blocked by the hand of one of the zo’ol.

“Wait!” he snapped and nodded toward the seas. “Something else comes!

Elena twisted out of his grip. How much worse could this night grow? She stared at the leading edge of the skal’tum assault. They were only a stone’s throw from the ship.

Then the world suddenly exploded around them.

All across the lake, a tangle of weeds burst out from the water, snaking far into the air, twice the height of the forest’s towering trees. Twisting vines and coiled branches snatched the skal’tum from the skies, grabbing wing and limb, pulling the beasts under the lake. Nearer at hand, whipping roots and leafy snarls thrust up and ripped into the approaching flock. A few beasts managed to scrabble as close as the rail, but even these were quickly yanked away by snags of vines.

Elena stared at the decimation. It was as if the Pale Stallion had become trapped in a whirlwind of pale wings and frothing weed.

“It’s the sargassum!” Flint called above the screams of the skal’tum.

The war raged around the boat. One skal’tum, crazed with fear, crashed into an unfurled sail, ensnaring itself in rigging and sailcloth. Its thrashing tore loose the sail, and the beast toppled into the sea in a net of its own making. That was the closest to the boat any of the skal’tum managed to get.

And as quickly as it started, it was over.

In the moonlight, the writhing red weed slowly subsided, sinking back into the sea, dragging the last of the demons down with it. None of the skal’tum had escaped its fury. Soon the lake was clear. Even the dead dragons had been whisked away. No one spoke, just stared, too stunned.

Across the lake, a scatter of living seadragons and their riders emerged warily from the depths where they had retreated earlier. With the moon and stars so bright, Elena could easily spot the drag-onriders’ amazed expressions.

Around the ship, there was no sign of the night’s carnage. The waters lay quiet and pristine. “It’s over,” Elena sighed.

Flint limped over to her. “But why did the sargassum intervene?” In her heart, Elena knew the answer. She glanced across the faces of her companions. All would live to see the dawn. Turning away, Elena stared across the lake, leaning both hands upon the rail. Tears of relief flowed from sore eyes. Alone, she whispered words she had not thought she could ever speak, words for the murderer of her parents. “I forgive you.”

With her words, a scintillation of lights swirled up from the depths of the dark sea, like fireflies on a midsummer’s eve.

Elena felt a presence appear beside her. It was Linora. The woman rested her hand on Elena’s. “Thank you,” Linora murmured

to her.

Across the sea, the sparks of spirit light spread and faded until only the moon and stars were reflected on the lake’s mirrored surface.

Er’ril awoke in his dark cell on the last day of his life. Though there was no window to indicate the sun’s rising, Er’ril knew dawn had come. After five centuries of living, the movement of the sun had ingrained itself into his bones.

Slumped in his shackles, Er’ril raised his head. Nearby, shadowy rats scurried through the hay and chittered angrily at each other, fighting for scraps of moldy crust left from last night’s meal. On his bare legs were scabbed bites from where those same rats had investigated his sleeping form, sampling his flesh for when his corpse would be theirs.

From the neighboring cell, something cried and thrashed in its chains. The strangled howl of madness echoed down the cell row.

Er’ril tried to ignore the noise, but it rattled into his skull. Suddenly, somewhere down the hall, a door creaked open; iron scraped iron as a lock was undone. Then came the heavy tread of booted feet. Er’ril listened. He judged four men approached. Too many just to deliver the morning’s gruel.

Straightening on his bed of hay, Er’ril strained his ears for some clue as to their intent. From the neighboring cell, the wailing creature had quieted. It, too, knew better than to attract the attention of any who ventured down here. Through the cracked mortar of the walls, only a soft mewling rose from the creature, like a dog about to be beaten.

But the beast need not have feared. The scuff of boots stopped before Er’ril’s small door.

Er’ril quickly fingered the tip of slivered wood poking from the back of his neck. It was still in place. With only his loincloth as clothing, Er’ril’s own skin was the best hiding place for Greshym’s “gift.” He had imbedded the staff’s sliver under the skin at the edge of his hairline until it was needed.

The small door slammed open, and two men dressed in the black and gold of dog soldiers crawled inside. A torch sizzled in one man’s fist. The sharp light stung. They scowled at Er’ril and crinkled their noses at his squalid accommodations. “Smells like a privy in here,” one commented.

The other scrunched up his face. He had only one eye, the other orb lost in a long wicked scar. “Throw in them leg shackles. Let’s get out of these here dungeons before the contagion gets us all.” A set of chains and manacles clattered into the cell, chasing the rats back into their black warrens. But the fierce vermin did not flee too far. Their red eyes glowed out at the guards, watching warily over their scraps left abandoned in the hay.

The one-eyed guard crossed and kicked Er’ril in the shin. “Git yourself up. You’re to be taken to the baths and cleaned.” He leaned down and leered in Er’ril’s face. “It seems the Praetor has plans for you.” He nodded toward where the neighboring creature still mewled. “Maybe to make another pet out of you.” The other soldier interrupted. “Nock, quit goadin‘ him and give me a hand with these chains.” Grumbling, the guard named Nock gave a final kick at Er’ril, then moved to take one end of the leg shackles. Both men quickly hobbled Er’ril’s legs and ran a chain up and around his waist. They then unhooked his arm from the wall bracket and reattached it to a single shackle on his waist chain.

Once trussed up, he was led from the cell, wearing only a stained loincloth and flushed from a slight fever.

The air in the hall chilled Er’ril’s skin, raising a rush of gooseflesh. At wrist and ankles, the old shackles had left troughs of rent flesh, purplish with bruises and infection. He limped after the first two guards while two others, bearing spears and poking periodically at his back when his shuffling gait slowed too much, followed.

Soon he was escorted into a warmer room; steam and the scent of lye stung his nose. In the center of the room stood an iron tub. He was stripped of chains and loincloth and unceremoniously herded L r, M I 1.

into the steaming water. He bit back a scream as the hot water burned his wounds.

“Clean yourself up and get dressed,” Nock commanded, throwing soap and a brush in with him. “And be quick about it. We don’t have all morn.” The guards backed to the room’s door and clustered in the hall.

The stone room was featureless except for a fogged mirror and a single stool with a set of clean clothes laid out. Er’ril drifted back into the water’s heat, letting its warmth drive away the dregs of his fever. Once his head stopped pounding, Er’ril took soap and brush to his wounds first. Clenching his teeth and struggling with his one hand, he scrubbed the filth and dried hay from the deep gouges. After the bath was red with his own blood and the wounds looked raw and fresh, he took the brush to his body.

As the water cooled, Er’ril let his thoughts drift to Elena and the others. In the days prior, he had purposefully kept his mind away from thinking about them. That path led to certain despair. Did they know he still lived? Had Sy-wen managed to bring the Dre’rendi to their cause? With the full moon rising this night, the darkmages would attempt the book’s destruction at midnight. If they succeeded, all the Bloodriders and wit’ches in the world would be of no avail.

He covered his face with his one hand—not against this dreadful fate, but because he found himself strangely disconnected from any true feelings about the book or the destiny of A’loa Glen. He would attempt to thwart the mages’ plot with every fiber of his body, but in his heart, there was truly only one concern. His mind conjured Elena’s image in the shimmer of bath steam. Whether the Blood Diary survived or not, Elena must live.

“If you’re done soaking, Your Highness,” Nock snapped at him from the doorway, “git your scrawny arse out and dried.”

Er’ril pushed from the tub with his one arm and stepped onto the icy stones. Crossing to the mirror, he toweled himself dry and awkwardly dressed in the linen underclothes and fine gray breeches, taking care to wrap his wounds with the clean bandages left by the tub. Slipping into a white, billowed shirt, he inspected himself in the mirror.

Gaunt, with his cheeks and chin covered in dark beard, his gray eyes seemed shadowed hollows in his face.

If he was to meet his brother, he would not walk to him a defeated man. He ran a hand over his rough neck and finger-combed his hair roughly in place. As he worked, his eyes grew hard with the flint of his homeland.

Nock and another soldier entered. Kicking the chain and shackles at Er’ril, Nock ordered him to truss up.

Er’ril barely heard his words, still staring in the mirror. He ran his fingers over the prickle of wood at the nape of his neck. Touching the sliver from the staff, Er’ril allowed himself a moment of hope. Black magick to fight black magick. “Are you deaf? Git in those chains!” Er’ril turned to face Nock. The guard saw something in the plainsman’s eyes that stumbled him back a step, the pale scar on his face going white. “ Y-you heard me,” he squeaked out, glancing at his companion for support.

With a tired shake of his head, Er’ril bent and retrieved his shackles, then locked his ankles. Nock waved for the other guard to hook Er’ril’s chains and wrist manacle in place. Er’ril stared at Nock while this was done. The soldier tried to meet and maintain the plainsman’s gaze, but he glanced away and grumbled as he led Er’ril toward the door.

The trek to the westernmost tower of the great citadel, the Praetor’s Spear, was a long one. Er’ril kept his back stiff and his gait unhurried. Now that he was dressed and cleaned, the guards with the spears no longer harried him. They seemed to sense that a new man had risen from the steam of the baths, one who would not tolerate such barbs, even when chained.

At long last, they reached the twisting tower stair. Er’ril sighed; after so long without proper nourishment, the climb would be interminable. Even his old leg injury, where the rock’goblin had stabbed him almost a winter ago, complained at the number of steps. By the time the group reached the top landing, Er’ril was gasping between clenched teeth.

Nock crossed to the two guards stationed before a pair of huge, iron-bound oaken doors. Before he could speak, the doors swung open at his approach. The tower guards did not even register the movement, just stared straight ahead. Nock’s single eye, though, grew huge. He bowed his head before the presence that seemed to flow from the opening portal.

Words trailed out to them. “Tell my brother he is welcome.” The icy voice belied the warmth of the invitation.

Stepping aside, Nock turned to Er’ril and waved him forward. The plainsman even felt the slight poke of a spear’s point in his back. It seemed the guards were more than eager to be rid of their charge.

Er’ril did not balk. Here was his quarry if he was to stop the book’s unbinding. With a clink of chain, he shuffled past Nock and entered Shorkan’s tower home.

As he stepped onto the thickly cushioned rugs of the study, the rattle of Er’ril’s leg irons became muffled.

Inside, he found the tow-headed boy mage, Denal, lounging on a short couch, heels tapping the frame, and Greshym, smirking like a cat that just ate a pigeon, seated at a small cherrywood table. Only Shorkan, still robed in the traditional white of the Praetorship, had his back to Er’ril, indicating how little the plainsman’s presence impacted him.

Shorkan stared out at the drowned city beyond his window as the sun’s early rays bathed the toppled and crooked towers. In the distance, Er’ril spotted the glint of blue that marked the ocean and even a few humped islands. Shorkan spoke as if continuing a conversation that Er’ril had rudely interrupted.

“They come with full sails. The Bloodriders and the wit’ch will be at our doors before night falls.” Er’ril could not help but smile with these words. So the Dre’rendi had been convinced to add their might to the assault!

Greshym spoke. “With the loss of the skal’tum legion in the sar-gassum, how stand our remaining defenses of the island?” Er’ril caught the bent-backed mage’s glance toward him. Greshym’s lip twitched. “Will they hold out until the ceremony at moonrise?” Shorkan turned. Brother looked upon brother. Er’ril felt a momentary twinge of old memories: racing through fields, wrestling out behind the barn, manning snow forts on the windswept plains. But then Er’ril spotted the man’s eyes, and any thoughts of a shared childhood evaporated into a foul smoke of blood and torture. Behind those gray eyes was no sign of the brother Er’ril had once loved. Instead, a presence that had little to do with men born of women lurked behind that gaze; it whispered of creatures hatched in poison and bred amid torture. Thankfully, the Praetor turned his full attention quickly away, fixing on Greshym.

“Will our forces hold out?” Shorkan mocked with clear disdain. “We’ve still another two legions of skal’tum on the island and a fleet of ships that number in the hundreds, manned by ul’jinn-controlled berserkers. With an additional thousand dog soldiers ensconced in the peripheral towers with longbows and flaming pitch, you’ll have no need to worry about the safety of your hide, Greshym.“

“Ah… But if we are so safe, why are two hundred d’warf ax warriors spread throughout the Edifice?”

“A mere precaution. I will not have this night’s ritual in the catacombs disturbed by anyone.” Greshym bowed his head, but not before once again glancing to meet Er’ril’s eye. This litany of the island’s defenses had been coaxed from the Praetor for Er’ril’s benefit. The ancient mage wanted Er’ril to understand the current situation on the island.

Denal spoke up, his voice high and sibilant, a child’s voice but with the boredom and malice of too many years. “What of the golem Rockingham ?”

“Gone,” Greshym answered. “I sensed his spell’s unraveling.” Denal squirmed his face into a boyish pout.

“But I so wanted to play with him some more.”

“It is of no matter,” Shorkan commented. “With the wit’ch and her army here, he was of no further use.

He delayed her long enough for us to prepare our defenses. The wit’ch will find the island impregnable, and by dawn tomorrow, her armies will be nothing but shark chum. Now enough talk of the wit’ch’s approach.

Instead, we must make preparations for the ritual at sunset.” Shorkan turned to Er’ril. “It is time our roles were reversed, dear brother. Long ago, it was our blood that bound the book. To unbind it, the spell will require your blood this time, Er’ril. Unfortunately, we will require all of it.” Er’ril shrugged.

Shorkan raised his eyebrows at this lackluster response. “This does not concern you, Er’ril? Have the passing centuries weighed so heavily that you welcome your life’s end?” Er’ril spoke for the first time. “I have no worries of death.”

“And why is that?”

“There is a traitor who stands amongst you, dear brother.” Er’ril saw Greshym twitch in alarm.

Shorkan did not seem to notice the old mage’s surprise. “A traitor? And who might that be?” Sighing, Er’ril shrugged again. “Now if I told you, where would be the sport in that, dear brother? ” Aboard the Dragonspur, Kast stood beside Pinorr as the shaman studied the horizon, his eyes partially closed.

Kast waited patiently, fingering the tattoo of the dragon on his cheek. It was best not to disturb a ship’s shaman when he sought his rajor maga , his sea sense.

To the stern of the ship, the Dre’rendi fleet spread from horizon to horizon. The sails from over a hundred ships were like the billowing clouds of an approaching storm front. Mixed among the boats were the remains of the mer’ai forces, some hundred or so dragons and riders. Though a full quarter of the mer’ai had died in the sargassum forest, the presence of those remaining kept the spirits of the Blood-riders charged. The victory against the skal’tum had been sung on many decks this past evening.

Kast turned his attention back to his own vessel.

Elena and Flint stood nearby. Flint’s head was bowed in quiet conversation with the ship’s new keelchief.

Hunt, the high keel’s own son, had been assigned to the ship after the mutiny during the night of the storm.

Kast’s brother, Ulster, had been found slain upon the first mate’s sword. Both the first and second mate were later also discovered dead; obviously the mutineers had fallen into some disagreement. Further investigation had turned up no other conspirators. Though Ulster had been no true brother, Kast still felt a twinge of anger at the man’s death. He gripped his sword’s hilt in an iron fist. If any others were involved…

Finally, Pinorr straightened his stance by the rail. He cleared his throat. “It is of no use.” Kast tightened his brows. “Can you read nothing of what awaits us?” Pinorr turned his dark eyes on Kast, then swung away. “The seas are dark to me now.” He reached for the hand of his granddaughter, Sheeshon, who sat on the deck nearby. But the girl ignored his offered palm, fiddling instead with the webbing between her toes.

Kast’s eyes were drawn to the same. It was hard to fathom the transformation of the child. Even when faced with his people’s shared heritage with the mer’ai, it was difficult to accept it fully. Kast turned his attention back to Pinorr. “We’re only a half day’s voyage to the Archipelago. Does the evil entrenched among the islands resist your abilities?”

Finorr grunted noncommittally.

Kast reached to the old shaman’s sleeve. “Do not fault yourself Pinorr. If you can’t read anything on the wind, then no one can. ‘ttye will have to trust that the mer’ai outriders will bring back sufficient warning.” Kast’s mind momentarily flashed on Sy-wen. She had returned with her mother to the giant leviathan that trailed the fleet Linora sought the guidance of the elders in the battle to come.

Pinorr glanced up at Kast as if about to say something but then turned away. A certain awkwardness grew between them.

Before either could speak, Elena moved toward them. She knelt beside Sheeshon, giving Kast a quick smile. The wit’ch’s other companions had been left aboard the Pale Stallion while the boat’s damaged mast and sails were mended. As soon as the southern isles of Maunsk and Raib’s Saddle came into view, the wit’ch and Flint would return to the Stallion. As the battle ensued, she and the others would take the smaller sloop west toward where Flint claimed to know a secret route onto the island. Meanwhile, it would be up to Kast and Sy-wen, along with the Bloodriders and the mer’ai, to keep the main forces of the island distracted.

Or so it had been planned. Kast only wished Pinorr had been able to ascertain some information about what lay ahead. The morning sun now climbed to midday; they would soon be in sight of the island and its drowned city.

“You sense nothing from the seas? ” Elena asked Pinorr. Sheeshon suddenly stood and waved her webbed hands through the air. “Look, Papa! My hands are like birdies!” Pinorr smiled sadly and pushed her arms down. “Yes, little Sheeshon. Let’s go see if Mader Geel has our meal ready.”

The girl wiggled in his grip, freeing an arm. She pointed out toward the northern horizons, toward the empty seas. “That island over there has got big birdies flying around it. White ones with sharp teeth. But they’re not nice birdies.” Elena and Kast exchanged glances.

“More skal’tum,” Kast mumbled. He nodded to Sheeshon. “Pinorr’s granddaughter shares his gifts of the rajor maga . She can read mag-ick and the seas, like her grandfather.” Kast leaned closer to Sheeshon.

“Do you see any other monsters around the island? ”

Sheeshon scrunched up her face as if she had eaten something oüf- “I don’t like that place. It smells like bad fish.” She turned her rtention back to the webs of her hands.

pinorr patted her head. “She does not understand what she sees.”

“But at least she does see something.” Kast stared significantly at pinorr.

“The rajor maga is a fickle gift, Bloodrider.”

Before the shaman could leave, Kast stopped him with a touch on the shoulder. “Is there something you’re not telling us, Pinorr? Since the night of the storm, you’ve grown quiet and withdrawn. Do you see something that you fear voicing? Do you know what will come this day?“

Pinorr shook free of Kast’s grip and picked up Sheeshon. “As I told you before, the seas are dark to me.“

“But why?”

Pinorr turned away from Kast. “Some answers are best left unspoken.” With those mumbled words, the old shaman crossed the decks. Kast watched him leave and knew it was more than the weight of the old man’s granddaughter that bent his back.

Elena spoke from the rail. “Those shadows on the horizons, are those storm clouds?” Kast swung around and studied the sea and sky. “No. Not

clouds.“

“What are they then?”

“Islands. We’ve reached the southern edge of the Archipelago.” Elena glanced over as Flint stepped beside them. His eyes were fixed on the horizon, too. “We should be returning to the Pale Stallion, Elena. It is time we prepared for our own departure.”

“How long until we near A’loa Glen itself?” she asked.

Flint pointed to one of the dark shadows to the northeast. “We are already there.” From the rail of the Pale Stallion, Elena stared through a spy-glass at the island. A chill breeze slipped past her woolen scarf and shivered her skin. After almost a full turn of seasons, her goal was finally in sight: A’loa Glen. As she stared, Elena felt no joy, only a cold dread that filled her belly. How could a place so fraught with darkness appear so bright in the midday sun?

Formed from three peaks, the island was roughly shaped like a horse’s shoe. Its two arms seemed to stretch toward her, welcoming her into its embrace. Through the glass, Elena spotted the city itself a bristling of towers and spires that climbed from the seas and spread up the slopes of the central peak. Atop this middle peak, like a crown on a king, stood a massive castle. Elena studied the structure’s towers and knew somewhere beyond its walls was hidden the Blood Diary and the fate of Alasea.

Yet as Elena drew her gaze over the battlements and broken towers, her thoughts dwelled on one other prize hidden behind its cracked walls: Er’ril. If Rockingham spoke truthfully, the plainsman was trapped in a dungeon beneath the castle; by nightfall, with the rising of the full moon, he would be sacrificed in an attempt to destroy the book.

Elena lowered the spyglass. She would not let that happen. Ahead of her, the massive ships of the Dre’rendi seemed to dwarf the Pale Stallion. The fleet filled the seas with sails and dragon-carved prows.

With the sun shining directly overhead, the islands around them were no longer misty shadows but had grown into sheer red cliffs and towering green mountains.

“May I see?” Joach asked, reaching for the spyglass. Elena numbly passed him the tool. All around the rail, her companions had gathered on the deck. With the fleet sailing toward the island, the Pale Stallion would soon be parting ways. They would drift behind the last of the Bloodriders’ ships, and as the fleet rounded the isle of Raib’s Saddle, the Stallion would slip farther west to the island of Maunsk. Flint knew of a back door to reach A’loa Glen in secret, a magickal gateway similar to the Arch of the Archipelago, but he kept the details a mystery.

Joach spoke, drawing her attention. “I see watch fires in many of the drowned towers that edge the island.

At least a hundred. They know we come.”

Flint took the glass from him and raised it to his own eye. “They’ve known our every movement since we first entered these seas, and we will use that to our advantage this day. The fleet and the mer’ai will draw their gazes. While they’re blinded by our forces, we’ll slip in a back door. With luck, we’ll be in and out before they even know we were there.”

Tol’chuk grumbled nearby. “Og’res do not trust luck. It be as likely bad as good.“

Flint patted Tol’chuk’s arm. “That is why we go with Elena. I do not trust fate any better than you, my big friend.”

Meric leaned on a cane with Mama Freda at his elbow. After the elv’in’s recent injuries, the taxing use of his elemental gifts had left him wasted, but at least the fire had returned to his blue eyes. “Fates be damned.

We risk Elena needlessly here. We should leave her within the protection of the fleet and seek the book on our own.”

Flint shook his head. “The book is bound in a spell of black ice. I wager it will take the ward’s magick and Elena’s power to free it.”

Elena added her support. “I must go. If the Blood Diary is truly meant for me, I must free it.” Meric scowled but let the matter drop, knowing he could not sway her.

The tiny fiery-maned pet of the healer clung to Mama Freda’s shoulder. “If you are all done admiring the island and plotting,” she said, scratching the beast behind an ear, “I have prepared an elixir to ward off fatigue and sharpen the senses. We should rest and be

ready.“

Flint nodded at her words. “She speaks wisely. The zo’ol will man the sails and wheel. We will be striking on our own soon and—”

A sudden whoosh of expelled air and a spray of water exploded near the starboard side of the ship. All their gazes swung to the massive black dragon and its green-haired rider. Sy-wen spat out her breathing tube and raised an arm in greeting. “I bring news from the mer’ai outriders!” she called and waved back toward A’loa Glen. “A massive fleet lies in ambush on the lee side of the island, and flocks of strange, tentacled beasts lurk in the deep waters that border the sunken city. The Bloodriders fly ahead to flank both sides of the island, while the mer’ai have been ordered to hunt the deeper seas for the monsters!“

“Look!” Joach called out and pointed toward the island.

The small, sleeker ships of the Bloodriders, nicknamed shark hunters, had already sped forward of the main fleet. As they coursed nearer the edge of the city, racing the waves with full sails, a cascade of flaming embers blew out from the half-sunken towers and rained down upon the smaller ships. A few sails caught fire, flaring bright.

Before the shark hunters could even begin dousing the flames, a barrage of boulders followed the trails of the fiery arrows, flung from catapults atop the towers. Even from this distance, the explosion of splintered wood and the concussion of striking rocks crashed over the waters.

Elena gasped at the slaughter. But she was not the only one to react.

Ahead, the larger ships of the Bloodriders dove forward, splitting into two flanks. They were a storm of sails upon the sea.

Suddenly, from around either arm of the island, foreign ships of every shape and size suddenly hove into view, ready to meet the Bloodriders.

Sy-wen called again from atop her huge black dragon as it glided the waves beside the boat. “We must be off! Ragnar’k and I will coordinate the attack from the air.” With these brief words, Sy-wen swung her dragon around. “You must leave! Now!”

“We’re off! But be sharp yourselves! Watch for our signal fire atop one of the towers near sunset!” Flint called after her. “If we get the book, we will need rescue from the island!” Raising an arm, Sy-wen signaled her acknowledgment. “We know! All eyes will be watching for you!” With these last words, the great beast surged away, wings rising from the water to either side. Striking out, the wings beat at the water and lifted rider and dragon from the seas. With a roar of war blasting from his throat, Ragnar’k climbed into the air, seawater sluicing from his scales. He angled over their ship, passing just above the tips of the masts. The whump of his massive wings beat down at them. In a flash of sunlight off pearlescent scales, he dove away.

Flint handed back the spyglass to Elena. “We must not be caught in the edge of this fighting.” Flint waved Tol’chuk to his side and marched toward the stern wheel.

Elena raised the spyglass, unable to look away. She followed the dragon’s course across the blue sky as horns of battle blared from the Bloodrider’s ships. Spread out before them, the seas now frothed with cutting keels. Near the city, smoke from burning ships smudged the clear skies while pale tentacles rose from the depths to grab at rail and men as boats foundered.

Dragons rose, too, from the waves to tear at these blubbery beasts. Some of the seadragons also clawed aboard ships to protect their

^jo-bred brethren, while riders bearing swords attacked foe and ueast alike. For the first time in ages, mer’ai and Dre’rendi were

united in battle.

Near the island, a giant leviathan suddenly exploded to the surface. From the behemoth’s belly, mer’ai surged out of countless openings. With daggers and swords, they joined the battle at the city’s edge, climbing towers to attack the soldiers inside. Mer’ai, impaled on spears, toppled back into the seas even as others replaced

those who had fallen.

Elena covered her mouth in horror, tears blurring her vision. Everywhere she swung the spyglass, men and dragons died. It was as if the mer’ai and Dre’rendi were a fierce surf pounding themselves to death against jagged rocks.

The spyglass was suddenly taken from Elena’s fingers. She did not resist; she had seen enough. Without the aid of the lenses, the battle now seemed so distant, almost like a bad dream. But sound carried different tidings over the water. Screams, horns, bellows from wounded dragons—all kept the immediacy of the battle raw in

her ears.

Joach was at her side, pulling her away. He passed the spyglass to one of the zo’ol. “Xin, take this. Watch the battle and keep us

informed.“

“So much death,” she mumbled. “All for a cursed book.” Joach tried to soothe her. “Not for a book, El.

They die for the chance at freedom—and not just for themselves, but for their sons and daughters. They shed blood for a future dawn—a dawn only

you can bring.“

Elena glanced at her brother. “But when does a price become too high—even for freedom?“

“That is not for you to judge, El. It is a price each man must weigh in his own heart.“

Elena glanced at the war raging around the lone island and judged her own heart. What price would she pay for someone’s freedom? She pictured the hard planes and gray eyes of Er’ril and knew her answer.

She turned her back on the death across the waves. Some freedoms were worth any cost.

Meric opened the door to his cabin. He was greeted by the ru _ fle of feathers from the perch by his bedside. The f

sunhawk’s snowy plumage flared brighter with the slight motion. Black eyes, unblinking, studied the elv’in as he entered the room, but the bird did not raise an alarm. The creature knew Meric. The hawk had been seated above his mother’s throne in Stormhaven for the past sixteen winters Slipping a bit of dried beef from a pocket, Meric crossed to the bird and proffered the tidbit. The hawk cocked one eye at the strip of meat, then shook its mane of feathers, declining the offering with a flip of its hooked beak. Meric frowned at the insult. He should have known better. The bird liked its meat fresh and bloody, not limp and salted.

Chewing the meat himself, Meric crossed to the small chest at the foot of his bed.

He needed a moment to himself to prepare for the battle to come. He ran a hand over the scars on his face. Memories of old tortures threatened to unman him, but he fought back such feelings, hardening himself.

He would not fail his queen. He had been sent to recover the lost bloodline of the elv’in king, and he must succeed. He would protect Elena with his own blood if necessary. Meric pictured the girl. Now grown into a woman by her magick, Meric recognized the subtle elv’in features in her: her tall, thin physique; the slight curving of her ear; the sharp corners of her eyes. There could be no mistaking their shared bloodlines.

Still, Meric had to admit that his concern for Elena had grown into more than just a desire to see the king’s line continue. He again fingered the scars on his cheek. He had faced the horror that walked this land and knew she and the others fought in a just and noble cause. On their long journey here, Elena had demonstrated that her heart was as noble as her heritage, and Meric had no desire to fail her, either.

Luckily, for now, his role as protector of Elena served both women in his life—queen and wit’ch. Elena must be safeguarded— not just for the preservation of the king’s bloodline, but also for the hope of this land.

But as Meric eyed the stoic sunhawk, the symbol of his queen, he wondered how much longer the goals of these two women would share the same path. And if they should diverge, what path would Meric take?

Sighing, Meric pushed aside the question for now. From the sea chest at the foot of his bed, he removed a small stone. Rubbing its cold surface, Meric lifted it to his lips and breathed across it. A brilliant glow blew forth from its heart. Satisfied, he placed the wind-stone on his bed and removed another object from the depths of his sea chest. It was a long thin dagger. He ran a finger along the flat of the blade; his touch brought forth a crackle of silver energies along its length. Like the sunhawk, the ice dagger was a heritage of his family- More a relic than a true weapon, it would have to serve him on the journey ahead. He rested the ice dagger next to the stone. Next, he tenderly removed the last object from the chest, using both hands to carefully lift it free. It was the true reason he had returned to his cabin for a moment’s respite.

He lifted Nee’lahn’s lute from the chest and settled it in his lap. He studied the whorls of grain in the wood.

It had been carved from the heart of the nyphai’s tree as it died. Gently, he let his fingers strum the lute’s strings. The sound was like a soft sigh, a whispered exhalation of relief at finally being able to speak again.

Meric leaned into its allure, strumming through a few minor chords. He played softly to settle his heart for the battle to come.

As he let the lute’s voice lull him, his mind returned to Elena’s own quandary. Just what were they fighting for? Was it freedom, as Joach had insisted? Or was it perhaps something more tangible? In the music of the heartwood, pictures of Meric’s own home, the cloud castle of Stormhaven, bloomed in his mind. These fond memories drew Meric away from battle and warfare, at least for a brief moment.

Suddenly, a scuffle of heel on wood disturbed his reverie. It came from just outside his door. The elv’in’s fingers stopped their strumming. Silently, he crept from his bed, lute brandished like a sword, and crossed to the door. Meric listened for a moment. He heard no further sound, but he sensed that someone still stood at his doorstep. Reaching to the latch, Meric whipped open the door to find a small boy cowering in the hall.

Meric lowered the lute. It took him a moment to recognize the terrified figure of Tok. “Boy, why are you slinking outside my door? Weren’t you supposed to be sent to one of the leviathans for safety?”

“I… I hid,” he said sheepishly. “With the horses.” Meric scowled at the boy. “Not a wise choice, boy. You would have been safer with the mer’ai under the sea.”

“I didn’t want to go with those others, sir. You’re… you’re all’t^ people I know in the world.” Meric shook his head. “Well, stowing away or not, why were yOu skulking in the hall just now?”

“Th-the music.” He waved toward the lute still in Meric’s hand “I wanted to hear it better. It makes me feel good.”

Meric remembered how in the past Tok had always been underfoot whenever he played the lute. The boy had been constantly enraptured by its song. Meric settled back to his bed with the lute on his lap. “Does the music remind you of your own home?” Tok shrugged. “I never knew no home, sir.” Meric frowned. “What do you mean you knew no home? ” Tok shuffled nervously in the doorway, clearly unsure whether to enter or not. “I was orphaned on the streets of Port Rawl, sir. I took up with the boats to earn a keep. The sea’s been my only home.”

Meric weighed this story with his own history. He could not imagine what it would be like never to know one’s past, never to call any place home. He finally waved the boy to the sea chest beside the narrow bed.

“Sit.”

Tok’s shoulders slumped with clear relief. He scurried to the chest and sat silently. His eyes grew wide at the sight of the sunhawk on its perch nearby. But the boy’s gaze quickly returned to the lute, all but begging Meric to play.

“Then what do you hear in the lute’s music, Tok? What draws you to it?” The question made the boy squirm. When he finally answered, his voice was a whisper. “It makes me…

warm.” He pointed to his chest. “In here. It’s like… like it takes me somewhere where no one laughs at me or tries to hit me. I close my eyes, and in my belly, I think… I think I can finally belong somewhere.” The boy’s eyes were bright with tears.

Meric’s gaze drifted to the lute in his lap. He found it hard to stare at the boy.

“P-please play something for me,” Tok asked so hopelessly. “Just for a little while.” Meric did not move for several breaths. Finally, he handed the boy the lute. “It is time you played for yourself, Tok.”

The boy held the instrument at arm’s length, as if he clutched a writhing snake, horror clear in his eyes.

“I… I couldn’t!”

“put the lute in your lap. You’ve seen me do it enough times.” Gulping past his terror, Tok did as he was told.

“Now put your left hand on the neck of the instrument. Don’t rrv about where to put your fingers. With your other hand, use vOur nails to brush the strings.”

Tok’s fingers trembled, but he listened and obeyed. He treated the lute with a reverence that bordered on worship. When his fingers stroked the strings for the first time, the sound froze him. The chord hovered in the air like a frightened sparrow. Nee’lahn’s lute spoke more with its own voice than with the skill of the player. Tok raised his eyes toward Meric, joy and wonder bright in his gaze.

“Now play, Tok. Listen with your heart and let the music move your fingers.“

“I don’t know what—”

“Just trust me, Tok. And for the first time in your life, trust yourself.“

The boy chewed his lower lip and once again brought his fingers to the strings. He strummed lightly, almost apologetically. But soon his eyes drifted closed, and he let the music move through him. Meric watched the boy transform from a lowly urchin to something full of grace. Music flowed from the wood of the lute through the boy and out into the world.

Meric leaned back and listened. There was no art to the boy’s playing; it was all heart, passion, and an ache of loneliness. It was the last song of Nee’lahn’s blighted forest and the song of a boy who longed for a past that had been stolen from him.

Meric stared at the plumage of the sunhawk as it perched so imperiously upon its branch. In its stiff stance and unforgiving eyes, Meric saw himself—or at least the person he had been when he had first arrived on these shores—momentarily mirrored. Haughty and righteously indignant with all others. But was he still the same? Since coming here, Meric had experienced acts both brave and craven. He had beheld those of low birth shine with the majesty of kings and witnessed those of noble heritage crawl through mud to satisfy their

baser lusts.

Glancing back to the boy, Meric noticed the streams of tears trailing down the lad’s face as he conjured forth a home that he would never know, and suddenly Meric understood the lute’s song. Here was what they should be fighting for—not the ancient honor of a

banished people or the lost bloodlines of a vanished king, but simply peace.

Meric let the boy play, allowing him his moment of home and hope. And in this music, Meric also discovered a calmness of spirit. Here was something worth fighting for.

Suddenly the sunhawk let out a piercing screech. Meric sat straight in his bed, and the precious lute almost tumbled from Tok’s startled fingers. Both their gazes swung to the bird.

The hawk stretched on its perch, wings pinioned out. Its snowy plumage now flared with a brightness that stung the eye. “What’s wrong? ” Tok asked.

Meric was already out of his bed, reaching for the bird. “I’m not sure.” The bird leaped to the elv’in’s wrist. Claws dug into his flesh, piercing skin. Meric swooned as images flooded him. He saw ships riding stormwinds, keels cresting through clouds. Sweet Mother, not now! He had thought to have more time!

With the bird on his wrist, Meric hurried from the room. Tok followed. Meric hurried atop the decks. Joach, Flint, and the black-skinned zo’ol were the only ones present. Their mouths dropped at the sight of Meric and the fiery hawk.

Meric raised his wrist, and the bird shot upward, sailing past the billowed sails and up into the sky. Lowering his arm, Meric stared out at the seas. The Pale Stallion had by now passed among the fringe islands of the Archipelago. The Dre’rendi fleet and the raging war could no longer be seen except as a smudge of darkness to the east and an echoing whisper of horns in the distance.

Flint crossed to Meric. “What were you doing? That cursed bird’s brilliance could give away our position.” Meric watched the hawk disappear into the glare of the sun. “He’s been called home. It seems other parties are being drawn to the battle here, like moths to the flame.”

“What do you mean?”

Meric glanced back to the grizzled Brother. “If you want the Blood Diary, we must hurry. This war of the isles is about to rage more fiercely. My mother comes—Queen Tratal!” Flint’s brows rose with hope at the news. “We could always use more allies. If we could get word to Sy-wen and coordinate—”

Meric clutched Flint’s arm and hissed at him. “You are not listening! She comes not to aid our cause, but to end it! She means to lay

to A’loa Glen, to destroy everyone and anything on the cursed island.“

Flint blinked at his outburst. “And… and she has such strength to accomplish this?“

Meric just stared at Flint. The elv’in’s silence was answer enough.

Flint’s eyes narrowed with concern. “But what of the Blood Diary? It is meant for Elena. Why would your mother seek to thwart us?”

Meric scowled and turned away. “Because I asked her to.”

The trio of mages led Er’ril through the Grand Courtyard of the Edifice. Two guards followed behind, bearing long swords. Not that Er’ril was much of a risk to anyone: Bound from ankle to shoulder with chains that limited his pace to a shuffle, he clanked with each small step. As he limped along the garden path of white stone, he stared up at the blue skies, squinting against the brightness of the afternoon after so many days buried in the dungeons of the citadel.

With the sun already drifting toward the west, the gardens of the central court lay pooled in shadow. Only the top branches of the huge koa’kona tree, the ancient symbol of A’loa Glen, stretched above the walls and reached the warm sunlight. But where the sight of the tree in the bright sun should have cheered him, the cries of battle from beyond the walls of the castle transformed the image into one of desperation. It was as if the dead limbs of the tree were struggling against its own demise, arms and fingers scrabbling against drowning.

To heighten this image, around the base of the tree’s trunk, among the knees of its gnarled roots, a group of black-robed mages gathered, encircling the tree. Ten muscled men leaned on long axes nearby, their expressions dark. Er’ril could almost smell the menace from this swamp of evil.

But that was not all he scented: Smoke stung the nose and marred the skies, while all around the city, drums and horns blared stridently. At first the war sounded as near as the castle itself; even the occasional snatches of shouted orders could be heard. Then the clash

f noises seemed muted, as if the battle had drifted far from here. Rut Er’ril knew neither was true. The seas played tricks with sound. In truth, the battle surged all around the island.

Earlier, he had viewed the launching of the attack from atop the westernmost tower. He had seen the ships of the Bloodriders and the dragons of the mer’ai collide with the forces entrenched here: Monsters had risen from the sea; ships manned by foul berserkers had cut into the ranks of Dre’rendi ships; showers of flaming arrows and boulders had harried the dragons and riders. The waves soon frothed with blood and gore. Husks of burned-out ships ran aground against the drowned edge of the city. Bodies of the slain—both friend and foe—floated amidst the wreckage. A few of the city’s towers were now fonts of flame as the pitch and oil stored inside them were torched by the attackers. Everywhere one looked, carnage marked

the seas.

During all this, Shorkan had merely stood at the window of his tower chamber and stared at the slaughter below. No emotion had marked his face. Finally, responding to some signal known only to himself, Shorkan had turned and ordered them all to the catacombs for the final preparations for the night’s ritual. He had seemed little concerned for the battle raging below the city.

It was this lack of concern that unnerved Er’ril the most. If the fiend had gloated at the destruction, shown some sign of humanity, Er’ril would have felt better. This total disinterest in the slaughter demonstrated how far from human this creature who walked in his

brother’s skin was.

As they crossed the gardens, Er’ril studied Shorkan’s back. The only rise he had managed to get from the man had been a narrow-eyed suspicion when he had suggested that a traitor lurked within Shorkan’s party.

But when Er’ril had refused to elaborate, the Praetor’s concern had quickly died away.

Still, Er’ril had managed to spark that initial response. As much as his false brother played the role of the stoic demigod, Er’ril knew some of the old Shorkan still survived behind that cold countenance. Nothing noble or good, just the baser sides of his brother that Shorkan had once kept buried and chained.

When he was a young man, Shorkan’s pride and confidence had sometimes overwhelmed his judgment. He had hated to be bested in a game of strategy. That childish rage still existed behind his white robe. Though the Praetor’s face remained blank, Er’ril knew Shorkan’s mind and blood roiled with thoughts of who the traitor might be. Er’ril had planted a seed of suspicion, and he trusted his brother’s baser nature to grow this kernel into a true core of distrust And a man who kept his gaze suspiciously fixed on those at his side might miss an attack from the front.

Or so Er’ril hoped.

With his ankles chafing and his old wounds complaining against the rub of the manacles, Er’ril was glad to reach the far side of the Grand Courtyard. In the garden wall, a gate of intricate ironwork molded and twisted in the shape of twining rose branches stood locked against visitors.

It was the entrance to the subterranean catacombs where, for the past centuries, the deceased Brothers of A’loa Glen had been interred. Its passages ran deep into the volcanic core of the island. Some said the tunnels below were once natural passages carved from the flows of molten lava when the island was first born. Now the halls bore little resemblance to natural structures. Centuries of scuffling feet had rubbed the black rock to a polished sheen, and the skill of the city’s early artisans had worked the walls and roofs with carvings and facades.

Still, behind the worn sheen, Er’ril had always sensed the natural rock of the island. It was like the thrum of a heart as one rested one’s head on the chest of a lover. It was always there, a sense of eternity.

Er’ril suspected it was for this reason that the site had been chosen as the burial crypt for the island. It was also the reason why Er’ril had entombed the Blood Diary here. In these subterranean tunnels, time seemed to have no meaning. It was a perfect place to preserve the past and protect the future.

Suddenly, the screeching complaint of ancient hinges drew Er’ril back to the present. He blinked away the old memories of the past. Even this close to the opening to the catacombs, the halls below seemed to draw him out of time’s eternal step.

“Lock the gate after us,” Shorkan instructed the guard. “None must disturb us.” The guard nodded his understanding, but Shorkan was already past him and entering the catacombs. Denal followed next, while Greshym kept guard behind Er’ril.

past the gate, a set of stairs climbed down into the first level of the catacombs. It was here that the most ancient Brothers were interred :n narrow crypts sealed with engraved stones. A pair of torches flanked the opening. Denal took one of the torches; but Shorkan merely raised a hand, and a spinning globe of silver fire drifted out from his palm and floated before him as he led the way.

The group’s steps and the clink of Er’ril’s chains echoed hollowly along the passage. Their shadows danced on the wall to the hiss of

the torch.

Greshym kept pace behind Er’ril’s shuffling gait, guarding the rear. It was clear to Er’ril that the darkmage wished to speak but feared the others hearing. Yet it was also clear that fatigue plagued Greshym, keeping him from maintaining the pace of the pair of younger mages. When Er’ril glanced back, he saw the pain of protesting joints etched on the old mage’s face and noticed how Greshym’s single hand clutched his staff in a white-knuckled grip.

“Be ready,” Greshym breathed at him, his voice lower than the furtive whisper of a secret lover. Er’ril nodded but did not answer.

The passage continued its wide spiral deeper into the island’s heart. Other hallways branched and crisscrossed the main passage. “It would be easy to get lost in here,” Greshym whispered between wheezes as they walked; the other two mages had drifted farther ahead. “The extent of these tunnels has never been fully mapped. One could easily vanish down here.” Er’ril only snorted derisively. Greshym was trying to suggest to Er’ril that escape might be possible. But of course, such a chance would only be offered after Er’ril freed the Blood Diary and turned the tome over to the ancient darkmage.

As their group wound deeper into the world of the dead, the etchings on the grave markers grew more legible as the age of the tombs lessened. Soon, they even passed a few open niches, graves awaiting future occupants.

“Still,” Greshym continued, “it is something to ponder.”

Shorkan led them deeper, past the open graves to where the walls roughened to natural stone. The depths of the catacombs reached levels where the sea itself claimed the tunnels, but their group was not going that far. Shorkan led them without warning off of the main tunnel and into the narrow side passages. He continued without hesitation through the maze of crisscrossing passages and rooms moving unerringly toward his goal.

Finally, Shorkan followed a passage that ended in a blind chamber. Unadorned rock marked the walls to either side, but before them stood a sheet of black ice reaching from floor to ceiling. Its dark surface seemed almost to flow, as if the ice melted and refroze in an eternal cycle.

Shorkan approached the icy bulwark. In the glow of his flaming sphere, the solid barrier cast back their reflections. With a look of distaste, Shorkan turned his back on the sight. “The mage who cast this spell for you, Er’ril, was skilled. For the past centuries, it has resisted my attempts to breach it.” Er’ril shrugged. “He had owed me a favor.”

“Do not mock me. Brother Kallon used his dying breath and the magick gifted to you from the book to forge this tomb for the Blood Diary. He died with the spell on his lips, taking its secret to his grave.” Er’ril laughed sharply. “Don’t be so melodramatic, Brother. It is no great secret or arcane mastery. Brother Kallon was simply a better mage than you. You know this yourself. Before the book was forged, you complained many times to me of the old mage’s immeasurable skill, how he bested you at every turn. It was for this reason that I sought him once I realized the road was no longer safe. He was better than you.” Shorkan’s face remained cold, impassive, but Er’ril noticed how the flames of his sphere blew brighter with his anger. “Brother Kallon may have been more skilled long ago. But over the past five centuries, I have grown in power and talent.”

Shrugging, Er’ril nodded toward the wall of ice. “Ah… true. But I see you are still not strong enough to defeat Brother Kallon. His spell stands, mocking you to this day, a testament to his superiority.” Shorkan’s countenance finally broke. A savage fury filled his eyes; his lips pulled back in a feral growl; his brow grew dark with a threatening storm. “That will end this night! Brother Kallon’s spell will be defeated by one of my own! His death long ago will have come to naught. Both the book and you will be destroyed with the rising of the moon.”

Er’ril remained calm in the face of Shorkan’s fury, his words slow an d deliberate. “That is yet to be proven, my dear brother. Kallon ^as bested you before—and he will do so again this night.”

Shorkan glowered, anger choking him. He spun on Denal. “Lay out the knives and prepare a mage ring!” The boy mage placed his torch in a wall sconce and hurried forward. Bending down, he slipped two rose-handled knives from wrist sheaths and a long white candle from a pocket. Greshym joined the boy, setting aside his staff and collecting one of the knives. The old mage glanced at Er’ril, clearly worried by the plainsman’s goading of Shorkan. Finding no answer in Er’ril’s face, he returned to helping the boy.

Denal lit the candle with a wave of his tiny hand and began dripping its wax in a wide circle before the wall of ice. They meant to recreate the setting when the Blood Diary was forged.

As the pair worked, Shorkan stepped nearer Er’ril. “I will succeed,” he hissed. “I will thwart Brother Kallon by destroying what he sought to preserve. And in doing so, I will watch your heart break as all your hopes and struggles are laid to waste before you. I will see you defeated!” Shorkan slipped a knife from his own sleeve and held it before Er’ril. “Do you recognize this?” Now it was Er’ril’s turn to fail at feigning disinterest. His breath caught in his throat at the sight of the old worn dagger. “Father’s

hunting knife…“

Shorkan leered. “On the night of the book’s forging, you gave it to me. Do you remember?“

Er’ril’s face paled with the memory. Long ago, he had lent the knife to his brother for the spell of binding.

He had thought the knife forever lost. But to see the piece of his father’s memory now about to be employed for such a foul cause weakened his resolve.

Shorkan leaned over Er’ril. “I know our father meant much to you, Er’ril. I will enjoy seeing his heritage help destroy all that you

hold dear.“

Er’ril refused to cower before the vehemence of this other. He shot his words at Shorkan like arrows.

“Only if you first discover the

traitor in your midst.“

Shorkan’s left eye twitched toward the pair behind him. Er’ril kept his expression fixed. So his seed of distrust had found fertile

ground.

Er’ril spoke clearly. If Shorkan thought to use their father’s memory to dishearten him, he would return the favor. “A traitor stands with you, Brother—in this very room. This I swear on our father’s grave and eternal spirit.” Shock and dismay bloomed on Shorkan’s face. Enough of the old Shorkan remained for the fiend to know that Er’ril would not voice such an oath unless it was true. “Why warn me then? What trick is this?”

“It is no trick. I tell you because the knowledge will do you no good. You are too late, Brother. You are trapped. If you don’t find the traitor before the moon rises, you will be betrayed this night. And if you manage to destroy the traitor, you will be missing a key player in the spell of unbinding. Either way, the book will remain safe. There is no possible way for you to succeed.” Er’ril leaned closer to Shorkan and drove his words deep. “You have been outmatched, Brother.” Shorkan trembled with rage. “No!” He raised their father’s dagger and plunged it toward Er’ril’s throat.

“You will never win!”

“Stop!” The command burst from Greshym. “Shorkan, if you kill Er’ril, the spell will never work. He deceives you with his oath. Don’t listen to him. He only tries to trick you into killing him. He lies!” The knife tip rested in the hollow of Er’ril’s neck. Shorkan lowered the weapon and turned to face the pair of mages. His voice went cold. “No. Er’ril spoke truthfully. There is a traitor amongst us.” He raised his free hand toward Greshym. “I only threatened Er’ril to flush out the betrayer.” Greshym raised his arm in a warding motion, but Shorkan spun on Denal instead. Darkfire shot out of his hand and washed over the boy mage. As magick poured forth, Shorkan spoke. “Denal’s silence revealed his mutinous heart. If I had killed Er’ril, it would have destroyed any chance of unbinding the book. Your timely warning, Greshym, proved your trustworthiness.”

With a twist of his wrist, Shorkan tied off his magick. Denal lay bound from scalp to ankles in wraps of darkfire, like a fly in a spider’s web, unable to move, unable to speak.

Shorkan turned to Er’ril. “You erred in your plot, Brother. I don’t need this traitor’s cooperation, only his living body. Bound and imprisoned, Denal will still serve his role in the spell. Afterward, I will kill you both.” Shorkan stepped back toward Er’ril. “So you see, dear brother, it is you who have been outmatched.” I Er’ril kept his face blank. So far his plan was going perfectly. Shorkan had fallen into his trap like a blind rabbit. But Er’ril kept his hopes reined.

The moon would soon rise, and the final act was yet to be played.

Elena met with the others atop the deck of the Pale Stal-Hon. Ahead, the towering cliffs of the isle of Maunsk filled the western sky. The sun had already descended past the twin peaks of the island. Under the shadow of the cliffs and mountains, it was as if twilight had already fallen. The seas became a midnight blue; the brilliant green of the island became darker with menace. Only the azure sky above promised ample time before the moon yet rose. Still, Elena hugged her arms tight over her chest. Evening approached too

quickly.

From behind, Meric stepped to the rail beside her. His eyes were pained. “I’m sorry.”

Elena glanced away, unable to face him. “Why did you do it? Why did you call your queen’s forces here? I thought I could trust

you.“

Meric was silent for a long time. When he spoke, it was strained. “Back in Port Rawl, I sent a small bird from Mama Freda’s menagerie with a request for aid from my mother. I thought I was protecting you. I didn’t want you walking into the darkmages’ trap on A’loa Glen. If the island was destroyed first, I had hoped you’d finally put aside this banner of the wit’ch and end this war with the Dark Lord. Free of such a responsibility, I had thought you’d return to Storm-haven and claim your true heritage.”

“You know I’d never do that,” she said firmly. “With the book or without it, I will continue to struggle against the evil here.”

“Yes, I’ve too slowly come to realize that. After the trials in Shadow-brook, I had thought escape was the best recourse. But on hearing the tales of the Dre’rendi and the mer’ai, I now know that was a fool’s dream. You cannot turn your back on the evil here without losing a part of yourself, and even then the evil would still pursue you.” His voice became soft. “But that is not the only reason I knew you would not forsake this struggle.”

She swung toward him, her voice harsher than she intended.

“Then why else?”

He raised bright eyes toward her. “When Tol’chuk and I rejoinefi you, I saw how much you had changed—and not just in body. jt went deeper, something that struck me to the core. I finally saw the elv’in in you—saw our king in you. I knew then that you’d never forsake Alasea and that I’d forever stand at your side.”

Meric turned away. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I should have told you. I had hoped we’d have the book and be gone before she ever arrived.” He raised his gaze to the skies again. “But with the flight of her sunhawk, our time runs short. Her warships will soon be here.” Elena felt her knot of anger at Meric begin to soften. “How long do we have?”

“No more than a day.”

Elena joined him in searching the skies. “Then it probably won’t matter. By dawn, we’ll either be off the island with the book or we’ll be dead.” She turned to Meric and touched his shoulder. “Do not despair your actions, Meric. Sometimes understanding the truth in one’s own heart comes too late.” Elena thought of Er’ril. “I know this well.”

Meric glanced gratefully at her, his shoulders regaining some of their usual strength.

In silent forgiveness, Elena touched his arm, then turned to study the boat. Flint and the zo’ol were involved in guiding their craft through the treacherous reefs that ringed the isle of Maunsk. Orders were shouted back and forth, and slow corrections were made to the ship’s progress.

“El, can I talk to you a moment?” Elena turned to find her brother crossing toward her from the ship’s hatch. He bore his staff in a gloved hand. “What is it?”

“It’s about Er’ril.”

Elena fought to keep the wince from showing on her face. She had no desire to discuss the plainsman, but she could also not ignore Joach’s worries. “What about him?” Joach stopped beside her. He ran a hand over the thin reddish beard that now fuzzed his chin and cheeks.

Elena’s heart jumped. Just then, his simple gesture keenly reminded her of their father. He too had rubbed his chin in exactly the same manner whenever he’d

hard words to speak. For the first time, Elena recognized the an in her older brother. He was no longer the boy who had run vild through the orchards with her. Now she saw their father’s stern demeanor in his green eyes. “If Er’ril lives, he has spent over a quar-ter moon with the darkmages.”

“I know this,” she answered sharply.

Joach sighed. “I’m just suggesting that, if Er’ril still lives, he may not be the man you once knew. I know how their dark magick can corrupt and bend you to their will.”

“Er’ril will resist them,” she insisted, meaning to end this conversation. She feared Joach would renew her inner turmoil.

But Joach persisted. “I hope you’re right, El. I really do. But, please, I only ask that if you should come upon him on the island, perhaps it’s best if you assume the worst until proven otherwise.” Elena stared at her brother. He was asking her to distrust Er’ril. In her mind, she knew her brother’s words were wise, but in her heart, she fought back the urge to slap Joach. Er’ril would never betray them!

Joach seemed to sense her anger. He spoke even more softly. “Think on this, El. First, the black wyvern statue. Now Er’ril captured by the darkmages. It’s almost like my earlier dream is coming true.” He raised his staff, and small spurts of darkfire played along its surface. “Maybe it was a true weaving.”

“We already discussed this with Flint and Moris. Why bring it up again? Are you trying to scare me?” Joach’s eyes grew hard. “Yes, El. I am trying to scare you.” Elena began to turn away, waving a hand to dismiss him.

Joach grabbed her arm. “Listen to me,” he whispered. “I bring this to you now because… because…” He glanced around the deck to make sure no one else listened. “Because just now I was resting in my cabin and… and I had the dream again. The same dream! The wyvern attacking, the flash from my staff driving it off, Er’ril locking us atop the tower and coming at us with murder in his eyes.” Elena shook her head. “No—”

Joach squeezed her arm hard. “At least be wary of him. That is all I ask!” He let go of her arm.

Elena almost fell backward trying to escape her brother’s words. Before she could respond, a sharp call arose from the ship’s stern. It

was Flint. He stood at the wheel and pointed forward. “The en trance to the grotto! We’re almost there!

Gather your gear and b ready to disembark!”

Elena stepped toward the ship’s prow, meaning to watch their an proach, but Joach stopped her. “El?” She could not face him. “I know, Joach. I’ll be cautious.” Clenching her fist, she stared back at the smudge of smoke that marked the distant island of A’loa Glen. “But if Er’ril is corrupted, I will make them all pay. I will tear the island to its roots.” Joach backed from her vehemence.

She ignored his distraught look. As much as it hurt, she knew Joach was right. If Meric could betray her, then why not the others?

Had not Aunt Mycelle run off with Krai and the shape-shifters?

Elena turned and surveyed her companions here. Who could she count on during the battle ahead? Tol’chuk stood glumly, lost in his own worries. She hardly knew Mama Freda. Even the steadfast Flint was only human; he could be tricked or controlled just as easily as Joach had been by Greshym. And what of her own brother? She glanced out the corner of her eye as Joach held the staff that had killed their parents. When would the black magick begin to taint him?

Shaking her head, Elena turned away. She pictured Er’ril’s face and his quiet gray eyes. In her chest, a small piece of her heart died. She could no longer be the scared child who had trusted all others. In the days to come, she needed to harden her spirit.

Elena turned to stare one last time at the smudged sky marking A’loa Glen. “I’m sorry, Er’ril.” Joach watched his sister walk away. He knew his words had wounded her, but Elena had needed to hear them.

She needed to be cautious. Though she appeared a grown woman, Joach had suspected that a small part of her still remained his wide-eyed younger sister. But now, as Elena walked away, Joach knew that was no longer true. The child in her, her innocence, was gone. Elena was as much a woman in spirit as in form.

Swallowing hard, Joach turned away, and for a brief moment, he regretted coming to her. But as he remembered how Greshym had once controlled him, locked him in his own skull, he knew his decision had been correct. He knew that Er’ril could be just as easily

cpellcast. And no matter what anyone else argued, Joach was now cOnvinced that his dream was a true weaving, a glimpse of the future- Knowing this truth, he had owed it to his sister to warn her.

Resolute with his decision, Joach gripped his staff and crossed to join the others by the rail. They all watched their approach to the

island.

As the ship rounded the isle of Maunsk, the cliffs opened up before them. A deepwater channel led into the heart of the island. Overhead, the ship’s sails snapped as the craft heeled to the right. They now aimed directly for the narrow waterway. A soft shudder passed through the boat as its keel scraped a reef.

Flint called out from the stern. “Don’t worry! That’s the last of the rocks!“

His words proved true. The Pale Stallion glided smoothly between the steep walls of the ravine. To either side, green falls of foliage draped the rock. Pink and lavender blooms lay open to the late afternoon warmth, their fragrances so thick that their sweetness could be tasted on the tongue.

No one spoke as the boat sailed down the channel that split the two peaks of the island. The channel’s course curved gently to the left, then trailed in a long curve to the right. Finally it opened into a wide bay.

As their ship drifted into the wider expanse, Flint called for the sails to be reefed. The boat soon slowed.

Joach stared around. He saw no docks or beach to land the boat. In fact, the entire bay was surrounded by the same sheer cliffs as the channel. Looming over it all, the two peaks of the isle seemed to lean toward the boat.

Frowning, Joach drifted beside the zo’ol sailor he knew. “Xin, do you know where we’re going?” The small man tied off a line, then straightened and shrugged. “My men and I are to stay with the boat. The little one, Tok, will keep us company.”

“So where are we going then?”

Xin nodded toward the far side of the bay. A long narrow waterfall cascaded down from the heights to crash in a froth of spray at the foot of the cliffs. “The old Brother says you go that way.” Flint called out to them. “I’ve dropped the anchor! We need everyone and their gear on deck! Now! We’ll row to shore from

here.“

Joach turned and saw the other two zo’ol freeing the tarp from an oared boat latched to the starboard side of the ship. He began to take a step away to retrieve his pack, but Xin touched his arm, stopping him.

Xin’s green eyes seemed to shine slightly. “As a wizen, I sense the fear and worry in your heart, Joach, son of Morin’stal.” Xin raised a finger to touch the pale scar of an awakening eye on his dark forehead. “The fear arises from something your inner eye has seen.”

Joach’s brow bunched. “My dream___?”

Ignoring him, Xin reached and touched Joach’s forehead. “Know this. Just as ordinary eyes can be fooled by illusion, so can the spirit eye of the wizen. You are young to your powers yet. Do not let them rule you.” Xin moved his finger to Joach’s chest. “You must learn to look from here, too.” Confused, Joach did not know how to respond. “I… I will try.” Nodding, Xin slipped out an object from within his shirt. It was the dragon’s tooth pendant Joach had gifted to him in exchange for his name. Xin clutched it in his palm. “We have shared names and hearts. Remember this. If you need me, hold the black pearl and I will know.”

Joach frowned at his words. His hand drifted to the large smooth pearl in his pocket. Was this just native superstition of the zo’ol tribesmen, or was there truly power in their exchange of gifts? He touched the pearl and nodded to Xin. “I will remember.”

Satisfied, Xin returned to his ropes.

Joach hurried to obey Flint’s orders. Soon he had his pack over his shoulder and his staff in hand. He stood with the others. All were ready.

The oared boat had been lowered and now rested in the calm waters beside the ship. A rope ladder led down to it. Tol’chuk was already in the boat, holding the ladder stable. Flint helped Mama Freda over the rail.

In short order, the rest of them climbed down the slick rope and took their seats. Once all were aboard, Flint waved his arm; the rope ladder was pulled up. The three zo’ol and the boy Tok waved them off as Tol’chuk manned the oars near the stern. The og’re’s wide back and strong arms soon had the small boat moving quickly away from the ship.

“There should be a narrow beach to the left of the waterfall,” Flint instructed.

Ibl’chuk grunted his acknowledgment and dug deeper with the oars. The low roar of the waterfall grew louder as they approached. vfow even wisps of spray blew toward them. Joach glanced back and saw the Pale Stallion far behind. After so long aboard the small ship, it almost seemed like home. In his pocket, he clutched Xin’s black pearl; then he turned back to watch as the tiny boat angled slightly away from the waterfall.

With only a few more strokes, the rowboat ground into the thin strand of beach. The roar of the waterfall was deafening. Communicating with hand signals, Tol’chuk climbed out into the shallows and pulled the boat higher on the beach. Joach blinked at the og’re’s sheer strength.

With their craft beached, everyone disembarked. The furious spray from the crashing waters soaked them all to the skin.

Flint yelled to be heard. “Follow me! Stick close!” He led them along the narrow beach of coarse sand and rock toward the waterfall. As they neared, Flint pointed.

A gap between the cascade and the wet cliff face lay ahead. He led them there. Once near, a hollowed-out cave could be seen behind the waterfall. Flint waved them all to follow him inside.

They were forced to walk single file as they edged between the crash of waters and the rock wall. But once the cave was reached, they could gather again. Joach glanced around. The cavern ended only a few spans back. He had expected a secret tunnel or something. “Where do we go now?” he yelled over the fall’s roar.

Flint removed Er’ril’s small iron fist from a sealskin wrap. He raised it for all to see. “Like the Arch of the Archipelago, this is another site rich in elemental power. From here, the ward can open a path to the city.” Joach glanced back to the black rock of the cave. But Flint’s graveled voice drew his gaze back around.

He was pointing to the waterfall. “We go this way! Join hands to form a linked chain!” Leading them, Flint grabbed the iron ward with one hand and reached the other to Elena. She began to take his hand, but he shook his head. “Skin to skin! You’ll need to take off your gloves.” She nodded and did so. In the gloom of the cave, Elena’s two hands seemed almost to glow a soft ruby.

She took Flint’s hand, then reached for Joach.

Encumbered with the staff, he was forced to lodge the length of wood into the straps of his pack, then take off his own gloves Once ready, he accepted Elena’s hand. It was cold to his touch, as if he clutched the moon itself. He squeezed her palm in an attempt to reassure her. She offered him a slight smile, but it was as cold as her hand.

Turning away, he offered his other palm to Meric. Soon the party was linked, with Tol’chuk last in line.

Flint studied them, then nodded. “Do not break the chain until we are through! I’m not sure where on the island we will end up. It takes a master mage to wield these wards with precision. So be ready!“ Swinging around, he lifted the iron fist and stepped toward the waterfall. As he neared, the sheet of crashing waters grew glassy.

Stepping forward, Flint drew the others after him. As he reached out with the ward, the waters became as clear as fine crystal, but the wide bay and their boat were gone. The view beyond the falls was of buildings built of white bricks and towers that stretched toward the clouds.

It was the city of A’loa Glen!

Flint led them through the portal as if walking through an ordinary doorway. First the old Brother passed, then Elena. Joach followed next. He felt only a slight tingling in his skin as he stepped from the cave behind the waterfall and once again set foot onto the island of A’loa Glen.

But as Joach pierced the portal, the silent tableau of the city shattered. His ears were immediately assaulted by the screams and clashes of battle. Joach cringed from the noise. Smoke stung his nose, and the bellowing roar of dying dragons echoed all around him from the sun-scorched stones.

In one step, he had walked into the middle of a maelstrom.

Joach glanced behind him and saw Tol’chuk climb through the portal behind Mama Freda. The portal winked out behind them.

They now stood in the middle of a nondescript plaza in one of the higher levels of the city. Not far above, Joach spotted the battlements and towers of his old prison, the sprawling Edifice of A’loa Glen. His heart momentarily quailed at the sight. How could they ever hope to pierce the massive keep? As he stared, something struck him as wrong. He studied it a moment, then shivered as he recognized what was missing.

He raised an arm and pointed. “The tree!” he shouted. “The koa’kona is gone!” The dead branches of the mighty symbol of A’loa Glen normally sprouted out from the central courtyard to spread like a crown over the Edifice. But now it was gone!

Before he could even begin to fathom this portent, a voice arose from around the corner of a crumbled building. It was high and sibilant. “We’ve been waiting a long time for you to arrive.” Joach spun around. From every street, skal’tum clawed their way into the plaza. Even from the countless black windows overhead, pale faces leered down at them, razored teeth smiling at them.

Their group had entered a nest of skal’tum, an ambush.

A massive demon stepped into the plaza. It was the largest skal’tum Joach had ever seen. Its wings spread wide, striking an ancient pillar and shattering it. It leaned toward them with a hiss.

“Your delay hasss made us all very hungry!”

Sy-wen’s arm burned with fire, but she ignored the pain. The in-jury was not her own, but the dragon’s.

She glanced to her mount’s right wing. They had been sailing too near one of the city’s towers when it had suddenly exploded in flames. The spout of fire and debris had caught Ragnar’k by surprise. Only a sudden dive and twisting turn had kept them from annihilation.

Still, the dragon’s scales lay blistered and seared in a wide swath along the forward edge of his wing.

Ragnar’k sailed in a long curve away from the city’s edge. They now flew over the waves, aiming back for the beset fleet. Enemy ships fired arrows at their passing form, but their height was still beyond bow range.

But for how long? Ragnar’k continued to weaken with his injured wing, losing altitude rapidly.

Below, the Dre’rendi fleet lay in chaos. Attacking ships, most smaller than the warships of the Bloodriders, plied among the fleet. Arrows flew across the waves, some flaming, some poisoned. Almost every dragon-prowed warship was harried by the smaller, swifter craft. Like remora on sharks, scaling ladders and boarding hooks had latched many of the enemy boats to the bigger ships’ flanks. Battles raged across decks and rigging now.

Screams and shouted orders rang up from below.

But all was not lost. Among the adversaries’ boats, the seas were not friendly. The mer’ai and their dragons surged from below’t wreak havoc on the ships. Dragon claw and dragon fang ripped inr keels and men alike. Ships foundered everywhere. Berserkers vvh were tossed into the water became dragon fodder.

Yet even the mer’ai were not safe in their own seas. TentacleH beasts snatched unwary dragons or riders.

The worst of the undersea battle raged near the city’s edge. A mountainous leviathan lay within a nest of the monsters. Flailing pale tentacles ripped at the giant. It was as if the leviathan drifted in a sea of pale, flickering flames. Dragons, mounted and alone, fought to free the creature, but even from this height, Sy-wen knew the seabeast would not survive its injuries. The waters around the sunken towers now frothed with blood. Wrecked boats and corpses clogged the narrow channels of the submerged city.

Wincing away the pain, Sy-wen sent an urgent plea to Ragnar’k. We must ma’te it back to the Dragonsheart.

Ragnar’k tilted his head to flash one black crystalline eye at her. / will not fail you, my bonded . Hindered by the wounded wing, his body lurched under her as he fought for distance from the sea.

She leaned closer to his neck, running a hand along his straining flesh. She willed her mount strength. They must reach the high keel. “Kast, if you can hear me,” she whispered, “add your heart to Ragnar’k. I need you both.”

In her mind, she knew Kast was unaware of events that occurred after Ragnar’k took flesh. Still, her heart longed for him to hear her. Exhausted from the day of flying and fighting, Sy-wen allowed her eyes to close, just for a moment. With the wind whistling in her ears, the clash of battle faded to a dim roar. Kast, hear me, she urged silently.

From somewhere deep inside, an answer arose. Sy-wen could not say for sure if it came from within her or the dragon. They seemed one spirit. I am here, Sy-wen.

Her eyes fluttered open. “Kast? ” We are both here, my bonded . This was Ragnar’k. How? she sent to them.

/ think, after the lightning strike, the line between the two of us blurred , Kast answered. / now see what the dragon sees, but only as if in a dream .“

And you can speak to me?

is hard for Ragnar’k to allow this. It strains his control of his otim body.

Sy-wen sensed a silent agreement from the dragon, almost a dis-untled embarrassment. Ragnar’k never liked to admit a weakness. Then we must end this talk, Sy-wen sent. Ragnar’t must have his full ¦ength.

We must reach the Dragonsheart and the high keel. ‘t know. I saw. Ragnar’k onh allowed me a moment of shared union to lster your heart. He wanted you to know I was here, too. Sensing your in despair, he sought to ease it, even at his own expense . Sy-wen reached and rubbed her mount’s flank.

Warm sensa-ions flowed back to her from the dragon. “You both truly are my inded.“

/ must go, Kast sent back. Godspeed to you both. Your knowledge

<ust reach the fleet.

Sy-wen sensed Kast slip away. Ragnar’k seemed to surge slightly in strength, the heat off his body intense.

He angled across the battle below. Smoke marred their views, but the three-masted Dragonsheart could be seen far ahead. It kept mostly to the rear of the fighting. The high keel directed the fleet with horn and pigeon.

So far the battle was mostly a standstill, each force refusing to give ground. But not for long. The dark forces would win unless Sy-wen could reach the ship.

Their reconnaissance of the enemy’s defenses had revealed two vital details, information that needed to reach the Bloodriders. First, they had spotted several roosts of skal’tum in the deserted city. Shunning the sunlight, the beasts had been hard to find. But the dragon’s keen sense of smell had rooted them out.

Sy-wen estimated that at least another two legions, maybe three, were still kept in reserve upon the island.

She gritted her teeth. So many of the monsters still lived! She had hoped the battle in the sargassum forest had reduced their numbers more drastically.

Glancing back at the embattled city, Sy-wen knew speed was essential. The fleet needed to reach and subdue the docks before sunset. If they could at least gain a foothold on the island itself, their forces could use the crumpled buildings and tilted towers as a means of protection against the skal’tum. Upon the open seas, their fleet would be too vulnerable to the winged beasts. The tide of battle would quickly turn in favor of the enemy.

But word of the skal’tum legions was not the worst news she bore.

Sy-wen watched their approach toward the Dragonsheart . They need A to hurry.

Must go lower , Ragnar’k said. The throb of pain in Sy-wen’s rmk arm flared harsher. The strain of their flight was taking its toll. Just get us there. Even swim if you must.

The war loomed greater as they sank toward the embattled seas Soon the tops of masts skittered just under the dragon’s wings. Arrows from enemy ships now reached them, peppering Ragnar’k‘s underbelly, but so far the dragon’s thick scales protected him from harm.

In a few more swipes of his massive wings, they were beyond the worst of the battle and gliding low over the waves toward the rear of the fleet. The Dragonsheart lay just ahead.

Ragnar’k had to fight for additional height just to crest the ship’s rail. His landing atop the deck was more a crumpled crash. Silver talons tore into the deck, and his injured right wing collided with a mast. Agony shot down Sy-wen’s arm, but they finally came to a rest. Ragnar’k sank to the deck.

Sy-wen straightened in her seat. “Dragon’s blood!” she called out. “Bring us a draught now!” She dared not reverse the spell and call Kast forth yet, not with Ragnar’k so wounded.

Men who had fled from the crashing dragon now scurried about the deck. The high keel leaped from the stern deck and shouted for her to be obeyed. A cask was hurriedly rolled toward them.

No longer flying, Sy-wen got a whiff for the first time of the dragon’s burned flesh. She fought her stomach. The smell warned how deep the damage was, more so than even the pain. She glanced to the blistered tissue. Black scale, now seared a sickly white, oozed a clear, yellowish fluid. Even bone could be seen through the rent tissue at the forward edge of the wing. Sweet Mother, she had not realized how badly Ragnar’k had been injured. How had the great beast flown such a distance?

She was answered. Your heart, my bonded… I would not fail you .

She leaned forward and hugged his great neck, then quickly straightened. Before the dragon’s snout, a cask was rolled into position and tipped upright. The high keel himself stepped forward with ax in hand. With a single stroke, he chopped open the lid of the barrel.

“Drink!” he commanded.

Ragnar’k needed no urging. The scent of blood drew him. In Sy-en, the hunger of blood lust almost overwhelmed the pain from the , rn. Ragnar’k lowered his snout and drank the stored blood. In nly a few heartbeats, the full cask lay empty.

Almost immediately Sy-wen sensed the healing property of the dragon blood. The throb of pain in her arm dulled, as with a wash of coOl water. She almost sighed aloud in relief. Ragnar’k nosed the barrel away. “Do you need more?” Sy-wen asked. No. Ragnar’k^ is strong. Blood from puny dragons was enough .

Sy-wen sagged in relief. If the dragon’s haughtiness was returning, she knew he fared much better. “Then I must seek the counsel of these others, my mighty bonded.” Ragnar’k sent her a dismissive snort, as if such matters were beneath his attention.

Smiling at his growing arrogance, she slid from her seat to the deck, almost tumbling, her legs numb and tired from flying all day. Still, she managed to keep her feet with the timely aid of the high keel’s supporting hand. “Thank you,” she whispered to the tall chief. With her palm still on her dragon’s flank, Sy-wen turned to Ragnar’k. Rest now, my bonded .

Return soon . He swung and touched her gently with the tip of his snout. / will miss your scent.

“And I yours,” she said aloud and removed her hand. Sy-wen and the high keel retreated a step as the spell reversed itself. Wing and scale exploded out wildly, then whirled back down until only a naked man crouched on the deck.

Kast straightened and stumbled a step forward. His right arm was seared a deep red from shoulder to wrist. But even as Sy-wen rushed toward him, the injury paled to a pink glow. She fell into his arms as the high keel waved a man to fetch a set of breeches and a shirt.

Sy-wen felt the heat of his bare skin against her cheek and wished to stay in his arms forever, but the urgency of their news required them pulling apart too soon.

Kast leaned next to her. “I missed your scent, too,” he whispered. Sy-wen glanced up to him, her cheeks burning now. He kissed her deeply, once. Her knees buckled under her, but his strong arms were there to keep her from falling.

Too soon, one of the warriors hurried forward, his arms laden with clothing.

Kast brushed his fingertips across her cheek and down her neck then quickly dressed. He spoke to the high keel while slipping jnt: his breeches. “We must get word to the other keelchiefs. A change in the battle looms, and we must be prepared.”

“Come,” the high keel ordered once Kast was dressed. “We’ll re tire to my cabin. I’d have Bilatus hear your news, too.”

Kast nodded. He embraced Sy-wen under one arm, and together they followed the high keel below.

Sy-wen noticed that the war seemed to have energized the aging chief. He walked with vigor in his steps; even his eyes sparked with the excitement of battle.

In the chiefs cabin, they found the portly ship’s shaman poring over a set of tomes and maps. Bilatus raised his balding head, his cheeks rosy from the room’s heat. He pushed to his feet with a small groan. “Master Kast and Mistress Sy-wen, I had not known you had returned.” The high keel stepped forward. “Did you not hear the crash atop our decks and the commotion? ” Bilatus wore an apologetic expression as he waved an arm in the direction of the laden table. “My books…

When I’m studying, I’m lost to the world.”

The high keel clapped the fellow good-naturedly on the shoulder as he crossed to perch on a stool. “I would have it no other way. That is the role of shaman. You stick to your scrolls and maps, and let us warriors handle the swords.” The tall man waved for Sy-wen and Kast to take the pillowed chairs near the small hearth.

Once they were settled, the high keel shoved off his stool and stalked back and forth across the room, his energy too large for the small chamber. Sy-wen sensed that the man longed to return to the deck and the smoke of battle. “What news do you bring?”

Kast glanced at Sy-wen, but she nodded for him to tell. Kast quickly related their discovery of the skal’tum legions still awaiting release in the crumbled ruins of the city. “Once the sun sets, they will take wing and attack. We must take the island before that happens. We’ll need the cover of the buildings to wage a proper defense against the beasts.”

Kast’s tale slowed the high keel’s pacing. By the time Kast was finished, the chief had stopped, the fire dimming in his eyes.

“Dire news,” Bilatus said from near the table. “So what you’re saying is that we must direct all our forces in a full affront against the city’s docks? If we can commandeer the piers, we may survive.” The high keel clenched a fist. “We must more than survive. We ust win. The Dark Lord will not let us survive a half victory. If we’t wrest his forces from this island and take it over, there will be o safe seas anywhere for the Dre’rendi.” The high keel began pac-• g again. “You have brought us vital news. I must alert the others

and redirect our forces.“

He began to march toward the door, but Sy-wen stopped him.

“Before you act, we bring other news.”

The high keel turned, and in the man’s eyes, Sy-wen could see the fire flaring within. Here stood a true man of battle. Talk and strategy were not as important as sword and pike. “What else?” he demanded.

Sy-wen swallowed and spoke rapidly. “We risked a flight over the city’s castle to see what else may lie in wait. In a central court, we saw that the mighty tree there had been chopped down and its limbs were being axed to rubbish.”

“So?”

Kast answered. “The tree had always been a font of mag-ickal energies. This sudden action by the darkmages strikes me as

suspicious.“

Sy-wen nodded. “Also around the stump of the tree, we spotted a ring of black-robed men circling and chanting. Spread-eagled across the top of the stump, a young girl lay chained and writhing.” The fire died in the high keel’s eyes as he understood what they were trying to suggest. “They strive to call forth some black magick

to thwart us.“

“Yes,” Kast answered. “So besides striking for the docks, we’d best be prepared for other surprises. I suspect the worst is yet to

come.“

The high keel nodded more soberly. Now when he crossed toward the door, his stride was more urgent than excited. “I must

alert the fleet.“

As he reached for the latch, a sudden pounding on the door erupted from beyond. “Sir! You must come atop the decks! Something is amiss.”

The high keel glanced back at them. Worry now replaced the fire in his eyes. They all rose to follow him.

In a rush, they fled from the cabin, almost knocking aside the Bloodrider who had brought the warning.

Once atop the deck, Sy-wen knew instantly from which direction the current crisis arose. Everyone on deck stared and pointed north toward the island. Sy-wen hurried to the rail along with the others. Across the battlefield, a hush seemed to have fallen over the seas as if the combatants all held their breath. In the distance, the island stood in sharp detail as the sun sank toward the west. From the central peak, from the Edifice that crowned its top, a black pall rose into the blue sky, a column of darkness that could never be mistaken for smoke. It was more like a black beacon, a spire of dark light cast up from the depths of some foul netherworld. “What is it? ” the high keel asked. No one answered.

As they watched, the spear of darkness began to tilt like a toppling tower. It fell westward.

“Sweet Mother, no…” Sy-wen moaned. She knew the dire beacon arose from the magicked stump of the koa’kona, its last vestiges of white magick corrupted for this foul purpose.

The black shaft continued to fall until it pointed toward the setting sun.

“They cannot possibly wield such power,” Kast mumbled.

As they all watched, the end of the column of darkness bloomed like a foul rose and spread farther and farther across the western sky, pumping its blackness like spilled ink over the horizon. An eerie twilight descended over the seas as the sun was blocked. Sy-wen had only once before experienced such a strange quality to the light— when she was a child and had witnessed the moon eclipsing the sun. Such was the illumination now. Not night, but not day either, a shadowless half-light that weighed on one’s spirit like the pressure of the deep sea.

“They steal the sun from us,” Bilatus stated. “But why?” Sy-wen knew. She glanced from the western sky back to the island. “That’s why,” she mumbled and pointed.

Kast, Bilatus, and the high keel all turned. Across the seas, a new menace arose from the island. In the strange twilight, flocks of winged creatures rose like a pale fog from the city, rolling out toward the fleet.

“The skal’tum take flight,” Sy-wen said.

The high keel studied the approaching menace. “Then we are too late.” In a lone plaza, deep in the heart of A’loa Glen, Elena stood in the center of a maelstrom of energies. Raw magick sang in her blood, but it was an old song. Instead, she bent the tendrils of energy to her will, striking out in all directions with spates of coldfire. Blue tails of flame lashed out and whirled in a tangled net around her. None dared approach too close.

When first confronted by the skal’tum ambush, Elena had quickly bloodied her hands and brought the attack to the monsters. The others had followed suit, moving in stride to bolster her attack. While she lanced forth with coldfire, freezing and slowing the beasts, the others had struck.

Joach, with his staff already bled into a blood weapon, skillfully kept step with Elena’s dance of ice. What Elena froze, Joach shattered with a stroke of his stave. Meanwhile, Tol’chuk used the rune-carved d’warf hammer as an ordinary maid might use a broom. Directed by Flint, the og’re swept a deadly path through the beasts.

“We must get free of this open space!” Flint yelled, striking out with a sword. With the sun yet out, the beasts were vulnerable to common weapons. But the monsters’ strength, speed, and poisoned claws were still a serious threat.

Mama Freda also danced in the og’re’s shadow. Under the power of her herb, she was no longer a frail woman, but a whirlwind of death. Using darts dipped in venom and the keen eyesight of her pet tamrink, she showered the enemy with a rain of burning poison.

As they all fought the beasts in the plaza, Meric stood on the far side of Elena, matching her gale of energies with one of his own. His winds kept the skal’tum from attacking from overhead. Blasts of air caught wings and senc beasts tumbling into tower walls or crashing to the stone road.

While the others fought, Elena studied her quarry from her web of magick. Her team’s initial furious attack had caught the skal’tum by surprise. Even though Elena was sure the creatures had been warned by the darkmages to be wary of them, the beasts had never faced any serious challenge in the past. They had counted on sheer numbers to intimidate any group.

This day the beasts learned a deadly lesson.

When Elena had first struck out with her magick, the huge leader of this group had fled, clearly panicked.

Without guidance, the others had fought feebly and without coordination. So far, Elena’s group had kept them at bay. But Elena watched as the massive skal’tum, their chief, hissed orders and began to marshal its forces. The beast’s initial shock had worn off.

Now came the serious threat. Elena surveyed the remaining flock. While she and the others left a path of destruction, the plaza was still crowded with beasts. From windows and ledges above, more skal’tum threatened. The leader moved toward her tiny group, rallying the others to its side.

Unless something happened, her group was about to be swamped.

Another of their party must have realized the hopelessness of their situation. “El,” Joach hissed at her.

“Release the spirit spell. Disappear and run.”

Elena knew that if she did that, the beasts would ravage the others. “Not yet,” she answered her brother.

She raised her right hand, the one whose Rose had been gifted by spirit light. Though she refused to use its glow to fade away from sight, Elena had another power still held in reserve: ghostfire. She had yet to call forth the spirit magick pent up within the Rose of her right hand. She had been hesitant on how to put it to best use.

Lifting her gaze, she found her eyes meeting the leering leader of this flock. It seemed to sense her attention, and its sick grin grew. A slithering red tongue slipped from between its fangs to curl like a hungry serpent.

Suddenly, far above the plaza, a spear of darkness sprouted from the citadel atop the hill. The sudden blaze of magicks was felt by aj[—beast and men alike. It was as if a bolt of lightning had struck nearby, a prickling of power that rose the tiny hairs on the back of her arms.

Everyone’s eyes turned to stare at the cascade of black energies, even the monstrous chief skal’tum. When it turned to face them again, the amused glint had returned to its eyes. It stalked forward, claws gouging the ancient stone road.

Elena knew this was her only chance. Raising her left hand, she stanched her flow of coldfire and stepped free of her cocoon of blue flame. The beast slowed its approach, suspicious of Elena’s strange new tack.

Elena took a step nearer the towering leader. The flock at its side shifted nervously. She raised her right hand. As she concentrated, silver flames blew forth from her sliced palm to dance along each finger.

The leader seemed little impressed. “All the magick in the world can’t ssstop us all, little child. You will die, and I personally will eat

your heart.“

“Wrong, demon. I will eat yours,” she said coldly. Thrusting out her arm, fire shot from her fingers, forming a claw of silver fire. It dashed into the chest of the skal’tum.

The leader wore a shocked expression, then glanced down to stare at the limb of fire thrust into its chest.

Its skin did not burn. Raising its head, the huge beast cackled. “It ssseeems your pretty magick is no danger to me.”

“Wrong again,” Elena said calmly and clenched her outstretched hand into a hard fist.

The skal’tum suddenly spasmed.

Elena yanked her arm back and tugged the beast’s spirit from its body. The creature’s carcass collapsed to the stone pavement in a clatter of bone and wing. Left standing was a phantom etched by ghostfire in the shape of the beast. The trapped spirit struggled in the silver grip of Elena’s flaming magicks.

Neighboring skal’tum scattered away. Squeaks of fear and scrabbling claws sounded from all around.

Overhead, startled skal’tum took flight from their perches.

In a few short moments, the spirit’s writhing slowed and stopped.

Her magick had succeeded in branding the ghost to Elena’s w n “Sssspread my touch,” Elena hissed, mimicking the skal’tum lead She opened her hand.

Wings of ghostfire spread behind the phantom beast. It twist I and leaped at its nearest neighbor, diving within and ripping ¦ brother’s spirit loose. Now two spirits, burning with her will, Sto0 I upon the stone road.

They leaped at others.

Before such bewildering magick, the other skal’tum panicked leaderless and frightened. Some attempted to attack, but were quickly dealt with by Elena’s companions. Most of the others simply flecj Those that failed became fodder to the spread of her ghostfire. As with the ravers before, her magick swept through these beasts like fire through dry grass.

Soon the plaza and surrounding streets were littered with the discarded corpses of the skal’tum. Flashes of ghostfire sparked from farther down the avenues as her spirit dogs gave chase to the living.

Satisfied, Elena withdrew her magick from the hunters before they drained too much of her power. The handful of silver ghosts still visible vanished like the flames of spent candles. With the skal’tum weakened and scattered, her ghostfire army was no longer needed. With future battles ahead, preserving the last of her magick was more important.

Flint crossed to her side. “Good work. I had thought us lost for sure.” Elena ignored the compliment. “How did the skal’tum know we would portal to this specific location? I though it was a random jump ere.

Flint frowned and answered, seeming not to hear the suspicion in Elena’s voice. “With Er’ril captured, the Dark Lord must have learned of his ward and set up a magickal net to snare our portal and bring us specifically to this nest of monsters.”

Elena frowned and glanced to the sky. She hated to think that Er’ril could have betrayed them in even this manner. In her heart, she would rather believe Flint had led them into a trap, that he was the traitor.

As she pondered Flint’s words, a shaft of darkness began to eat the sunlight. A sick twilight settled over the city. “What of this?” she asked.

flint scratched his head. “Perhaps some means to help protect the st of the skal’tum. To keep the sunlight from weakening their dark

protections.“

y’ts if to prove his words, legions of skal’tum took flight from o0sts all across the city. They rose in massive numbers.

Toach moved beside them. “We should get off the streets. I don’t care to repeat this last battle.” The others mumbled their agreement.

Flint responded. “The hidden entrance to the catacombs is still much farther. We must reach the top city level, just below the Edifice itself. I’d guess almost a full league of travel still awaits us, so we should hurry.“

Flint then led them at a hard pace, up stairs and along narrow alleys. They passed sights both wondrous and sad. Statues as tall as towers stood everywhere. Some seemed to have weathered the centuries without blemish. Others lay toppled and broken. In one square, they had to cross under the stone fingers of a massive hand that rested from where it had broken off a statue high atop a tower.

They also passed areas where the seas seemed to bubble up from below, swamping entire sections of the city. As they skirted the edge of one such briny pond, something large and armored humped through the algae-slick waters. It reminded Elena of the kroc’an from the swamps. They gave the waters a wide berth.

Mostly as they fled, though, the city was just homes and buildings, long gone dark and empty. Winds whistled through the hollow husks of towers like the moaning cries of ancient ghosts. Elena found it hard to imagine that such a place was ever populated. But the city must have once housed hundreds of thousands of inhabitants. Tears suddenly rose in Elena’s eyes. It hurt to see how much her people had lost.

Finally, Flint spoke, breaking the spell of timelessness. “It… it should just be up ahead,” he gasped, winded from the long race across the city. “Just around the next bend—” As the grizzled Brother led them around the corner of a tulip-shaped building, he tripped to a stop. The rest of the team were too close on his heels to halt so fast. The group stumbled together in shock.

Crowding the next avenue, a squad of twenty squat creatures armored from head to toe stood guard. Though they stood small than Joach, each creature massed as much as Tol’chuk, all rriu I and bone under the armor.

Elena named the squat soldiers’ heritage. “D’warves.” The soldiers had clearly been awaiting them, axes raised, fac plates lowered. None moved, letting the enemy draw nearer. Not single one shifted even a finger, as if they were a score of brass-and steel sculptures. Elena sensed that these guards would not spook like their winged allies. From the cold stares and steady gazes, Elena knew the company would fight to the dying breath of the last d’warf. And with two hearts, each d’warf would be difficult to kill.

Pushing the others aside, Elena stepped forward, meaning to call forth her magick. Flint pulled her back.

“No, they wear spellcast armor. See how it glows? ”

Elena stared closer and saw how an oily sheen roiled slowly across the breastplates and greaves of their armor in hues of a rainbow. Now that it had been brought to her attention, she could almost smell the magick here. “What does it do? ”

“I’ve read old tales of dealing with d’warf ax guards. Their armor is forged with elemental warding charms.

Be cautious what you cast at them, Elena. It can dispel magick or reflect it back at its wielder. Beware using spells around such armor.”

Elena stepped forward, frowning, unsure what to do. “Where is the entrance to the catacombs?” she asked Flint. “At the end of this street.”

Elena’s eyes narrowed. Again she wondered how the darkmages seemed to know their every move.

Perhaps Greshym remembered more of the Hi’fai secrets than anyone supposed, and like Flint, he knew of this secret entrance and had set these guards. Still, Elena scowled at the forces here and at the suspicions that arose in her mind. Without turning, Elena knew the team awaited her next move. Her group numbered too few to survive a battle of steel and muscle with this force. She pondered her choices.

As she studied her opponents, she recalled an old lesson, something she had once overheard her father tell Joach: Sometimes a fight was best won with wits rather than either sword or fist. With the odds against them here, Elena knew that just such a time had arisen. They had only one small hope here. If she could weaken the black resolve of these guards, perhaps her group might survive this slaugh-BL Fr°m meeting Cassa Dar, Elena knew the d’warves had once • gen a noble people. It had only been the corrupting touch of the Qgrk Lord that had poisoned their hearts and bent them to his foul hidding- While her ghostfire might be unable to free their tainted nirits as it had the skal’turn, something else might hold such power, something that in a way was its own magick: memory.

Without turning, Elena called back to her group. “Tol’chuk, Ivteric, come join me.“

The og’re pushed forward with the elv’in at his side. Elena touched Tol’chuk’s shoulder. “Raise the hammer overhead for all

to see.“ He did so. Next, Elena glanced to Meric. ”On my signal, can you call forth a bolt of lightning to strike the hammer?“

“Yes, but without a natural storm brewing, I’ll need a few

moments.“

“Then prepare.” Elena stepped nearer the gathered ax guards and raised her voice so it rang down the avenue. “I command you to set aside your weapons. Do you stand in the way of your own salvation?“

As expected, there was no response. Elena waved Tol’chuk forward. “Do you recognize this relic? Have you forgotten your own heritage?” Elena raised her left arm and illuminated the rune-carved hammer with spurts of coldfire flame. The weapon now seemed to glow with its own inner radiance.

A few of the d’warves in front shifted, and one even lowered his ax. Elena knew they would not fail to recognize the Try’sil, the Thunder Hammer of the d’warves, a cherished symbol of their people’s past. But would the mere sight of it be enough to weaken the hold of the Dark Lord? Elena recalled how the memory of Linora had awoken Rockingham, breaking his black shackles. Could the same happen here? Was the Try’sil a powerful-enough symbol? And if not, could Elena make it so?

One of the ax guards stepped forward from the rest. “You seek to fool us with magicks of illusion,” he declared, his voice harsh. “The

Try’sil was lost ages ago.“

“No! On this night, the past lives again!” Elena signaled Meric forward with a sharp wave of her other hand. The elv’in seemed to sense his role here. He stepped from around the back of Tol’chuk, his magicks billowing his shirt and loose breeches. “Forged by the elv’in, the Try’sil was a gift to your people.“

The d’warf leader stepped back, his eyes wide inside his helm at the sight of Meric. “A Stormrider!”

“Yes! So it was before; so it is now! Remember who you once were! The hammer has the power to break ebon’stone, to break the spell of the Black Heart! Let it free you of his chains now! Let us pass and open your hearts to the possibility of your homelands again ringing with the strike of your hammers and the roar of your forges. Remember your past!“ Elena nodded to Meric, and a bolt of lightning cracked down from the twilight skies to strike the raised iron head of the hammer. Thunder crackled along the street. Elena blinked away the blinding flash as the thunder echoed and died. “Do you still doubt the power of your ancestors’ relic? ” Several of the d’warves had fallen to their knees, but others still remained standing, including their leader.

“How did you… ? How did you come by the Try’sil? It was lost ages ago.” Elena sensed that if she could sway this one d’warf, the others would follow suit. She lowered her voice, striving to pry trust from a hard heart. “It was not lost, only forgotten . One of your people stood guard over it for centuries, waiting for someone to carry it back home. I was chosen! I swore a blood oath to return the hammer to your homelands. And so I will!”

“The pr—prophecy,” the leader mumbled. His ax slipped lower. “Remember your past,” she whispered now. “Remember who you once were.” She waved to Tol’chuk, who passed the hammer to her. With the rune-carved haft held in both her open palms, Elena stepped before the d’warf leader. She lifted it before him “Though your hearts were blackened by the Gul’gothal lord and your hands stained with the blood of the innocent, the Try’sil has the power to cleanse you.”

The d’warf warrior raised a mailed hand toward the weapon; his fingers trembled, and for a moment, he could not touch it. Then, he shook off his chain mail glove and, ever so gently, reached a single finger to the hammer’s iron. Even this small connection to his people’s past unmanned him. He fell to his knees with a crash of steel on stone. He tore off his helm and raised his wrinkled face to the skies.

A cry of pain and sorrow flowed from his lips, as if he were casting out his own heart.

Elena stepped back, allowing the d’warf to face the pain of his lost past. She knew that no further words or demonstrations were needed. Still, she raised the hammer over her own head. “There is salvation,” she whispered to the others.

Behind their kneeling leader, the others all fell to join him.

Lowering the Try’sil, Elena again met the eyes of the guards’ chief. The well of pain behind his gaze was too deep even to fathom. His voice was strained to a small plea. “Go,” he said. “Free our people.” Elena nodded. “It will be done.” She led the others forward, still carrying the ax in both her palms. As she slowly passed among the kneeling d’warves, axes clattered to the cobbled pavement. Hands reached to touch the last symbol, of hope for their people. She allowed each of the guards to connect with their ancient past, to remember for this brief moment their forgotten homes far across the cold seas.

Then she was past them all, and only an open street lay before her. Flint pushed beside her, his eyes full of wonder as he glanced back at the d’warves. “You’ve walked us through fire,” he said, “with only the strength of your word.”

Elena turned away. “It was not my word. It was their own past.” Tol’chuk accepted the hammer back as the others joined Elena and Flint. “Where now?” Meric whispered.

Flint pointed forward. “This way. It’s just ahead.” The old Brother led them down the avenue to a side alley.

As Joach entered the narrow street, he glanced skyward and almost tripped. Elena followed his gaze to see what had startled him.

Flanking the alley were two structures. On the right was a tower of reddish orange bricks the color of sunset. It rose to a small parapet high above. To the left was one of the massive statues that dotted the city.

This one was of a gowned woman bearing a flowering sprig aloft in one hand. Joach’s eyes met hers.

“The Spire of the Departed,” Joach said with a nod toward the tower, “and the statue of Lady Sylla.” Elena shrugged, not understanding the significance. “This is where my dream took place, atop the Spire of the Departed.” He shifted his staff in his gloved hands. Without the touch of his skin, the wood had returned to its dark shade, a tool of black magick.

Elena remembered the details of Joach’s dream and the role fi‘ staff had played in it—how its magick had driven off the black winged monster and how it had slain Er’ril. “Are you sure this is the place?” she asked.

Joach only nodded, his eyes staring up at the distant parapet. Not hearing their quiet words, Flint waved them all to the back of the alley, where a wall of red brick blocked their way. He began counting the bricks from the ground and the side.

As she waited, Elena shivered with her brother’s words. It was as if his dream were coming true.

Ahead, Flint finally stopped counting and pushed three specific bricks. Each gave way and receded to the depth of a thumb. Upon pressing the third one, a sharp crack of an unlocking latch sounded from behind the wall.

Satisfied, Flint stepped back, then leaned both palms on the wall and shoved. A triangular section spun on an axis, opening the way into a dark tunnel beyond. He grinned at his success and waved them toward the opening. “The catacombs delve deep into the heart of Mount Orr, the peak upon which the Edifice rests.

This tunnel is an offshoot from the fourth level of the great spiral. We must reach the tenth level to retrieve the book.”

“Then let us hurry,” Elena said.

They all pushed inside, and Flint collected an oiled torch from a sconce. Once the torch was set to flame by a strike of flint, the old man shouldered the door closed. A staircase descended from the small landing here.

“Move quietly and cautiously,” he warned. “More traps or enemies might be placed along our path. I suggest that we also leave a guard at this door to protect our escape.” No one volunteered. No one wanted to abandon Elena. So Elena made the choice for them. She touched Tol’chuk’s shoulder. “If the d’warves have another change of heart or reinforcements are sent, the Try’sil may be needed to sway the enemy.” The og’re nodded. “I will guard your backs.” With the matter settled, Flint showed Tol’chuk how to work the door, and they proceeded down the stair. No one spoke for the hundred steps it took to reach the passages below. Flint led them quickly down a long winding hall to where it emptied into a wide passage.

Here the rough rock was polished to a sheen and adorned with carv-gs and stone grave markers. “The fourth level of the catacombs,” Flint whispered, raising his torch.

They continued deeper along this spiraling concourse. Mama preda had her pet Tikal scamper ahead into the darkness to spy out any ambushes. But without the eyes of her pet, Meric had to help guide the old woman. Their progress was too slow for Elena’s liking. Even though it was a false twilight above, Elena knew that true evening was not far behind.

Mama Freda suddenly hissed and dragged Meric to a stop. “What is it?” Flint asked, pushing near the old healer. “A light,” she answered. “Through Tikal’s eyes, I can see a glow reflecting around the curve of the passage farther ahead.” Flint frowned. “Someone else must be down here.”

“Can you get Tikal to creep nearer?” Elena asked. “I’ll try, but after the battle above, his fear runs high.” Mama Freda leaned against the wall. She tired rapidly as her herbs began to wear off. “I see… I see a man! He crouches along the side of the passage. The light comes from a small lantern he carries.”

“Are there any others?” Elena asked. “No, the passage is empty.”

“Strange,” Flint said. “What does he look like?”

“He wears a ragged white robe and looks disheveled, as if he has not bathed in many moons.”

“Hmm… The white robe suggests he may be one of my Brothers. There are many hidden passages and holes to hide from the evil here. If he’s truly managed to avoid the darkmage’s forces, he might have valuable information.” Flint leaned closer to Mama Freda. “Can you get Tikal to show himself? His response may give us some indication of his heart.”

“I’ll try,” Mama Freda mumbled. “But Tikal is shy of strangers.” They all stood in silence as Mama Freda used her bond to the tam-rink to guide its actions. Elena glanced to her brother, who wore a worried expression. She also eyed Flint but could read no deception in him. Still, there had been so many traps.

Could this be another?

Mama Freda suddenly smiled. “The fellow seems normal enough. Tikal startled him at first, but after the initial fright, he called my little pet to him. It seems that even in such a dire situation Tikal is not above begging a cookie from a stranger. He is now perched on the man’s shoulder enjoying a scrap of stale bread crust.“ Joach and Elena shared a glance.

“We should still be wary,” Flint cautioned, his face grim. “Let’s g0 and find out more about this odd denizen of the catacombs.”

Flint again took the lead. Joach followed with Elena at his side Meric and Mama Freda kept up the rear. It did not take long until the glow that Tikal had seen became apparent. Flint passed Meric his torch. “Let me go on alone. If it’s a trap, let it only catch me.” As Flint crept away, Elena nudged Joach. “Go with him.” Joach frowned at Elena, but something he saw in her eyes silenced any questions. Elena watched her brother join Flint. If the old Brother was the traitor setting these traps, Elena wanted someone else to bear testimony to what lay ahead. The pair disappeared around the curve of the corridor.

Elena held her breath. For too long, no sign of what might lie beyond was hinted. Elena bit her lip.

Suddenly a spate of mumbled conversation flowed around the corner, too low to make out any specific words. Elena glanced at Meric, then back down the passage. Suddenly, Joach popped around the corner.

He frantically waved them to follow, a smile of relief on his face.

Elena and the others hurried after him. Once around the corner, Elena saw Flint bent in whispered conversation with a ragged man. His once-white robe was soiled a deep gray, and his cheeks bristled with unkempt reddish beard, barely hiding the sunken, starved look to the man’s face. Contrasting his beard, the pate of his head was bald as a newborn.

“Who is it?” Elena asked.

“Brother Ewan,” Joach answered in an excited hush, his words rushed with relief. “He’s a healer. He… he was the one who helped treat Conch from his injuries. He stayed behind when we left the island before to see if he could be of help in defending the island from within. He is a Hi’fai, too, and knows all the secret byways. He’s been hiding out in the maze of the catacombs for the past moon.” Elena felt a burden lifted from her own heart. It was good to know someone could survive within the evil here. It stoked a measure of hope in her. Still, she remained cautious as she approached this stranger.

Flint waved Elena over. “I want you to meet someone—a friend ^ho knows several other ways in and out of the catacombs.”

Brother Ewan straightened from his crouch. He seemed embarrassed by his appearance. One hand went to smooth down his rumpled robe; the other tried to pull his beard into some semblance of order. Tikal still rode on his shoulder, noisily chewing on a crust of bread. “So this… this is your wit’ch, Brother Flint?” Elena nodded her head. “It’s good to meet you.”

Brother Ewan grinned shyly and took a step toward her. His motion slightly dislodged the little tamrink.

Tikal snatched at the man’s ear to keep his perch but missed. The Brother’s grin grew with the tiny beast’s antics. He caught Tikal as the tamrink slipped.

“I’m sorry,” Brother Ewan said, holding back a chuckle. “But I think this little creature has outlasted his welcome.” Brother Ewan lifted Tikal and, in one swift motion, snapped the tamrink’s neck and tossed his limp form away.

Mama Freda gasped and fell back into Meric’s arms. “Tikal!” The man’s grin continued to spread into a foul leer. “Now let me see this wit’ch of yours more closely.” Unburdened, he reached for Elena.

Too shocked to respond, Elena almost fell within his grip. Tikal’s sudden, brutal death had frozen her heart and mind. But Flint thrust himself between Ewan and Elena. He fumbled for his sheathed sword but was too slow.

Ewan ripped the ragged robe open, baring his chest. Latched to his pale skin were hundreds of small purple leeches. He lunged and hugged Flint before the old Brother could raise his sword.

Joach grabbed Elena and dragged her back. She was still too stunned to think clearly. “He’s an ill’guard, El!

We must get away!”

Meric hauled Mama Freda, now blind and broken, along with him, while Joach pulled Elena. As they stumbled back, Flint fell free of the ill’guard’s embrace. He turned as he collapsed, his face and neck covered with the sucking leeches. In only a single heartbeat, the sick creatures swelled to the size of bruised fists, drawing more than just blood from Flint. His very form and substance seemed to be sucked into the writhing parasites. Flint crashed to the floor. As the creatures rolled off their host, bone shone through the wounds they had left. Still, Flint struggled to dislodge the monsters. One hand rose, quivering, then collapsed back down as he died.

The last sight Elena saw before she was drawn around the corner was Brother Ewan stepping over Flint’s corpse. His chest, now bare after hugging Flint, sprouted a new crop of the purple leeches, ready for the next harvest.

Then Elena was around the corner, and they raced away. As they ran, the horror slowly lost its paralyzing hold on Elena. She was able to think again and slowed to a stop. Joach tried to tug her onward, but she let out one sob and pushed him away. “Go! Run!”

“El?”

Elena raised her right hand and unbound the spell that locked away the spirit glow. Her hand bloomed a rosy azure. She fed the magick into her hand and willed the glow to spread. Elena saw the effect in Joach’s eyes as she vanished from sight. “Take Mama Freda and Meric!” she ordered. “Join Tol’chuk!”

“You can’t face the ill’guard alone.”

Elena frowned and hurriedly shed her clothes. “I’m not going to confront it. We don’t have the time. But I must check on Flint and retrieve the ward, while you all lead the monster away from me. Can you do that?” Joach nodded. “What are you going to do? ”

“I am going to get that cursed book!” She removed the last of her underclothes, then retrieved her wit’ch’s dagger. She held it before Joach and blew forth her magick from her fist. In his eyes, she saw the knife vanish.

After a few moments, Joach glanced up and down the passage. “El?” he probed tentatively.

Elena remained silent. She saw a look of fear and defeat grow on his face. He glanced back down the passage, thinking she had already left. “Be careful, El.” But before he turned away, he added in a whisper.

“I love you.”

Elena did not fight the tears that rose in her eyes.

There was no one to see them anyway.

Er’ril stood between the wall of black ice and the darkmage’s circle of wax. His chains, now bolted in place to iron rings in the floor, only allowed him a single step in any direction. He had been stripped of his shirt; black runes of power had been carved into his

chest with the tip of Shorkan’s blade, their father’s hunting knife. Blood dribbled in hot trails down his belly, soaking into his belted breeches. Er’ril ignored the pain from the thirteen runes; his greater concern was on the final rites being performed within the mage ring. Half naked, his one arm bound to his waist, Er’ril felt a twinge of vulnerability. All his hopes would depend on the next few moments.

Denal stood within the ring wrapped in binds of dark energy, all but forgotten. Only his eyes shone brightly with terror and anger as, like Er’ril, he studied the final preparations of the other two mages.

Greshym spoke as he and Shorkan painted symbols on the floor along the inside edge of the mage ring with his own black blood. “I sense the Dire Beacon has been lit. The skal’tum must already be in flight.”

“It matters not,” Shorkan said. “With the number of traps set in and around the island, we have no need to fear intruders. By the rising of the moon, the island will no longer matter. With the book unbound, this city will be only a place of ghosts and lost hopes. We will have been victorious.” Greshym met Er’ril’s eye for a breath, then glanced away again. It was the signal. Er’ril cleared his throat.

“Shorkan, you will fail here,” he spat out. “Brother Kallon’s spell will defeat you… again.” Shorkan continued to work, undaunted and undistracted by his words. “It was your blood that fed this spell, Er’ril. And it will be your blood that breaks it.”

“Are you so sure, Brother? I tell you that a piece of the puzzle yet escapes you.”

“And what might that be?”

“You were right. The spell did require my blood and part of the magick of eternity gifted by the book. It even took a part of the tome’s power, too. But it took one last item, something you have never suspected.

This missing element will be your downfall.”

“And I suppose you’re going to tell me?”

Er’ril’s eyes narrowed. “You may have weaseled out my companion here,” he said with a nod toward the bound Denal. “But this last secret I will never tell—not even to save the wit’ch.” Shorkan shrugged and went back to his painting. “I thought not. Well, I’ll take my chances, dear brother.”

“You will die if you try, and there will be no coming back.” Shorkan waved his words away. “Enough, Er’ril. I know you grow desperate. Your protests only help support that I’m on the right path here.”

Er’ril frowned. He needed to get Shorkan to react, to abandon his painting for a moment. Greshym needed a distraction to complete his betrayal. Even now Greshym glared at Er’ril. Time was running out.

Er’ril’s mind spun. “Think back, Shorkan. From the times you’ve tried to pierce Brother Kallon’s spell before, you know there is something unusual in the spell. Something that confounded you.” Shorkan scowled but finally pushed to his feet. He stepped toward Er’ril, keeping the wax ring between them. “Then tell me. What is it that you think my spell is missing? ” Even as evil flowed in waves from the darkmage, Er’ril kept his stance. He had to keep the man’s eyes on him. Er’ril dared not even glance to see if Greshym was taking action. “And what boon will I gain if I tell you?”

“I can make it so you survive this night,” Shorkan growled.

“And what of my freedom? Do I live in your dungeons?”

“That is up to you, Brother. Now tell me what—” Suddenly, Shorkan spun around on a heel.

Er’ril glanced to Greshym. The old bent-backed mage still knelt at the ring’s edge.

“What are you doing?” Shorkan screamed. “That is not the correct rune!” Greshym did not answer, only stood with the aid of his staff and stepped out of the ring. Shorkan leaped at him, but Greshym reached within the wax circle with his staff and tapped the last rune he had painted. The symbol, two twining snakes, glowed with a reddish fire. “The rune of entrapment is the right rune for my purposes, Shorkan!”

Shorkan’s dive pulled up short of the ring’s edge. He stumbled back from it. “You!” He seethed at Greshym, his face as black as thunderclouds. He then glanced back to Denal.

Greshym waved a hand at the boy. “Yes, Denal was always the loyal one, always the little pup.” Shorkan stalked along the ring as if seeking a means of escape.

“You know the spell I cast,” Greshym explained. “You will live as long as you don’t try to cross the mage circle.”

Shorkan crossed back to glare at Greshym across the thin dribble of wax. “Why?” Thumping with his cane, Greshym sidled around the ring. “I could not let you destroy the Blood Diary. It is the only hope of returning vitality to these hoary bones of mine.”

“Vitality? You already live forever! What gift could be greater?” Now it was Greshym’s turn to spin on Shorkan. “I will tell you what gift is greater. You see it in the mirror each morning. Youth! Of what use is immortality if one continues to age and rot!” Greshym spat at Shorkan, but his spittle hit the invisible barrier above the wax and sizzled in midair.

Greshym continued around the circle until he stood beside Er’ril. “Your brother and I made a deal.”

“You’d betray the master for such a small prize?”

“Master?” Greshym let out a rude noise. “What do I care of the Black Heart’s machinations? You were his pet, not me. As for this small prize, it is the least I deserve after serving the Black Beast for so long.”

“You will pay for your blasphemy, Greshym. This I promise.” Greshym ignored Shorkan and turned to Er’ril. “Now to complete our deal, plainsman.” Resting his staff in the crook of an arm, Greshym reached to the shackle imprisoning Er’ril’s wrist. With a wave of his fingers, the irons opened, and Er’ril’s arm was finally free. “I don’t know where you hid the sliver of my staff, Er’ril. But the magick in it is now active. It will unfetter your ankle chains and free you. It will also open any lock that stands between you and freedom.”

Er’ril reached for his neck, but Greshym stopped him with a claw on his wrist.

“But first, you promised to free the book. You claimed to have the power.” Er’ril nodded. “I do.” He did not know if Greshym’s promise of freedom was true or not, but Er’ril had plotted his own defense against any betrayal by the darkmage. Yet it was a dangerous game each man played.

Turning, Er’ril stepped toward the wall of black ice. Over its surface, ageless energies still coursed. Er’ril could see a reflection of the room behind him in its glassy surface. He saw Greshym’s hungry expression.

He watched the old mage’s fingers greedily clasp at the

wood of his staff. Er’ril raised his own hand to the ice barrier, but sudden motion in the reflection stopped him.

Turning with a clank of chains, he saw Shorkan shove Denal and topple the boy mage backward. His small form sprawled across the wax ring. Instantly, the spell of entrapment punished its prisoner. Even through the bindings of dark energies, the boy’s screams sounded. His tiny body writhed on the pyre of the wax ring. Smoke and the sizzle of burning flesh swelled in the small room. Denal’s bindings were quickly eaten away, revealing a charred husk underneath. And still the boy struggled. A bleating cry flowed from his cracked and blackened lips, until eventually even this died away.

Shorkan waited no longer. Using the boy’s charred corpse like a bridge, he leaped across the wax ring. But even through this weakened section of the barrier, Shorkan did not escape unscathed. A scream shattered from his throat as he landed in a crumpled pile. His white robe, now just ash, clung to his seared skin.

Yellow blisters and large swaths of burned skin covered his body. Even his hair and brows had been burned away, leaving him looking as old as Greshym. But Shorkan still lived! The mage rose slowly to his feet, tottering on limbs that still smoked. He stumbled a few steps toward where Greshym and Er’ril stood atunned. Shorkan’s voice croaked at them. “I… I will stop you.” Twin spouts of darkfire erupted from Shorkan’s burned arms.

Greshym stepped forward and raised his staff, blocking the flow of force—but just barely. Er’ril saw how Greshym’s arm shook as he held out his talisman against the might of Shorkan. The length of wood steamed and smoked in the old mage’s grip.

Er’ril scooted away from the combatants to the full length of his chains. His bare back now touched the ice wall. He stared in shock at the show of force. For Shorkan still to be able to wield such strength after sustaining those burns spoke of the depth of his well of power. Er’ril’s fingers scrabbled to his neck. He fished free the shard of Greshym’s staff. If he was to help in this fight, he needed to be free.

Er’ril waved the sliver of wood over the locks that bound his ankles—but nothing happened. He even tried using the piece as a lock pick, digging at the keyhole. Still the irons remained bound as ever. Scowling, Er’ril straightened up. There was no magick in the shard of staff. It had been a trick. Greshym had played him well, giving him something tangible upon which to pin his hopes. Er’ril tossed aside the useless piece of wood and kicked at his chains.

Nearby, the spout of darkfire from Shorkan’s arms began to wane and was soon sputtering, finally revealing a bottom to his well of black energies. Shorkan’s arms dropped, and the flow ended. Using the last dregs of his power, he opened a swirling black portal under his feet and dropped away, but not before gasping out one final threat. “I… I will get my revenge… on both of you!” Then he was gone.

Greshym still held his staff before him in a warding gesture, but with the disappearance of Shorkan, the old mage suddenly sagged. His staff fell to ash in his grip, crumbling away. Er’ril realized Shorkan had come to within a breath of defeating Greshym. Now nearly spent, the old mage had to support himself against the wall of ice and shuffle toward Er’ril.

“The book…” he whispered through cold lips. “We must hurry.”

“Where did Shorkan go?”

Greshym shook his head and leaned in exhaustion against the ice wall. “I don’t know. Most likely to his tower. Or maybe he’ll just flee. He may use the Weirgate that delivered you here to escape back to Blackhall.”

“A Weirgate?”

Greshym waved his arm weakly. “That ebon’stone statue of a wyvern. It is a portal to the Weir. But none of that matters. Free the book!”

Er’ril knew now would be the only chance to gain information from this mage. He was weak and needed Er’ril’s help. “What is this Weir? And why were you transporting the statue to Winterfell?” Greshym’s gaze became more solid. His eyes narrowed with suspicion. “It no longer matters. Free the book,” he commanded.

“Not until you answer my questions. As you said, time is running short.” Greshym stared angrily at Er’ril, then sighed. “You ask for a quick answer to a long tale.”

“Just give me what you know.”

Greshym sighed, his breath foul on Er’ril’s skin. “As you probably have learned from your dealings with the ill’guard, small pieces of ebon’stone have the power to trap and corrupt spirits.”

“This I know. But what does this have to do with the Weir and Weirgates?”

“It’s complicated. When ebon’stone was first mined, four large pieces were sculpted by the d’warves into massive beasts: griffin, man-ticore, basilisk, and wyvern. These larger pieces of pure ebon’stone were found to hold an even greater power. They could trap not only spirits, but for those folks rich in magick, the ebon’stone could also trap the person themselves. This is what happened to you. Your ward’s magick activated the ebon’stone, and you were drawn inside the dark dimension of the Weir.”

“I don’t remember any of that.”

“The Weir has that effect unless you are prepared and trained. And even then it’s a danger. You can easily lose yourself in there. Even I wouldn’t risk entering one of those gates. But once you entered the Weirgate, Shorkan sensed you and called the wyvern back here, bringing you to us.”

“But why were you hauling the statue to Winterfell in the first place?” Greshym frowned. “Some new plan of the Dark Lord. He had ordered three of the Weirgates—the basilisk, the griffin, and the wyvern—to different regions of Alasea. But I was not privy as to why. And no one questions the Black Heart’s orders. Shorkan suspected it had something to do with strengthening the Weir.”

“You keep mentioning this Weir. What exactly is it?”

Greshym shook his head. “I don’t even think Shorkan could answer that. All we know is that long ago something fell within one of the gates and became trapped, but it was too large to be held by any one gate.

It spread to all four, linking them forever and trapping itself for eternity.”

“But what does the Weir do?”

Greshym glanced to Er’ril, cunning entering his eyes again. “Enough with this interrogation. I’ll answer this last question only if you swear to free the book next.”

Er’ril frowned.

“Trust me. You will want the answer. It is one of the most guarded secrets of the Dark Lord.” Er’ril licked his lips. He knew he could not keep the darkmage talking for much longer. One more answer would have to suffice. “Fine. I swear to free the book. So what does this Weir do?” Greshym leaned in close. “It is the well of the Dark Lord’s power, his sole font of black magick! The Weir is where he draws his power.”

Er’ril’s throat clenched. Here was the answer to a mystery that had plagued the Brotherhood for centuries—the source of the Black Heart’s strength! If only the Brotherhood had managed to obtain this information centuries ago, they could have perhaps devised a way to cut the Dark Lord from his magick.

Greshym had not lied. This information was worth the price of his oath.

“Now break the spell and unleash the Blood Diary,” Greshym said eagerly, though he leaned heavily on the ice wall. The mage tired rapidly.

Er’ril nodded, still too stunned to speak. He twisted to face the wall of black ice and once again ran his hand along it. Finally he sensed the proper spot to unlock the barrier. Now to fit the key. Er’ril turned to lean his amputated shoulder against the ice one last time and faced Greshym. “I told Shorkan that the spell required more than just my blood and magick.”

“Yes, I remember your ruse.”

“It was no ruse. The price was high.” Er’ril pressed his shoulder firmly to the iced lock in the wall. “It also took my flesh.”

Searing pain shot into Er’ril’s shoulder as bone, muscle, and fiber found their old home. All around, the black ice melted from the walls and ceiling, shrinking down toward where Er’ril stood.

As the wall vanished under Greshym, taking away his support, the old mage teetered and fell to his knees, his eyes wide at the transformation as the spell ended. He stared up at Er’ril as the last vestiges of the magick melted away. “You were the key all along!”

Er’ril glanced to his scarred shoulder stump. An arm of muscle and bone now lay attached. It was no phantom arm, but his own, a limb he had sacrificed centuries ago to fuel the spell here. He bent the arm to his chest. Clutched in his hand was a book he had not seen in centuries, a battered black diary with a scrolled burgundy rose etched on its cover.

Greshym followed the book’s path. “The Blood Diary!” Er’ril kept it from the mage’s reach.

“We had a pact,” Greshym snapped. “You swore an oath.”

“I swore to free the book. I have done so.” He then stepped with a clink of chains and rolled the sliver of staff he had discarded a

moment ago toward Greshym. “This is useless. You sought to betray me.” Er’ril ground the shard of wood under his heel. “So any other promises we once made to each other are now void.” Greshym fought to pull to his feet, but without his staff and weak from his fight with Shorkan, the mage was slow.

Er’ril pulled the book farther away from Greshym, resting it upon his own rune-carved chest. With its touch, his sliced skin drew together, and the foul markings vanished. “You forget the book protects me—and not just with longevity.” About Er’ril’s ankles, his iron shackles clanked to the stone floor. Er’ril shook free of the chains and stepped back. Free at last.

Greshym raised an arm, ready to lash out with the remains of his black magick, but Er’ril lifted the book between them. “I think the magick in the Blood Diary will protect me, but if not, before your magick reaches me, it will destroy your only hope of ever obtaining your youth.” The old mage’s arm slowly dropped.

“Besides, I would suggest you let us keep the book. Elena and I will need it to destroy the Dark Lord. And after your betrayal here, you had best hope we succeed, Greshym. I do not believe the Black Heart will look kindly on your actions this day.”

Greshym’s face paled as he realized the truth in Er’ril’s words. With a final searing scowl, Greshym waved his hand and opened his own portal. As the old mage sank away, he spat out a final warning. “This is not over yet, Er’ril.”

Before Er’ril could answer, Greshym was gone. Er’ril lifted the book before him. He didn’t know what shocked him more, the reclamation of the book or the return of his arm. He ran a finger along the limb. A shiver ran down Er’ril’s bare back, and gooseflesh pimpled his skin. After so many years, the arm seemed so unnatural, but at the same time, it felt like coming home. Odd memories returned, as if these recollections had been trapped in the stolen flesh and only now returned with his arm: memories of baling hay in the fields, swinging a scythe in a two-handed grip, even hugging his father good-bye when he left for the last time with his brother, Shorkan. All memories of a simpler time, a more generous life.

Er’ril shook his head. Unlike his missing arm, that past was lost to him forever. No magick could bring it back.

His eyes came to rest on the Blood Diary. So many lives destroyed for this old battered book. He opened the cover and read the only entry, words that had first appeared on that fateful night long ago: And so the book was forged, soaked in the blood of an innocent at midnight in the Valley of the Moon. He who would carry it read the first words and choked in tears for his lost brother… and his lost innocence.

Neither would ever return.

Er’ril closed the book and thought of his brother and of the path of centuries that led to this room. Then too there had been a ring of wax and the corpse of a boy. Er’ril shook his head and crossed from the room, grabbing the torch from the wall.

The book’s words had proven too true.

Elena knelt by Flint. Naked except for her wit’ch’s dagger, she felt particularly exposed and vulnerable, though none could see her. She kept her eyes averted as she reached over Flint’s body. His face and neck were a cratered ruin. She touched his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered and reached to a satchel at his waist. She felt like a grave robber as she fingered open the ties to his side pouch. From inside, she rolled out the small sculpted fist, the ward of A’loa Glen. The red iron glowed like fresh blood in the light from the discarded lantern.

Straightening, she weighed the fist in one hand and her wit’ch’s dagger in the other. She needed to choose which to take; she was skilled enough to hide only one object with her magick. According to Flint’s estimation, she would need the ward’s magick to free the book, but she hated to leave the knife, abandoning her only other weapon.

As she pondered her choices, a small noise startled her. She clutched the knife in fright, dropping the ward.

Rolling around, she raised her knife in menace. But nothing was there. Then the noise repeated: a small mewling almost too soft to hear. The sound stretched long enough for Elena to Follow it to its source. In the shadows near the base of the wall, Tikal’s crumpled form lay limp.

Elena crouched and slinked to the animal’s side. The tamrink lay on its back, its neck twisted unnaturally.

As she watched, Elena saw

its chest softly rise and fall. She reached with a finger and touched the beast. A moan answered her probing. Elena winced. The little creature still lived.

Glancing back to the discarded ward, Elena knew she needed to hurry, but Tikal’s small cries stirred an ache in her heart. She paused, unsure what to do. Elena clenched her fist around her knife and knew she could end Tikal’s suffering with one thrust. She even lifted the dagger, but then lowered it again. She couldn’t do it. Though her heart had grown harder on the journey here, it was not that hard. She had seen too much death these past days and could not slay this injured beast. But neither could she ignore it.

Tikal was more than just a pet. He was also the eyes of Mama Freda. Biting her lower lip, Elena made her decision. She gently lifted the small tamrink, surprised at the softness of his fur. The cries worsened as she moved him. Cringing, she straightened his twisted neck. Bones grated. Tikal’s mewling changed in pitch to a sharp whimpering. Elena cringed at the noise but did not stop. To survive, pain was sometimes necessary. This was one of the harsh lessons she had learned.

Finally, Tikal’s neck was straight. Cradling the tamrink, Elena bloodied one of the beast’s tiny fingers; then she did the same with her own. She remembered her old lessons. She must let only a small amount of her magick flow into another. Taking a calming breath, Elena lowered her bloody finger to Tikal’s fresh wound. She kept her magick bottled inside her. She must let only a drop of her blood pass. As her finger touched, Elena’s thoughts bridged to the creature’s for a brief moment. She merged with the beast, felt the raw ache in his neck, and sensed the dull awareness of the tamrink buried deep down. Then, for a single flash, she was somewhere else. She was stumbling in another’s arm, racing, joints protesting, confused and blind. Blinking, Elena pulled back her finger. She was back in her own skin. Elena knew that for that moment she had traveled along Tikal’s connection to Mama Freda.

The brief contact reminded Elei^a of her duty. The others fled to lead the ill’guard away, and she was wasting her time reviving an injured animal. Elena settled Tikal back to the floor. The tamrink breathed much deeper now, and as she watched, Tikal’s legs began to twitch and a small arm lifted to paw at an ear. From here, the tamrink would have to mend on its own.

Elena crossed back to the iron ward and retrieved it from the floor. This time she had no problem deciding which object to keep. She placed her knife near Flint and settled the ward in her right palm.

After sensing the terror in Mama Freda, Elena knew she could face her own fears without her dagger.

The ward was more

important.

Decided, Elena stood straighten As she paused, she heard the scuff of boot on rock. Swinging around, she realized it was coming from deeper down the catacombs. To confirm her suspicion, she saw light flickering from down the corridor. Someone else was coming!

Elena flattened herself against the wall. She pictured all manner of dangers: skal’tum, d’warves, ill’guard.

What now? As she held her breath, the light grew. Shortly the flame of a torch came into sight around the curve of the passage. Elena tried to pierce the glare of the torchlight. The figure held the flame before him.

Its brightness masked any details.

At least it was only one person. Still, she refrained from breathing, fearful of alerting the enemy to her presence. So when she finally caught her first glimpse of the newcomer’s face, a trapped gasp escaped her. She could never mistake that sweep of black hair, the ruddy planes of his face, and those storm-gray eyes. It was Er’ril!

Elena stepped away from the wall. But, of course, Er’ril could not see her. Instead, his eyes fixed on the collapsed form of Flint in the hall, outlined in the lantern light. Er’ril hurried toward the body.

Raising a hand, Elena thought to call to him. Then Er’ril lifted his torch higher and wiped at his forehead with his other hand. Elena stumbled back, almost stepping on Flint’s body. Er’ril had two arms now!

Nearly blind from shock, Elena dodged to the side as Er’ril rushed forward.

He tossed aside the torch and fell to his knees beside the dead man. His hands hovered over the corpse as if disbelieving what he saw. For the first time, Elena saw that Er’ril held something in his other hand: a tattered book. As he set the tome down, Elena took a small step forward. She spied the gilt-edged rose on its cover and blinked in shock. She covered her mouth to hold in a gasp. She recognized the book from Er’ril’s description. The Blood Diary.

“Flint…” Er’ril’s voice drew Elena’s attention. He reached and carefully turned Flint’s head, exposing the silver starred earring.

Er’ril covered his face with a hand, his fingers dark from the torch’s soot. “Flint, this is all my fault. I… I did this to you.”

Er’ril’s guilt confused Elena. He sounded so genuine and heartfelt, but why? How exactly was he to blame for Flint’s death? And what of those two arms? Joach’s dream played in her head: Er’ril, with two arms, hunting her down atop a tower with murderous intent. Dare she trust this man? After knowing Er’ril for so long with only the one arm, this man with two seemed a stranger, especially bare chested, like now. It changed his whole physique.

Elena remained quiet. She was safe as long as she remained silent and hidden. She would heed Joach’s warning and be wary—for now. As she watched, Er’ril collected the book and pushed to his feet. While doing so, his toe nudged her abandoned wit’ch’s dagger. He glanced down and spotted it. Retrieving the knife, he turned it over in his hands. Of course he recognized it. Er’ril glanced up and down the corridor as if seeking some answer. “Flint, you fool, you brought her here.” Er’ril held up the dagger, then shoved the blade into his belt. “Elena,” he said roughly, his eyes bright, “if you’re here, I’ll find you.”

Elena pulled back from the fire in Er’ril’s gaze. She had never seen such heat in the plainsman before. In the past, he had always been warm, thoughtful, and supportive. But what Elena saw now went much deeper, a flame that arose from a depth that unnerved her. Like his new arm, Elena had never seen this side of Er’ril.

Where had it come from? Was it natural or unnatural? Was this new intensity directed at saving her or killing her?

As Elena weighed his words, Er’ril collected the ill’guard’s lantern. With a final glance at Flint, he started a fast pace toward the distant surface.

Elena leaned her head against the cool stone of the catacomb. Then she let out a long breath and began dogging the trail of this mysterious two-armed stranger. She would not give up the hope that Er’ril’s spirit was still pure. She could not! Especially since he carried the salvation of A’loa Glen—the Blood Diary.

Pinorr paced the length of the keelchief’s cabin. As the ship’s shaman, this was his post during a battle: to pray to the seven gods of the sea and be ready with advice for the keelchief. But for Pinorr, this was an imprisonment, a torture beyond a man’s ability to survive.

Above his head, the sounds of battle raged on the decks of the Dragonspur . Men fought and died while he cowered below. He had been informed of the magickal twilight and of the flight of the skal‘-tum. Even now he could hear the bone drums of the beasts and their cackling howls as men fought demons.

Pinorr clenched his fists. During past battles, he had never felt this way. He had accepted his position as shaman. But after the night of bloodshed during the storm, Pinorr knew his role was a mockery to the gods.

He need only look down to be reminded of his crime. All the lye soap and scrubbing had failed to totally cleanse Ulster’s blood from the cabin’s planks. A brown stain marked the wood for all to see.

Pinorr covered his ears with his fists. Bad enough that he must stew while men died, but why must he wait here? He should be with Mader Geel and Sheeshon in his own cabins. For the thousandth time, Pinorr’s eyes were drawn to the wide stain under his feet. He deserved whatever punishment the gods thought to inflict. He had taken a steel blade in hand, and he had taken a life. In the eyes of the seven sea gods, Pinorr was cursed forever.

Raising his eyes to the rafters of the cabin, Pinorr prayed with his arms lifted. “Do not punish this ship! My hands alone have bloodied

your gifts. Punish me, not those aboard this ship. Spare them of your curse! I will accept any punishment, any torture, to cleanse the Dmgonspurl“

A sudden pounding on the cabin door startled Pinorr. Dropping his arms, he hurried to the barred door and lifted the latch; the door swung open before Pinorr could even step back. He had expected to see Hunt, the ship’s keelchief, but instead he found Mader Geel rushing inside.

The old warrior woman’s words were frantic. “I turned my back on her for a breath! I swear!” Pinorr clutched Mader Geel’s shoulders in both his hands. Her eyes were wild. “What is it?” Pinorr asked, dread clutching his heart. ,

“Little Sheeshon! I went to peek at the battle through the porthole and when I turned back, the cabin door was open and Sheeshon was gone!

Pinorr released the woman. His legs grew numb under him. He glanced back to the rafters, trying to see the laughing gods above. No, this price was too high!

“Shaman?” Mader Geel asked, clearly sensing his inner turmoil.

Pinorr lowered his gaze but lifted his hands and began braiding the locks of his white hair. His fingers remembered the old pattern of a warrior’s tail. “I am shaman no longer,” he said coldly.

“What are you saying? What are you doing?” Mader Geel’s eyes went wide with fright.

She reached for him, but Pinorr knocked her hand away. “Curse the seven gods,” he spat. “I am done playing their whipping boy. If they mean to wreak punishment, it will be on my head, not Sheeshon’s.”

“Are you mad?” Mader Geel backed away.

Pinorr finished the last twist of his warrior’s braid, then crossed to the wall where Hunt had hung an assortment of swords. He reached for the one that best suited his old skill, a long blade with a curve to its length.

“No!” Mader Geel crfed. “Don’t touch it!”

But her call was too late. Pinorr grabbed the sword’s hilt and swung it from the wall’s hook. Blade raised, he turned to face Mader Geel. Mader Geel fell to her knees. “You damn us all!”

“That, I’ve already done. Now I must end it!” Pinorr swung

around and stalked from the room. In the open hall, the sounds of battle worsened. Shouted orders echoed down from above, swirled with screams and wild laughter. Boots thundered overhead. Claws scraped wood. Pinorr hurried, half running down the passage. He met no others. All hands were on deck.

At last, he shoved through the hatch and into horror. Even fueled by his rage at the gods, Pinorr’s feet stumbled to a stop. Blood and dead bodies washed the deck. The sails overhead were a shredded ruin stained with blood and gore. Torn corpses swayed in the rigging. It was all tainted by the eerie netherlight that had been described to him. Pinorr glanced to the west and saw the pall of inky darkness that masked the setting sun.

He shook his head at the ruin of the world. Everywhere he looked, men and women fought the winged demons. But without the sun, the beasts were invulnerable. The best the crew could manage was to hold the foul creatures off and use nets to tangle and shove them overboard into the seas.

Near the stern, a red seadragon roosted, claws dug deep into rail and decking. A small mer’ai woman, her eyes wide with fear, sat mounted on her beast and called orders to the Bloodriders around her. She urged the men to drive the skal’tum toward her, where her dragon would snatch at wings and throw the dark spawn overboard. But even from here, Pinorr could see the dragon bore countless scratches and deeper gouges from the monsters’ fangs and claws. A greenish steam rose from these wounds, where poison met dragon’s blood. The great dragon would not last much longer, and Pinorr suspected that the fear in the mer’ai’s eyes was for her dragon, not herself.

Suddenly, Hunt’s deep voice boomed over the chaos. “Ragnar’k comes again! Be ready, men!” All across the deck, the crew raised fists in the air, acknowledging their chiefs order.

Pinorr pushed farther out so he could see atop the raised foredeck. Near the ship’s prow, Hunt stood with five other Bloodriders, holding off a trio of skal’tum. Hunt, his face bloodied, a fire in his eyes, refused to give up the ship. The high keel’s son was a true keelchief. For just the briefest flash, Pinorr was glad he had slain Ulster. If Ulster had still been keelchief, Pinorr suspected the ship would have been sunk by now.

Pinorr saw how Hunt’s shouted orders seemed to revitalize the crew’s spirit and strength of arm. All around the boat, men and women fought fiercely.

Past the keelchief’s shoulder, Pinorr spotted the black wings of Ragnar’k. The great dragon swung toward their foundering ship, diving fast and low—too fast to land. What were Sy-wen and Kast doing?

Then almost faster than Pinorr could follow, Ragnar’k sped over their masts. His roar surged across the ship. Pinorr found himself ducking against the noise. It seemed to press at him. As he straightened, he watched as all around the boat, the crew hacked into the skal’tum. For the brief moment that Ragnar’k had roared, the dragon’s voice had washed away the dark protections of the beasts. Axes and swords cleaved into flesh that a moment ago was impervious to blades. The screams from the score of wounded monsters followed the flight of the dragon across the twilight sky.

Pinorr watched Ragnar’k turn on a wing and dive toward a neighboring ship, spreading his deadly roar.