“If you want any answers from her,” Er’ril said, “there are many tools of torture in the dungeons, left over from the time of the Dark Lord’s armies.”

Shocked, Elena glanced up at Er’ril. But from behind the girl’s shoulder, he gave his head a slight shake.

He had no intention of ever using such devices, but the prisoner did not know this.

Elena calmed her reaction and spoke more slowly, taking the more passive role. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary, Er’ril… at least not yet.”

Kesla stiffened in her seat at their words.

“Now, Kesla,” Elena began, “though we mean you no true harm, we can’t ignore this attack upon us.

You must understand this.”

The girl’s lips drew taut.

“Let’s start again. If you can’t tell us the reason for this assault, then tell us about yourself. How did you come to be in the Assassins’ Guild? Where were you trained?” Kesla lowered her head. “I don’t know how I came to Alcazar, the sandstone citadel of the guild. I was told the master found me ten winters ago, just a small child lost in the deserts of the Wastes, but I don’t know if this was the truth or not.”

Er’ril spoke up, his voice brittle with feigned anger. “And what of your designation? Your tattoo? The assassin’s dagger wrapped by a snake.”

Elena recalled Cassa Dar’s tattoo: a dagger wrapped in nightshade vine. It had marked her as an assassin who specialized in poisons.

Kesla spoke meekly. “I was trained in the arts of hidden moves: to enter unseen, to leave undetected.

The snake is an assassin’s symbol of stealth.”

“Just a thief, in other words.” Er’ril snorted derisively.

Kesla jerked in her bonds, twisting to stare at Er’ril. “I am no common thief! I trained for ten winters in the assassin’s methods.”

“But have you ever killed?” Er’ril asked with clear scorn. Kesla sank back around. “A bloody hand does not make an assassin.”

Er’ril glanced over the top of Kesla’s head at Elena. He nodded for her to continue again.

Elena took a more conciliatory tone. “So you came all the way from Alcazar in the Southern Wastes, disguised yourself as a scullion maid, and slipped your way past the many armies guarding this island.

Impressive. You must have been trained well.”

“I was,” she said proudly. “Master Belgan is one of the finest guild members.”

“And so, like a snake, you slipped into our midst undetected, waiting for the proper moment.” Kesla nodded with Elena’s words.

Er’ril spoke again, almost yelling. “And then when the moment was ripe, you took your dagger and brutally stabbed it into Elena’s mark, ripping away her power, torturing her!” Kesla shied from his words. “I… I did not think… I didn’t mean…” Tears welled in her eyes.

“Don’t mind Er’ril,” Elena said, and placed a hand on Kesla’s knee. “You had some dire need. That is clear. If you would explain this need, maybe we could help.” Sniffing back tears, Kesla glanced to Elena’s hand. “I… I cannot.” Elena whispered now. “Is your need so much less than your oath? If you broke your word but gained your desire, would this price be too steep?”

Kesla’s eyes rose to meet Elena’s. Hesitation and desire were mixed in the girl’s expression. “If… if I told you, would you let me have the dagger and leave this island?”

“If your goal is pure, I would consider it.”

Kesla slumped in her seat. When she spoke next, her words were a pained whisper. “I need the dagger to slay a monster.”

Elena frowned and glanced to Er’ril. With a nod, he encouraged Elena to continue on her own. “What monster?” she asked.

Kesla sank deeper into her chair, drawing inward. “A foul beast that has taken roost in the ancient Ruins of Tular.”

Elena clenched her fist at the mention of the Southwall’s an-fortress. “Tular?” she encouraged. “At the northern edge of the

Wastes?“

“Yes From the decaying ruins, a corruption spread into our

Hs poisoning water and livestock. Hundreds began to die of sickness and famine.“

“And you believe this pestilence came from this beast?”

Kesla nodded. “A winged demon of pale flesh came to a village one night. He demanded a tithing from the many desert tribes. Either the payment must be made, or he promised the corruption from the beast would continue to spread until the entire Wastes were consumed.” Kesla glanced up at Elena, then away again. Her voice cracked. “Th-the people had no choice. At each full moon, the tithe had to be sent to the Ruins of Tular, to slake the beast’s lust, or certain doom would befall all of them.”

“What was this price?” Elena asked.

Kesla shook her head; a sob choked from her throat.

“Tell us so we might understand.”

“It was a tithe… a tithe of children.”

“What?” Elena could not stop her gasped outburst.

Kesla rocked slightly in her seat. “Thirty children with each moon, one for each day of the passing cycle.”

“Sweet Mother,” Joach mumbled by the hearth. He finally tore his gaze from the fire.

“One day,” Kesla said, “a group of village elders came to Alcazar, loaded with gold and jewels, begging for the help of the guild to slay the beast. Of course, once Master Belgan heard the story, he refused them.”

Er’ril snorted again. “Just like a true assassin. That bunch are cowards at heart, slinking in the dark.” Kesla frowned angrily. “No, you don’t understand. He refused their gold, but accepted their challenge.

He took only one item from those who came.”

“And what was that?” Joach asked.

Kesla turned to Elena’s brother. She nodded to his belt where the nightglass dagger hung. “It is a treasure equal to all the other wealth offered. But Master Belgan did not accept the dagger for its worth.

One of the village elders was a shaman. He said, according to his scrying bones, only this dagger could slay the beast.”

“Why’s that?” Joach asked, touching the dagger.

“The weapon had been used before—to slay the monstrous beast that had once protected the tyrants of Tular. It had freed our people then. The shaman believed it could again.”

“I don’t understand,” Elena said. “Why carry it all the way here?”

“The shaman and Master Belgan spent an entire half moon talking, reading old scrolls, throwing scrying bones. They learned that the original beast of Tular had been protected by a fierce armor and even the dagger alone could not penetrate its skin… not without…” Kesla turned to Elena. “Not without first wetting the blade in the blood of a wit’ch, drawing her magick into the crystal. In the most ancient past, it had been the magick of Sisa’kofa.”

Er’ril hissed. “The Wit’ch of Spirit and Stone.”

“My ancestor,” Elena added.

The girl nodded. “Word had spread of your victory—of a new wit’ch born into our lands. I was sent here by swift horses through the Crumbling Mounds to the sea, and from the coast by boat. Master Belgan told me what to watch for: a blood mark of the wit’ch. If impaled and left for one night, the dagger would draw her magick inside it. Only then could there be any hope of defeating the beast of Tular.”

Elena rubbed her palm on a knee, remembering the burning drain of her magick. The dagger had absorbed her wit’ch fire. “Tell us of this beast.”

Kesla shuddered. “Only one person has seen the monster: the man who leads the children to their doom.

He told all who would hear about the horrible beast hidden in the ancient fortress.” Kesla’s voice cracked with fear. “It was the Ghoul of Tular reborn after ageless centuries, come to life once again to destroy our lands.”

“The Ghoul of Tular? ”

Kesla turned once again to Joach. “The beast who once guarded Tular. Its image entwines the dagger’s hilt.”

Joach slipped the weapon free and held the dagger up. A feathered serpent lay curled around the hilt, its beaked mouth open in a silent, fanged hiss. The basilisk, the ancient totem of Tular.

Elena stood abruptly and crossed to Er’ril. “It must be the Weirgate.” He nodded.

(AMES LLEMENS

“And the children… Ebon’stone always craves blood.” Elena aled with the thought. All those sacrifices.

Kesla spoke up. “That is all I know. I have a boat waiting to rake me back to Alcazar. The dagger must be returned to Master

Belgan.“

“And it will be,” Elena said, turning back to her.

Kesla sat up straighten “You’ll let me free?”

“Yes, but I’ll send you back to Alcazar more swiftly than any boat or horse can carry you. Tomorrow morning, one of the elv’in wind-ships is set to fly to the Southern Wastes, to seek out and destroy the very beast that plagues your people.”

Kesla’s eyes grew wide.

“For your freedom, I ask that you swear a new oath to me: to lead this ship to Alcazar and let us aid your guild in ridding your people of this curse. Can you promise me this?” Kesla bowed her head. “I can only promise to lead the way to Alcazar. I cannot speak for Master Belgan. He must decide for the guild.”

“Fair enough.” Elena nodded to Joach. “Free her and take her to the Eagle’s Fury. Introduce her to Prince Richald and let him know my wishes. Er’ril and I will join him later to go over the plans in detail.” Joach hurriedly untied Kesla’s bonds. She stood, rubbing her wrists. But when Kesla reached for the dagger at his belt, Joach twisted away. “I think I’ll keep this for now,” he said. “For safekeeping. It seems there are many thieves in this castle.” He stared hard into Kesla’s eyes.

The girl’s cheeks reddened at his accusation. “I’m sorry for lying to you, Lord Joach.”

“I am not a lord,” he said in a tired voice. “I wish you’d quit calling me that.”

“Then quit calling me a thief” Kesla countered, swinging away.

“Fine, you’re an assassin. That’s so much better.” Joach rolled his eyes and crossed to Elena, pulling her aside. “El, I have a request of you.”

“What is it?”

He clutched the dagger’s hilt. “I’d like to go with the Eagle’s Fury on this journey.”

“What? Why?”

Joach glanced a moment back at Kesla. “Since I rescued the knife, I think I should still watch over it.”

“Why?”

Now it was Joach’s turn to redden. “It’s just that… Well, I mean… I don’t think its just coincidence that the dagger should fall into my hands.” Joach sighed in exasperation. “It’s hard to explain. I just think I need to go.”

Elena remembered making the same vague argument with Er’ril just a few moments before. It seemed the fates were aligning to draw them all apart, to scatter them across the face of the world. “You are old enough to make your own decisions, Joach. If you feel this is a path you must follow, I will not stop you.” A grin appeared on his face, and he stepped over and hugged her. “Thanks, El. I knew you’d understand.”

“Actually, I don’t understand,” she said in his ear. “I would rather you stay here.” In her heart, she did not want Joach to go, but how could she refuse him when she herself was planning to leave soon? She returned Joach’s embrace, wrapping her arms tightly around him as if she could hold him forever safe.

But she knew that was impossible. “Just make sure you come back.” Joach broke their embrace. “Don’t worry. I will.”

He turned away, but Er’ril grabbed him by the shoulder. “Joach, I would have a word before you leave.” Joach’s brow crinkled. “What is it?”

Er’ril nodded toward Kesla, who waited near the doorway. “Watch her.”

“What?”

“I saw the way you looked at her, the relief in your eyes when she told her tale. Do not let your heart cloud your judgment.”

“I don’t—”

Er’ril squeezed his shoulder tighter. “Once you thought me a creature of the Dark Lord. Now you accept this story from a confessed assassin without a second thought. Here could be another trap.” Joach’s face crumbled into confusion.

Elena leaned forward, intending to argue against Er’ril’s suspicions. She sensed no menace in this girl, only honest fear for her people. But Elena held her tongue, withdrawing slightly. Perhaps simple caution was warranted.

. ME1N

loach glanced toward Elena and saw the agreement in her eyes. u sighed, and his face hardened. “I will be wary—both in heart i tion.” With those words, he backed away, gave a final nod irard Er’ril and ac

Elena, then crossed to Kesla and departed. Elena watched them leave, her chest already aching for her brother.

Only Er’ril remained in the room. He stepped beside her, reading her heart. “It is not easy seeing someone you love walking willingly into danger, is it?” he said quietly.

She leaned into Er’ril, too tired and pained for words.

Leagues away, in a cave hidden deep within the Stone Forest of the northern coast, a lone figure crouched over a shallow hole dug into the granite floor. Intoning words of power, he slowly poured quicksilver from a bowl into the hole, filling the cavity to its rim. In the meager light cast by the clouded skies outside the cave, the surface of the quicksilver pool shone like a mirror, reflecting the hooded figure’s face.

Scowling and squinting with milky eyes, the figure bent closer and studied his own reflection. A crooked finger rose to trace the ancient ruin of a face. He pulled back his hood to reveal a scalp bare of all but a few gray hairs. “Soon…” he mumbled.

A scrape at the cave’s threshold drew his attention. Silhouetted against the light stood the thick form of his servant. The creature stood no higher than his waist but was all gnarled bone and muscle. It was a stump gnome, one of the few creatures that could live for long in the poisoned forest outside. A simple twining spell had tied its will to his.

‘Come closer, Rukh,“ he ordered sharply.

It grunted. Gnomes had little more intelligence than a trained hog, but they were strong and single-minded. It shambled into the cave. Closer now, its face was also similar to a pig’s. It was as if someone had smashed its muzzle with a club. Under eyes the size of polished black pebbles, its face was all flattened nose. Two peaked ears sprouted like afterthoughts on either side of its leathery skull. Do you have what I asked?“

Rukh forced his thick tongue to form words, fangs glinting yellow and rotted. “Yes, M-master Gr-greshym.”

The stink of the beast reached the darkmage in the close quarters. ‘ t a barn of wet goats, Greshym thought, wrinkling his nose at the stench. “Then leave it and be gone!” he snapped.

With the heave of a thick shoulder, Rukh tossed his dead quarry at his master’s feet. The doe’s neck lay twisted the wrong way, recently strangled by the hard hands of the stump gnome. Greshym nodded his approval. His servant must have traveled far to find such an untainted animal.

Rukh backed from the cave, slather drooling from his jowls at the scent of the abandoned meat. Greshym could only imagine the torture it must have been for the stupid creature to resist tearing into the doe.

Slipping free a long dagger with a rose-carved hilt, Greshym set about the task of removing the doe’s heart. By the time he was done, his robed arms were drenched in blood. He heaved the warm organ from the defiled chest and waved the stump of his other hand for Rukh to clear away the rest. Greshym had what he needed.

The gnome dashed into the cave; his claws quickly sank into the flesh. Rukh dragged his prize away.

“G-good meat,” he rumbled.

Greshym ignored the sounds of snapping bones and feasting from outside the cavern. He turned back to the pool of quicksilver.

Raising the doe’s heart, he carefully drizzled the blood across the quicksilver pool. The blood spread, blurring the silvery reflection. Once done, he touched the pool with a finger and spoke a single word, a name. “Shorkan.”

The blur upon the pool swirled, and an image formed, a window on another place. He watched the silent tableau. Within the pool, the view of a white-robed man appeared. He stood on the shore of a black sand beach and stared to the south. Shorkan’s lips moved, but no sound was heard. In the background rose the volcanic cone of Blackhall, cored and hollowed into a thousand-room warren. Beneath it, Greshym knew, lay the dungeons and creche of the Dark Lord himself, while above, a black smudge rose from the cone to stain the sky with a perpetual plume. It was not just volcanic forces that created the stream of smoke and ash, but also the poisonous forges at the heart of the mountain, furnaces of dark magick.

Shifting, Greshym glanced back out of the cave. Even from here, though leagues from the sea, he spotted the black plume on the horizon. Winds from the south continually blew the smoke and ash over this forest, making it all but unlivable except for the poisoned crea-ho had migrated here to skulk in its shadows, like his servant kh But this land had not always been like w

this. Long ago, before

, lcanic cone had first erupted, this had been a living forest. But vo

¦ turous, fiery birth of Blackhall had blasted the landscape with tor

, } sh, petrifying the entire woodlands in a single night and killing all within it.

t anc

a

Greshym had chosen this place to hide because of the residual magick that fell with the ash from Blackhall’s plume. It had helped resuscitate the darkmage after his battles a moon ago. Weak and drained, he had limped and crawled into this toxic bower. For days, he had wandered through the forest, near blind, near dead, absorbing the trace magicks cast off from Blackhall, regaining his strength.

Finally, he was ready to leave this exile—and exact his revenge.

In the quicksilver pool, the image of his fellow darkmage suddenly turned from his study of the coastline to peer directly back at Greshym. Cringing, Greshym waved a hand and wiped away the image. That had been too close. Shorkan must have sensed his spying and had almost caught him. But at least Greshym knew where one of his enemies lay—at Blackhall.

“So, Shorkan, you’re still licking your wounds,” Greshym whispered with grim satisfaction. Greshym had noted the black burns and pale healing flesh that marked the once handsome face of Shorkan. It seemed even the Dark Lord’s pet had not escaped unscathed from the battles of A’loa Glen.

“Good…” Greshym allowed a smile to form on his lips. For too long, Shorkan had mocked him with his handsome, youthful face. Though both had been granted eternal life by an ancient spell, something had gone wrong for Greshym. While Shorkan never aged, Greshym’s flesh had continued to wrinkle and decay like any man’s; only death was kept from him. He smiled wider, a dry cackle flowing from his thin throat. Now Shorkan knows what it’s like to be disfigured!

Retrieving the doe’s heart, Greshym again cast his spell. This time he dipped his finger into the quicksilver and spoke another name. “Elena.”

The blood blurred again, and a new image formed. Greshym crinkled his brows, momentarily confused by the view. The fiery-haired wit’ch stood at the rails of a mighty ship; three masts towered behind her.

But the seas were nowhere to be found. Then Greshym realized she must be aboard one of the elv’in windships. He noted the position of the sun. The ship was heading away from the setting sun. East?

Away from Alasea? A single tear rolled down the woman’s cheek as she stood at the stern of the boat.

He smiled again. Was she trying to flee? Leaving Alasea?

He adjusted the mirror’s view. Far away, past the peaks and spires of the island city, two other windships sailed for the far horizons— one north, one south. Greshym noted how the wit’ch seemed to be staring at the ship fleeing southward. He watched as her lips moved. Though no sound came, he knew whose name she formed: Joachl

Greshym’s fist clenched. The brother of the wit’ch! The cursed boy who had thwarted Greshym twice, even destroying his staff in their last confrontation. So brother and sister are separating, he thought as he studied the mirror closer. Trying to escape the backlash of the Gul’gotha.

Leaning over his pool of quicksilver, Greshym stared at the tiny windship retreating south. He followed its path as the magick faded, and the image dissolved back into a blur of blood. After several breaths, Greshym leaned back. He could try the spell a third time and find out more of Joach’s exact destination, but he dared not risk draining more of his energy in such spying. Not when he had yet another complex spell to cast.

Standing with a creak and crack of old bones, Greshym reached to the wall of the cave and retrieved his new staff. He lifted the weapon. Mined from the heart of one of the poisoned stone trees of the forest here, it was grained like an ash tree, but it was no longer wood. He ran his hands over its stone surface, impregnated from centuries of toxic ash and magickal waste. His fingers tingled with the touch. Bound with spells, the stone of the staff was as light as oak. In many ways, this new staff was superior to his ancient poi’wood one. Perhaps he should thank Joach for ridding him of the original.

He crossed to the threshold of the cave and into the hazy light. “To my side, Rukh.” The stump gnome pulled his bloody mouth from the deer carcass. He wiped his lips with the back of one wrist and glanced longingly at the half-eaten remains. Hunger marked his posture and expression, but he knew better than to disobey his master. Rukh shambled over.

With his staff, Greshym dragged a circle around the both of them.

(AMES ULIMIKS

One more spell to cast. He let his lids droop lower and spoke the portal spell. Under both their feet, the ground turned as black as oil. Greshym ignored the gnome’s terror and glanced to the south. He squinted as if peering far away. Then, satisfied, he nodded and lifted his staff. He tapped it once. A black portal opened at their feet, and both gnome and mage fell away.

As Greshym vanished, only one desire burned in his mind:

vengeance.

In the murk of predawn, Mycelle knelt by the river, bloody and sore. Her gelding, Grisson, kept to her side, his flanks heaving, sweat thick on his golden coat from their long, hurried flight. He bent to drink from the river, but Mycelle yanked at his lead. She did not want her tired horse to stove up from drinking the stream’s cold water when he was so overheated. With the camp still leagues away, she could not risk compromising her mount.

Cocking her head, she listened for sounds of pursuit. Somewhere deeper in the dark wood, a horn sounded. She sighed in relief. It was far off to the north still. As she stood, the snap of a twig on her left twirled her around, her twin swords unsheathed in silent pulls. With her steel glinting in the reflected moonlight from the river, she stood steady.

Then from beyond a fringe of an elderberry bush, a pair of amber eyes glowed back at her. Images flashed across her mind’s eye: Two tired wolves greeting one another on a trail, noses touching, a lic’t on an ear.

“Thank the Sweet Mother,” she said, sheathing her swords. She recognized this familiar touch on her mind and returned the welcome in the silent tongue of the si’lura. Greetings, Fardale.

As answer, a sleek figure flowed through the bushes, so silent that not even a leaf whispered. The snap of a twig a moment ago had been done on purpose, to alert her of the newcomer’s presence.

The huge treewolf, though free of the bushes now, still remained indistinct in the gloom of the forest’s eaves. His dark pelt, speckled in golds and coppers, blended with the dappled shadows, seeming more spirit than substance. But his bright eyes were as hard as granite. She and Fardale had been lucky to survive this night.

“I had thought you lost for sure when we were attacked,” My-celle said.

Fardale glanced at her and gave her a wolfish shrug, retreating to the river’s edge to lap gently at the water. But he no more than wet his tongue—even he knew better than to drink after a long run. The wolf settled to his haunches, ears pricked for sounds echoing over the water.

“They’re far off,” Mycelle said. “I think we lost them.” Fardale glanced her way, making eye contact so he could speak. Images formed:/! brutish, bruised-s’tinned beast snuffling along a woodland trail.

Fardale was right. The hunt for them would continue. Their best chance was to reach their camp below the Stone of Tor and seek another path to Castle Mryl. The woods ahead were too dangerous.

Three nights ago, she and Fardale had left the others to scout the territory north of the Ice River, but they had run afoul of a troop of d’warf raiders. The two had barely escaped with their lives. It was only luck that the raiders had borne none of the Grim among their party. If the twisted creatures of the Dire Fell had been among them, neither wolf nor rider would have escaped.

For the past moon, Lord Tyrus had set them a hard pace north through the forests of the Western Reaches, camping at last by the Stone of Tor, a pinnacle marking where the Ice River joined the Willowrush. According to reports from the trappers and hunters, the forests north of the Ice River were no longer safe for man or beast. Tales were whispered around campfires, of strange lights that baffled and led the unwary to their deaths, of keening wails that drove strong men to their knees with fear, of trees found twisted and gnarled, as if tortured to death.

Mycelle and Tyrus both knew what these portents suggested. The Grim wraiths from the northern forest of the Dire Fell had truly spread into the Western Reaches. If left unchecked, the entire length and breadth of the mighty forest would be corrupted by their touch. Even now, Mycelle tightened a fist. She would not let that happen. But their only hope lay in reaching Castle Mryl and repairing the damaged Northwall, restoring the barrier between the diseased Dire pell and the expanse of virgin woodlands.

Mycelle stared back over the flow of the Ice River, toward the dark forest beyond. Another path must be found to the castle.

Suddenly Fardale was at her side, appearing as if from mist. A low growl rumbled at the back of his throat—a warning.

Mycelle did not wait. She swung out her swords from the crossed scabbards on her back. “What is it, Fardale?” she hissed. The wolf’s senses were keener than hers.

At her forearm, she felt a stirring and the slide of scale on flesh. She risked a glance. A tiny rainbow-colored snake lay wrapped around her arm. It squirmed in a slow dance around its perch. Even the paka’golo, the healing snake of Mama Freda, sensed something was amiss.

Mycelle concentrated on the forest. Fardale stood tensed at her side, hackles raised and wary.

They did not wait long. A rising wind soughed through the forest’s eaves. Leaves shook overhead, and a flurry of dry pine needles skittered in small whirlwinds. But it was another sound, a hollow moaning, that ate through flesh and bone. Mycelle’s swords shook in her grip. It was no natural wind that moved through the forest toward them.

“Flee!” Mycelle yelled, giving up any pretense of hiding. “Make for camp

!“

Fardale hesitated, but Mycelle swung up onto Grisson. “Flight is our only hope!” Already the moaning rose in pitch to a piercing cry.

‘A Grim wraith!“ Mycelle screamed above the growing wail. ”Flee! They cannot be fought!“ Mycelle tugged Grisson around. The horse’s eyes rolled white with fright. Froth spattered from around his bit.

Mycelle dug her heels into him, but the gelding only trembled, too terrified to move. She struck Grisson’s rump with the flat of her hand; still the horse only cowered.

Fardale, who had sped several paces away, turned back toward where Mycelle struggled with Grisson.

Images flickered rapidly be-rore her mind’s eye: A deer freezing at the appearance of a wolf. A human falling to all fours and changing into a snowy-maned wolf and racing away.

Mycelle groaned and kicked at her mount again, but the horse only tossed its head and whinnied its terror. Fardale was right. Gris-son was already lost to the cry of the wraith. She slid from the saddle. Her only hope was flight. But how could she?

She turned to touch Grisson’s nose, to will her mount back to calmness, but teeth snapped at her fingers.

Her horse was too mad with fear to know better. There was no hope. Mycelle reached toward her saddlebags, but a low growl from Fardale warned her away.

She pulled her hand back. What was she thinking? She had taken human form for too long, become too grounded into their way of thinking. From here, she could carry neither bag nor sword. She swung back to the treewolf. “Run,” she said and willed the change.

Beneath her leathers and undergarments, flesh melted and flowed, bones twisted and bowed. Shrugging and writhing out of her human clothes, she fell to her hands and knees. With a final prickling tremor, snowy fur burst forth from her skin, claws sprouted, and a long narrow snout stretched to sample the air.

New eyes opened on a world much brighter. She sniffed the air and discovered paths unseen, marked in spoor and musk.

Tufted ears pricked at the wail of the Grim wraith. It was almost upon them. Mycelle glanced one last time at Grisson, then at the pile of shed clothes with the crossed scabbards resting atop it. She felt a deep sense of loss, as if she was abandoning a part of herself, but now was not the time to mourn. All she could carry was the small snake nestled in the fur of her forelimb. The paka’golo was one item she must never lose. It had helped resurrect her in Port Rawl, and now its magickal bite was still necessary to sustain her.

Turning on a paw, she flashed past Fardale and dashed away. He joined her, two shadows fleeing, now just two wolves of the wood.

Behind them, a sudden scream of terror rose from Grisson, the cry unlike any Mycelle had heard from a horse before. She glanced back in time to see a dark shape sweep over her loyal mount. It was as if a shredded piece of shadow had torn loose from the world and attacked Grisson.

Mycelle’s keen nose caught the coppery scent of the horse’s panic. She slowed her pace, turning slightly. Flee, she willed Grisson.

Whether hearing her or merely finally sensing the true peril, Grisson broke for the cover of the wood. But as the horse brushed under the limbs of a black pine, the shadowy wraith flew through the same tree’s branches, and a tangle of roots suddenly shot up and snagged the horse’s limbs. Grisson squealed again, a cry of death and defeat.

The wraith descended on its trapped prey. As it draped over its meal, the nearby trunk of the black pine twisted; overhead, its branches scrabbled and writhed into torturous tangles. It was as much a prey as the horse. As the Grim wraith fed, life drained from both wood and flesh. Green pine needles yellowed and showered down; the flesh of her mount sank to bone. It was as if their very essences were being sucked away. Soon all that would be left was a pile of bones under a twisted grave marker. That was all the Grim ever left behind.

Mycelle swung around as her horse’s cries grew strangled. She could delay no further. They had best be far away before the forest wraith finished its meal and sought more nourishment. No one knew how to defeat a wraith. It was rumored they could be held off with silver, but such claims were just myth. At Castle Mryl, she had been taught that the only guard against the Grim was continual vigilance. Their deathly moans always preceded an attack. A keen ear and a swift retreat were the best defense.

Acknowledging this adage, she raced after Fardale, following his scent as surely as a well-marked trail.

For the better part of the long night, the two wolves fled through the forest, splashing along brooks and streams to confound any trackers, constantly alert for the telltale wail of a Grim wraith. But the night remained quiet, almost hushed.

They stopped only to feed briefly on the steaming remains of a small hare caught by Fardale. To her wolfish tongue, the blood and raw meat tasted like the finest wine and roasted loin. Despite the terror and hardship of the long night, Mycelle could not suppress a tremble of exhilaration. It had been so long since she had run free and sampled life in a new form.

Fardale must have sensed her elation. His eyes shone at her over the bloody remains. An image formed:^ lone wolf, tired and pad-sore, rejoining its pac’t after a long night’s hunt.

She growled her assent. It was like coming home again.

With the small bones eaten and the pelt buried in a hole to hide the scent of their meal, the pair took off once again, ready for the last leg of their journey back to camp. The leagues seemed to disappear under her paws. She and Fardale settled into a pace both swift and steady. Mycelle thought she could run like this forever.

WIT C H UATE

Still, as the sun finally rose over the distant mountains to the east, the glow of dawn found Mycelle beginning to stumble and trip. Her inexhaustible energy seemed finally to be waning. Even Fardale moved with a slight limp, his tongue lolling as he panted away the heat of their night-long run.

At last, ahead, a pinnacle of granite rose from the wood, piercing the canopy of trees to thrust up at the sky. Morning sunlight had already reached its highest ramparts to glow brightly and announce the approaching day. It was the Stone of Tor.

Delighted at the sight of their destination, both wolves found renewed strength to race the last distance to the camp. So excited were they to return to the others that neither noticed the acrid reek to the air until they were only a few paces from the clearing.

Fardale pulled to a stop. Mycelle crept beside him. Her ears were pricked for any noise from the camp ahead. She heard nothing. Even if the camp was still asleep, she should hear some sign of life. She slinked forward, Fardale beside her. What was that smell in the air? She cautiously pushed her face through the last of the underbrush to view the camp and tensed at the sight that awaited them.

Ahead, the camp lay in ruins, tents and bedding shredded, horses dead in fetid pools of blood. A flock of carrion birds raised bloody beaks at her approach. A few angry squawks tried to drive her away, but Mycelle ignored them. She worked her way forward.

With the Stone of Tor looming to the east, the camp remained in shadow. Amid the gloom, Mycelle and Fardale searched for signs of the living. Had anyone escaped this attack? She came upon an ax with a short handle. It was slick with blood. She nosed it. The scent of d’warf still lay heavy upon it.

Straightening, she willed her body to change. If she was to investigate further, she would need hands.

Though it was a strain to shift twice in one day, she forced her flesh to melt and the snowy fur to retreat away. She rose from a crouch and stretched back into her familiar form. Naked of both fur and clothing, she noticed the morning chill to the air. She wrapped her arms around herself for warmth. “Search for any signs of the others,” she ordered Fardale. With a whip of his tail, the wolf sped off. Mycelle watched him a moment, with a twinge of worry. His sendings had grown coarser A less frequent. Fardale grew close to losing himself to the wolf, as already beginning to settle into this form. If the curse wasn’t if d soon, the wolf would claim him forever.

As she continued into the camp, these worries were overwhelmed

, horror at hand. Past the remains of a dappled mare, she found ne

h body of one of the Dro warriors who had guarded Lord Tyrus.

The woman’s blond braids were fouled with blood and mud. She lay her side, her bowels draped across the ground from a savage rip in her belly- Mycelle stepped farther into camp and discovered the other two Dro warriors, sisters to the first. Each had died horribly.

As she searched, she discovered no sign of any of the others: Lord Tyrus, Krai, Mogweed, Nee’lahn.

Frowning, Mycelle returned to one of the Dro women.

Praying for all their spirits, Mycelle stripped one and donned her leathers, fixing a new set of crossed scabbards to her back. Though exhausted, she did manage to adjust her form enough to fit the new garments. “I will avenge you,” she promised as she slid the two swords into place.

Fardale had wandered farther to the west. A growling drew My-celle’s attention. She crossed to the wolf’s side.

Even without the keener wolf’s senses, she noticed the acrid reek grew stronger as she approached Fardale. Before the wolf, an area of the clearing’s floor had been blackened and burned in a perfect circle. She knelt and fingered the region. Even the dirt had been blasted to form a glassy crust.

With a heavy heart, she stood and surveyed the ruins of the camp. Where were the others? What had happened here? As she stood, the sun finally broke around the looming pinnacle of rock. The ravaged camp became bathed in the new dawn’s light. Mycelle began to turn away, but her gaze was caught by a sharp glint in the blasted circle. Frowning, she stepped cautiously into the ring. The forest floor was deeply burned; it was like walking on granite. She crossed to the source of the reflection and knelt on one knee.

Leaning closer, she discovered a silver coin. She tried to pick it up, but it was imbedded in the blasted surface. She had to tug hard to yank it free.

Standing, she studied the coin, flipping it back and forth in her fingers. On one side was stamped a familiar face, old King Ry, father vv 1 I <; H HATE

to Prince Tyrus. And on the other was the sigil of their family—a snow leopard, crouched to strike.

Clutching the silver piece, she studied the burned circle. Lord Tyrus could not have survived.

Fardale sank to his haunches beside her. Images-flashed at her. He had discovered no sign of the others in the camp.

She shoved the coin into a pocket. “Then we will find them.” Bound tight, Mogweed lay slumped on his side in the wagon, feigning sleep. Each bump of the wagon’s wheels as they passed along the old rutted forest track jarred his spine. He had to bite back a gasp as the wagon popped over an exceptionally large root. Mogweed flew several handspans above the buckboard and landed with a thud. He heard a groan to his left and carefully moved his neck to view the large form of the mountain man, Krai, who lay behind him.

In the dawn’s light piercing through the tiny barred window of the enclosed wagon, Mogweed could just make out Krai’s thick black beard, still damp with blood. He prayed the larger man remained unconscious, fearing further abuse from the d’warf guards if Krai should try to free himself. Mogweed glanced surreptitiously around the cramped space. Only the four of them remained. They were too few to fight the score of armored d’warves that still marched outside the enclosed wagon.

If only I had remained awa’te at my post… Mogweed thought with a twinge of guilt. Then he bit his lip in anger. No! He would not accept blame for this. Even if he had been awake and could have alerted the camp in time, they all would surely have been caught anyway. There was no safe path through the forests north of the Stone. He had begged them all repeatedly to abandon this journey to Castle Mryl, but none had listened. It was their own fault they had been captured.

I should have left when I had the chance, he thought sourly. But in his heart, he knew such an option was not a real one. He tugged his arms and tested the ropes for the thousandth time. His efforts only succeeded in tightening the knots further. In truth, he was bound to these others as surely as these ropes bound him now—bound by a whisper of hope.

Lord Tyrus, former pirate and prince of Mryl, had lured him and j-,is brother with words of prophecy, a chance to finally free themselves of the curse that trapped the two shape-shifting twins into heir current t

forms, man and wolf. The prince’s words echoed to hirn now: Two will come frozen; one will leave whole.

Now even this thin hope was vanquished. With Fardale lost in the deep wood somewhere, how could their curse ever be lifted?

Mogweed rolled over as the wagon hit another stubborn root. He lay on his other side now, staring at the prone form of Lord Tyrus. The man showed no signs of life. He lay as limp as a dead eel, head lolling with the wagon’s motion, blood dribbling from both nose and mouth. From here, Mogweed could not tell if the man still breathed. But what did it matter? For all their fighting and swordplay, what had it won them? The three Dro women slain and the others beaten to within a life’s breath. Foolish men. During the melee, Mogweed had remained hidden. Once the fighting had passed him, he had crawled to one of the women’s corpses and smeared his brow with her cooling blood, then lay sprawled at her side, pretending to be knocked out.

As Mogweed recalled his subterfuge, he became lost in the memory of screaming horses and the grunting barks of the d’warf raiders. While feigning injury, Mogweed had watched between narrowed eyelids as Lord Tyrus, shielded by the last of his Dro bodyguards, had defended himself with a flashing blur of his ancient family sword. It was a dance of death that none who neared had survived.

Farther back in the camp, the mountain man had attacked the d’warves with ax and teeth. Even now, a chill ran down Mogweed’s back at this memory. It was as if Krai had become more beast than warrior.

But no one could question his results. D’warves had died all around the large man.

For that single moment, Mogweed had entertained thoughts of their victory—but even the strongest bear is eventually brought down by enough wolves.

Krai fell first, swamped by six massive d’warves. On the other side, Lord Tyrus continued his bloody dance. He seemed to grow more invincible with the loss of Krai, sustaining not even a scratch as his bodyguards died around him. Hope of victory still burned in the strength of the prince’s steel.

Then a thunderous crack split the night, and a monstrous shadow appeared behind Tyrus. Though the clearing was lit only by a single campfire, Mogweed had no trouble making out the shape of the new attacker.

Darker than oiled pitch, it stood out starkly in the gloom. Towering on clawed hind limbs, its shape was that of a thick-maned cat. But the spread of wings to either side of its muscled shoulders belied this image.

Tyrus named it at that moment. “The griffin!” he yelled. In horror, Mogweed buried his face in the mud.

During their trek north to the Stone, refugees fleeing to the south had told rumors of such a monster: a beast so repellent that the mere sight of it could kill a man. Taking no chances, Mogweed squeezed his eyes tightly closed. His last view was of Lord Tyrus backing away, a silver coin falling from the prince’s fingers.

Then a roar shattered through the clearing, so loud it seemed to suck at Mogweed’s mind, trying to draw his will away. For a brief moment, Mogweed passed out in truth, overwhelmed by the griffin’s scream.

When next he became aware, the camp was as silent as a tomb. A peek revealed the griffin gone and Lord Tyrus sprawled and bloodied in a circle of burned soil.

Around the camp, the remaining d’warves had slowly stirred and began to collect the survivors.

Mogweed had had no trouble feigning unconsciousness, his limbs already weak and boneless from fear.

Tossed into the enclosed wagon like a sack of oats, Mogweed had kept his wits about him. Through slats in the wagon’s walls, he had watched which way they were being taken: north, the very direction they had sought themselves.

Even now, the flash of bright leaves through the slats was beginning to change to the darker needles of black pines as they entered the northernmost fringes of the Western Reaches. Mogweed estimated them only a day’s journey from the Northwall itself.

Suddenly the wagon struck another rut in the road, jarring Mogweed back around. From out of the wagon’s gloom, he found a pair of eyes staring back, studying him. They seemed almost to glow in the meager light cast through the small opening.

It was the fourth and last member of the camp to survive the attack. Like Mogweed, she had neither fought nor offered resistance. In the filtered sunlight, the honey-colored hair of the slender figure shone brightly. Mogweed whispered her name. “Nee’lahn?”

He expected no answer. Since they had discovered the nyphai woman almost a moon ago at the edge of the Western Reaches, she had not spoken a single word. Questions were ignored, conversations shunned. She hovered at the periphery of the camp, often wandering the forest paths alone, eyes dreamy and lost. The other members of the party tolerated her, but her behavior was much debated—as was her purpose in joining them.

Mogweed, Fardale, and Krai had all witnessed her death in the foothills of the Teeth, victim to an ill’guard monster. In private, they wondered if this silent figure was their dead companion reborn or simply some trick of forest magick. How could it truly be Nee’lahn? It was impossible.

“Fear not, Mogweed. It is I.”

The words were spoken plainly, but Mogweed gasped in shock. After so long, the ghost in their midst had finally spoken. He shoved away from her. “H-how could… I saw you… The spider creature killed you!”

Nee’lahn interrupted his babble. “Do not be deceived, Mogweed. I am not human, any more than you are. I am nyphai, a creature of root and loam. This body is mere dust and water given life by my bonded koa’kona spirit. Though the shoot might be trampled, as long as the root lives, I cannot die.” Mogweed struggled for sense. “B-but then why wait so long to be reborn?”

“It is not an easy transition. I needed the strength of this mighty forest. The treesong of the Western Reaches was necessary to revive me. After my old body was destroyed, Elena blessed my grave with an old oak’s seed.”

Mogweed nodded, remembering the black acorn he had given Elena.

“I sent my spirit into this tiny seed, hiding inside it until I could grow strong enough to move. In spirit form, I brought the seed to your brother, hoping you’d eventually return to your homeland, to these great woodlands. Only here was the elemental magick of root and loam strong enough to pull me from the seed and give me substance and form again.”

Why have you not explained this earlier? Why have you remained so silent?“

“It has taken me until now to draw my spirit fully into this new form. After an entire winter in spirit only, I found it difficult to separate from the treesong all around me. It took all my concentration to withdraw myself from the endless music of the forest. But when the monster appeared and attacked this man—” She pointed to Lord Tyrus. “—it ripped the treesong for leagues around. It jolted my spirit fully back into this body, finally making me whole again.” Mogweed slumped against the wagon’s wall. “A small blessing there. You’re whole again, just in time to be tortured and killed by our captors.”

“Perhaps. But I have sent out a call—a plea for help. I saw a glimmer of another place: sails and sea.

And the elv’in Meric… He still retains my lute, protecting the heart of my spirit tree. As long as the lute remains, there is hope.”

“For you, maybe. If I die, I don’t come back.” Nee’lahn didn’t seem to hear his words. She continued, eyes adrift, “The trees of the forest whisper of the winged black beast that attacked the camp. It lives in a stone gateway somewhere near the Northwall. I even hear whispers of a twin evil far to the south, another black beast near the Southwall. The trees scream from its mere presence.” Nee’lahn’s eyes focused on Mogweed. “These Gates must be destroyed.”

“Why?” Mogweed asked tiredly.

Nee’lahn glanced away. “I-I’m not sure. But they threaten the very Land itself. They have the power to choke the world.”

Mogweed shivered at her words. “What can we hope to do?”

Nee’lahn seemed to withdraw into herself again. “There is only one hope.”

“What is that?”

“The Grim of Dire Fell.”

Mogweed sat up straighten “The blood wraiths? The shadow spirits of that black, twisted forest? Are you mad? How can those savage creatures be of help?”

“I must convince them.”

“Why? How? They serve the Dark Lord.”

Nee’lahn shook her head. “No. They are wild creatures whose lusts merely aid the Black Heart’s needs.

No one controls the Grim wraiths.”

“Then what hope do you have of enlisting them?”

JAMES l,LEMF.N S

grew quiet for a long stretch. “They will listen to me.” she finally said, pain clear in her words.

Mogweed was not satisfied with this answer. “Why?”

“Because the Land is a cruel mistress” was all she whispered back.

l’tTee’lahn turned her back on him, ending their discourse, as silent again as when they had first found her.

Near midday, Mycelle stood beside the three mounds of freshly turned soil. She leaned on the spade with which she had dug the trio of craves. The ruined camp was not a safe place to tarry—already vultures circled overhead, calling all to the feast that lay below. Other predators would soon gather.

Mycelle could not leave her three sword-sisters to the ravages of fang and claw. She shared an oath with them.

Mycelle stared as the sun began its decline toward the western horizon. She still had time to be well away from here before night set in. Tossing the shovel away, she sank to one knee before the graves. The odor of fresh loam almost masked the reek of offal and blood from the slaughtered horses around her. She bowed her head. “I’m sorry, Sisters. Be at peace. Go and seek out your lord, King Ry. Tell him I will avenge the death of his son.”

Tears welled in her eyes. She had failed her oaths a second time. First, in not hearing the call when Castle Mryl had been under attack, and now in leading the last prince of the Wall to his death.

She reached into a pocket of her borrowed leathers and slipped free the silver coin. The image of the snow leopard seemed to glare out at her. She clenched the coin firmly. “I will hunt down your killers and burn their corpses so the scent of my revenge will reach you all. This I swear.” Then a tingle at the back of her mind alerted her to another’s presence. She turned to discover Fardale standing at the forest’s edge. She had sent him to search for signs of the attackers while she had dug the graves. His eyes glowed like molten amber. An image appeared of a forest track only a quarter league away, and a pair of rresh wagon ruts driving northward. Fardale’s imagery focused on the deepness of the wheel’s imprints in the damp soil. The wagon was heavily laden—with prisoners, perhaps.

Had any of the others survived? She allowed herself a glimmer of hope.

A new image ended Fardale’s sending: Two wolves— one snowy, one dark— -following the trail.

Mycelle nodded and stood. The attackers had a half day’s lead on them, but the wolves could move more swiftly through the forest than a troop of d’warves. But to travel as a wolf would leave her naked and weaponless. She fingered one of the sword hilts at her shoulder. Without blades, how could she hope to free the others? Still she would not forsake them. If there is any chance…

“We must hurry.” She eyed the coin in her hand and vowed not to fail again. She lifted the silver piece to her lips and kissed the cold surface, planning to leave the Mryhan coin as a grave marker, a token of a promise sworn. But as her lips touched the surface of the coin, the silver grew warm in her hand. The skin of her arm prickled as if from a sudden chill.

The paka’golo stirred from its perch on her forearm, clearly sensing something odd. The tiny snake lifted its head and hissed with a flicker of red tongue.

Mycelle lowered the bit of silver and studied it closer. What was this strangeness?

As if in answer to her thoughts, words formed in her head, not unlike a sending from one shape-shifter to another. But here the words were a whisper in the wind. “/ hear you. The sorrow in your heart calls to me through the coin.”

She glanced around the clearing, then down at the coin. “W-who are you?”

“I give you my name freely. I am Xin, of the zo’ol. Friend to Tyrus. Share your name so I might forge this link more strongly.”

Mycelle did not understand any of this. She remembered the prince mentioning the black-skinned tribesmen, ex-slaves he had freed. He had hinted at some magick in their leader. In fact, a few days past, after their group’s first skirmish with a d’warf scouting party, Lord Tyrus had sat by the campfire, clutching this same coin. He had claimed he could send word out to the east, to warn of the danger and to spread the rumors of the griffin beast. But afterward, he had pocketed the silver with a frown, unsure if anyone had heard him. “Too far,” he had mumbled, and would speak no more of it.

But apparently someone had heard him. She clenched the coin and spoke her name. “I am Mycelle.”

“/ accept your name, Mycelle of the Dro,” the voice responded olemnly. “/ know you well from the words of others. We come even now to seek you out- $Peak where we might find you. Your link ‘s strong, so you must not be far.”

She frowned. How was that possible? The last time she had seen the zo’ol tribesmen they were leaving with Tol’chuk and Meric to find Elena—out in the distant Archipelago, thousands of leagues from here.

“No, I am too far,” she answered. “I am lost deep in the Western Reaches.”

“This we know. We already fly over the great green sea. Tell us where.” Mycelle stared up at the sun, her mind awhirl with confusion. “H-how?”

“Meric of the elv’in. We fly his ship of the wind.”

She gasped. “Meric?” A sudden memory of the wounded elv’in, scarred from battle with a minion of the Dark Lord, flashed across her vision.

“He is here,” the voice continued. “Tell us how we might find you. I tire quickly and cannot maintain this link mucn longer.”

These last words were clearly the truth. The whisper from the coin faded rapidly. Mycelle had to lean closer and clutch the silver more tightly. She glanced to the east, to the wall of stone that thrust up into the day’s sky. “The Stone of Tor!” she yelled, fearing she would not be heard as the coin grew colder in her palm. “I will meet you atop the Stone of Tor!”

She waited for a response, some acknowledgment. But the coin remained silent, cold again in her palm, just plain silver. She clamped her fingers around it, trying to will back the magick.

Fardale nosed her fist, startling her. She glanced down to the wolf, and in the silent tongue of the si’lura, she explained the strange contact.

The wolf’s response was skeptical: A mother wolf nosing a dead pup, trying to wish it backt0 ^fe-

‘You may be right,“ she answered aloud. ”I don’t know.“

She turned to study the straight peak of granite jutting up past the tallest trees. Its distant heights glowed in clear sunlight. Across the spread of forest, the protruding stone would be a clear mooring spot. None could miss it. Still, her face remained grim. Had she been heard? And what was coming? What had she called forth from the coin?

She lifted her fist to her chest. There was only one way to find out. From the camp, a thin trail could be seen winding from the base of the steep peak to its summit, a darker trail against the black stone. “Let’s go,” she said, leading the way. “Let us discover if a dead man’s coin holds any true magick.” As THE SUN NEARED THE WESTERN HORIZON, MeRIC STOOD AT THE PROW

of the Stormwing. Dressed in a loose linen shirt and billowed leggings, he sensed every current in the air.

Normally his silver hair was kept long and loose, free to the winds, connecting the elv’in even more intimately to his skies. But no longer. Meric passed his palm over his ravaged scalp. Though his silver hair had grown long enough to comb, his locks were not long enough to appreciate the breezes, to extend his connection to the winds.

He lowered his hand. He should not complain. His intimate connection with the ship more than compensated for this loss. Though Meric had been gone from her planks for over two winters, the Stormwing already felt like an extension of his own body again. Only an elemental of sufficient strength had the power to fuel these ships of the clouds and keep them aloft. And it was through this elemental contact that ship and captain became one. As he stood at the prow, Meric sensed every screw and nail in the ship, felt the snap of sailcloth as if it were his own shirt. Each creak of the hull reverberated like the aching joints of his own limbs.

Aboard the Stormwing, it was as if he were whole again. The tortures and brutalities in the cellars of Shadowbrook dimmed to a distant memory. He could almost imagine such horrors had happened to someone else. Here, flying among the clouds, Meric felt immune from the evil in this land.

But in his heart, he knew such security was as insubstantial as the thin clouds they scudded through. Not even the skies were safe from the corrupting touch of the Dark Lord. During his journeys, Meric had learned firsthand how the land, the sea, and the sky were all interconnected. The elemental energies of the world were an infinite web, overlapping, woven, twisted and tied together. One element could not be tainted without affecting another.

(AMES bLEMENS

•

He had tried to explain this to his mother, Queen Tratal, but he feared such ideas had fallen on infertile soil. Such were the ways of the elv’in. For too long, they had been absent from the lands, thinking themselves free of such bonds. Meric knew better. To defeat this evil would require the unification of all elementals. If left divided, all would fall.

He would not let that happen.

Gripping the rail firmly, Meric scanned the sea of foliage skimming a quarter league below his hull. Earlier the zo’ol shaman, Xin, had brought him word of his link to Mycelle. Though he didn’t understand it fully, clearly a message had been shared. The swords-woman had indicated a location at which to rendezvous: the Stone of Tor. Meric and Xin had pored over maps of the Western Reaches and discovered such a place, a peak at the confluence of two rivers.

Even now they followed a silver thread through the dense greenery. It was a narrow river, named the Willowrush, that delved through the heart of the forest. The place where this flow met the Ice River of the north was their destination.

Menc lifted his gaze to the horizon, instinctively making slight corrections to follow the river’s course.

Near the horizon, a shadow appeared, a single black thunder cloud rising above the forest’s edge.

“Is that the place?” a voice said at his shoulder. It was Tok, his eternal shadow. He had forgotten about the lad sitting on a cask of oil nearby.

“I believe so,” Meric said, his tongue thick as he was pulled back from the skies to the planks of the ship.

He lifted a hand and signaled the men in the rigging. Sails were adjusted. “We should be there at dusk.”

“Should I tell Master Xin?” Tok hopped from his perch with a scuff of heel on plank.

Meric felt the movement like an itch on his own skin. “Yes, he rests in his cabin with his two tribesmen.” The brief discourse with Mycelle had drained Xin’s energies. When he had brought Meric word, the man had been weaving on his feet, eyes bloodshot and hooded. “If he is able, the shaman must try to reach the others again.”

Tok gave a nod and trotted away. Alone, Meric watched the shadow on the horizon slowly grow substantial. Limned by the setting sun, the pinnacle of rock was an upthrust finger, its cliffs sheer and straight. Withdrawing his magick slightly from the spellcast iron keel, he let the ship sink toward the trees as they approached the distant peak.

Meric concentrated on the delicate dance of magick and wind. As he did so, he felt, more than heard, the approach of the three zo’ol and Tok.

“They were already on their way here,” Tok said as introduction. “But I told ‘em what you wanted.” Meric turned and nodded his head in greeting. The small black-skinned shaman returned the acknowledgment. The pale scar on the man’s forehead, a rune of an opening eye, almost glowed. His true eyes were as bright. It seemed his energies had returned. “Were you able to reach Mycelle again?” Xin shook his head and crossed to the rail. The man’s expression seemed distracted. “No. To speak, she must hold the coin and wish it,” he said dismissively. “All remains silent.” Meric felt a twinge of misgiving at his words. He turned back to the study of the horizon. The Stone of Tor had grown substantially in just the brief distraction. Meric willed further adjustments before returning to the others. “We will arrive shortly. We’d best be ready.”

“It will be too late.” Xin turned to Meric, his gaze fearful. “I have been a fool. Too weak to hear until now.”

“What do you mean?” Meric’s misgivings flared. The shaman touched the scar on his forehead. “I sense other eyes out there. Angry, wicked, twisted minds whose desires shudder the heart.” Meric frowned. “Where?”

“They ignore us. But they too travel toward the tall stone. I sense them swirling toward the peak as quickly as we fly.”

Meric studied the expressionless expanse of forest. He saw nothing but did not doubt the shaman’s ability to pierce the canopy and sense the feelings of what lay below. Xin had proven his abilities in the past. “Will we make it in time?” Meric asked.

Xin turned to Meric, gaze narrowed with concern. “We must fly faster.” Meric trusted the zo’ol shaman. “I will try.”

Turning back to the rail, Meric sent out a whisper of magick—not to the ship, but to the skies around them. He strove to draw the winds to his sails. But with his attention split between the ship and the skies, it was a strain on even his significant skills. He felt the JAMES LLEMEKS

I I

crackles of blue energies dancing on his skin—or was that the ship’s hull? He became lost somewhere between.

He gathered the energy trapped in the clouds and stray winds around him, tying them into a tighter weaving. He pulled and drew upon this energy, creating a conduit for power.

Come to me, he thought urgently.

Then, like a push at his back, he felt the first tug upon his ship. Overhead, the sails slowly stretched, ropes strained. Fresh winds whistled past his ears, past the hull. Quicker and quicker, the Storm-wing surged ahead. Meric adjusted the magick in the ship itself. Like a striking hawk, the ship dove down and across the forest. He used the weight of the ship to add speed to his sails.

Vaguely, Meric was aware of the others around him grabbing for handholds, stumbling under the sudden flight. Beads of cold sweat formed on Meric’s forehead as he maintained the winds. “Wh-what do you sense?” he spat out between clenched teeth.

“I’m sorry. The shadow creatures move too swiftly.” Doom trembled in the wizen’s voice. “We are too late.”

Mycelle climbed the last few steps to the summit of the peak. Exposed atop the pinnacle, she shivered as the winds seemed to pick up. Ahead, the trail ended at a small, carved altar. Mycelle approached the sacred site. Though none knew who originally carved the altar, the site itself was still used for rituals to the Mother on solstices and equinoxes.

At her side, Fardale sniffed around the altar’s edges, nosing the strange beasts carved on its stone side.

He nosed one particular beast on the north face of the altar and growled. Mycelle glanced down at the image. It was a winged lion with clawed paws raised. Mycelle frowned. A griffin, just like the rumors they had been hearing from the refugees. Was this some clue?

Mycelle circled the altar. On its south face was a monstrous rooster with the body of a snake. On the other two sides were a reptilian bird and some bullish figure with a scorpion’s tail. Mycelle turned away.

She had heard nothing of these other beasts, but worry settled coldly in her chest. What did this mean?

Was there some connection?

Unable to answer these mysteries, she crossed to the edge of the summit and turned her attention to the skies around her.

The blue expanse appeared empty of all but a few low clouds and a rising mist from the forest. There was no sign of any ship, flying or otherwise. Standing at the cliff’s edge, she pulled the silver coin from her pocket. She clutched it. Had the journey been for naught? Had they wasted half a day pursuing phantoms? Even now she wondered if it all had been a dream. It did not seem real.

Suddenly the coin grew warm in her fist again. An urgent voice entered her head. “They come! Beware the forest!”

She raised the coin, relief mixed with fear. She had not imagined the voice after all. “Who? Who comes?”

“Twisted creatures with diseased thoughts. They surround the Stone even now!” Mycelle glanced back at the altar and peered over the edge at the woods below. Creatures? She saw nothing amiss. “We’re already at the summit,” she said. “I don’t see anything.” “They are there. But we come swiftly.” She lifted her eyes to the heavens. Still she saw nothing. “To the east,” the voice urged, as if sensing her desire to see the ship. “Above the Willowrush.” Mycelle swung slightly around. She squinted her eyes. Nothing. Then the barest glint of sunlight reflected off something hanging above the trees near the horizon. As she watched, it slowly grew in size. She could just make out a flurry of sails. She stared in wonder. A flying ship! Could it be?

Fardale whined at her side. He must have spotted the strange vessel, too. She glanced briefly down to her fellow si’luran, but the wolf’s keen eyes were not on the skies. Fardale studied the darkening woods below. Though the peak’s height was aglow as the sun set, the forest below was already lost in dusk and mist.

Mycelle followed the path of his gaze. “What is it, Fardale?” His only answer was a low growl.

“Tell me what—” she started to say. Then she heard it, too. It came not from coin or wolf, but from the forest itself.

A cry rose with the wind from the woods below. The wind itself? Mycelle knew better. She stared harder. Near the base of the peak, trees began to twist and curl, tortured by something unseen in the shadows below. Mycelle now knew what the speaker from the coin warned against. Twisted creatures.

Not the mythical beasts from the altar, but something worse.

J A M K S LUMENS

It was the Grim!

Mycelle stepped along the summit’s edge. All around, trees writhed and limbs flailed, leaves grew brown and drifted on the twilight breezes. It was as if the cry from below was the scream of the tortured trees themselves. But Mycelle knew it came from the wraiths— hundreds of them!

From here, she spotted shadows shifting among the misshapen trunks. She did not understand this strange gathering. The wraiths were generally solitary creatures, seldom found in more than a pair. What had drawn them all here? And what stayed their hands now? Below, they simply milled and churned. As swiftly as they moved, they could be atop the summit in only a few moments. But they tarried in the forest below, contorting the trees in which they roosted. What kept them at bay?

Mycelle glanced back to the altar. Was there some ancient magick here? For the thousandth time since beginning this journey, she wished she still retained her seeking skill, an ability to read the magick around her. She felt as if a vital sense had been stolen from her.

She lifted the coin and spoke. “I see the creatures, but they hold back for now. Hurry, before their numbers give them the courage to assault the peak.”

A fading whisper came. “We hurry… Be ready …”

She turned and found Fardale’s eyes upon hers. Images formed: A snowy feathered bird taking wing from the pea/( and flying high into the sky, away from the twisted forest.

“No,” she answered him aloud. “I will not abandon you.”

Fardale shrugged and turned away, as stoic as a real wolf.

Mycelle returned to studying the forest and sky. The wail of the Grim echoed off the cliffs. There were so many. Suddenly the ground shook under her feet. She fell to her knees to keep from tumbling over the edge. Crawling closer, she peered below.

Around the pinnacle, hundreds of trees had uprooted themselves, many of them thousand-year-old giants. In packs, they attacked the Stone’s base with their gigantic roots, digging into cracks in the granite.

Mother above! The forest was attacking the Stone of Tor, trying to tear it down.

In the branches of these twisted trees, Mycelle spotted the reason for the assault. The shredded shadows of the Grim perched in those

WIT C H UATE

warped branches. The wraiths rode the attacking trees like riders on horses. The ancient trees dug and attacked the rock, yanking chunks with shuddering blows from the side of the pinnacle. As she stared, she suddenly understood how the Northwall had ‘been sundered. Even that ancient shield wall, also of granite, could not have sustained such an attack for long.

Mycelle, on hands and knees, backed away from the edge. She eyed the skies. With the sun setting behind her, the expanse was still bright. She could easily spot the ship’s sails now. It lay no more than a league away. In the darkening sky, its keel glowed like a dull coal, ruddy and bright. Even without her seeking ability, Mycelle could almost smell the magick. It was this glowing energy that kept the vessel afloat in the air.

She clenched the coin. “Hurry,” she urged.

No answer came, but in truth, what words could make any difference? Either the ship would arrive in time or not.

Mycelle crouched upon the altar as the rock shook under her. For a moment, she entertained Fardale’s idea: to shift into the shape of a large bird and wing away from the danger. It was tempting. She did not want to die. She had done so once before and cared not to repeat it. But even a shape-shifter had limits.

Most could only summon enough energy for a major shift once a day. And she had already shifted twice this day—from woman to wolf and back again. She had no energy for another change.

She stared at the large treewolf as he steadied himself on wide-placed paws and maintained his vigil on the assault below. Even if she could shift and fly away, she would not. She could not abandon her last companion. She had failed too many others, and that pain was worse than any fear of death.

Biting her lip, Mycelle turned her attention to another matter of the wraiths. What had drawn the Grim here like moths to a flame? If she had that answer…

The ground lurched again. The whole peak tilted. Mycelle grabbed the altar’s edge to keep from rolling.

Nearby, Fardale dug in claws and scrabbled to keep his footing, but he was losing his battle and slipping toward the edge. The Stone was toppling under them! “Fardale!” She thrust out an arm, reaching from where she

I

clutched the altar. Fardale slipped farther away from her hand, his hindquarters tumbling over the edge.

“No!”

She willed the flesh of her arm to meld and stretch. She had no energy f°r a ful‘ change, but maybe this small shift…

She concentrated, straining. Slowly the burn of melting bone answered her silent plea. Her arm thinned and lengthened. Her fingers crawled across the rock.

Fardale’s eyes went wild with desperation as he struggled to keep his precarious perch. Then he lost the battle and slid away.

“No!” She lunged with her flowing arm. Her fingers clamped on the wolf’s forelimb as he slipped over the edge. “Hold on!” she urged between tight lips.

She fed some of her torso’s bulk into her thinly stretched arm, building muscle to aid her grip. In her mind’s eye, she became just two arms—one gripping rock, one gripping her friend’s flesh. Nothing else mattered. She fed her will with all her strength, her heart thundering in her ears. How long she struggled like that, she did not know, but slowly she forced her flesh to pull back to its original form. She maintained her grip on Fardale’s leg as her arm shortened, dragging the wolf back over the edge and to her side.

Once near enough, she shifted her grip, pulling Fardale tight under her arm. Exhausted, she finally realized that the Stone had ceased its topple and rested dangerously askew, the summit tilted at a steep angle. A lucky reprieve, but for how long?

Already the wail of the wraiths rose again from below.

Mycelle could not worry about that. With her eyes squeezed closed, she fought to keep her position on the slippery granite. If she lost her grip on the altar’s edge, they would both be lost.

As she concentrated on the muscles and fibers of her limbs, she felt loose hairs, those not braided in place, rise over her head. The smell of the air changed, as after a summer’s thunder shower. Energy!

Mycelle opened her eyes and cried out in a mix of shock and relief.

Overhead, the sky was gone, consumed by a vast wooden hull and a shining iron keel. As she watched, a hatch opened on its underside. A long rope snaked out, the end of which fell to hang tantalizingly close above her. If she stood, she could easily grab the rope. But that was impossible. If she shifted even a single muscle, she feared tumbling away.

The rock under her, as if to remind and scold, shook again. The pinnacle tilted farther.

Sweet Mother… So close!

A thin figure appeared in the hatch’s opening, clearly an elv’in. The slender man had the rope looped around his belly. He dove from the hatch and rolled down the rope, using the loop’s friction to slow his descent. Still, as fast as he fell, Mycelle was sure he would tumble from the rope’s end and fall to his death. But at the last moment, the agile elv’in sailor hooked a twist of rope around his knee and ankle and dropped to a stop, hanging upside down from the rope’s end by only one leg.

Long-fingered hands grabbed the leather of her jacket. “Don’t struggle,” the man warned with little warmth. “And keep hold of that dog.”

As soon as he had her gripped, the length of hemp began reeling back into the hatch above, dragging the elv’in and his wards upward.

Mycelle was afraid to trust both their weights to the thin sailor. But what choice did she have? She reluctantly released her grip on the altar and hugged the large treewolf to her chest with her two arms.

They were drawn slowly upward.

As her heels lifted free of the rock, a massive crack exploded from below. She gasped at the sudden noise, almost losing her hold on Fardale.

Under her toes, the pinnacle toppled away, falling at first slowly, then more rapidly, like a felled tree.

Time seemed to slow as the length of stone crashed into the forest. A muffled roar accompanied the collision. Leaves and bits of shattered trunk blew into the sky as high as the flying ship itself. Water exploded far into the air as the felled pinnacle crashed across the Willowrush, damming the river and diverting its flow.

Tilting her neck, she eyed the opening of the hatch. It seemed a league away. The tackle and pulley that strung the rope from the hatch slowly turned, and she found the eyes of the elv’in sailor meeting hers. He seemed unconcerned about the destruction or danger, his expression bland as if he were merely hauling dry goods to a shop. But Mycelle noticed the sheen of sweat on his forehead from the strain of their weights.

But there was nothing she could do to help, so Mycelle glanced I

back down. The view was lost in a cloud of debris and mist. She saw no sign of the wraiths. Again she wondered what had drawn so rnany of them to this peak. Were they after her? Fardale? The ancient altar? Somehow Mycelle sensed it was none of these. Something else had drawn them here. But what?

What were they after? What had driven the wraiths to such odd behavior?

Staring up again, she saw they neared the hatch. Hands grabbed them as they were hauled inside. At last, Mycelle found firm decking under her heels. She set Fardale down. Their elv’in rescuer clambered free of the rope and landed deftly on his feet. He gave them a cold bow of his head and strode away, as if their salvation were of no significance.

Mycelle shook her head at the strangeness of the elv’in and stared below one last time as the hatch was closed and sealed.

There was a mystery to the Grim that had yet to be answered, and she was sure the path to winning here in the north lay within that riddle. But such answers must wait on another day. For now, she was free, safe, and with new allies.

“Well met, Mycelle,” a voice said behind her.

She turned toward a familiar lanky form standing in a doorway. Relief flooded through her. “Meric!” She crossed over and hugged the elv’in tightly.

“It seems we’ve much to discuss,” Meric said as he was finally let free. He gave Fardale a pat of greeting, then searched around the crowded hold.

With an eyebrow raised, he faced Mycelle. “But where are the others?” Kral awoke to chaos. Winds screamed, thunder unlike any he had heard before shook the ground. He jerked awake, snapping up, banging his head into the roof of the rocking cart. A growl escaped his throat. He reached to his waist but found his ax gone. Then his memories returned in a flood of light and screams. The attack by d’warf raiders…

He twisted around and spotted Mogweed, a tiny mouse of a man, huddled in the corner.

“Where are we?” Kral asked gruffly. “What is going on?” His eyes quickly attuned to the darkness.

Though his iron ax with its ebon’stone heart was missing, Legion still lived inside Kral, caged in this human form. His nostrils flared, sniffing the air with the senses of this inner beast. His ax was near, still sheathed in the pelt of a snow leopard. With the pelt in place, Kral had access to the leopard’s form and nature, but he dared not reveal his shape-shifting abilities—at least not yet.

Nearby, Nee’lahn lifted her face, pushing aside a fall of honey-colored hair. On her knees, she leaned over the still form of Lord Tyrus, her expression pained. “We’ve been captured and travel north.” Kral frowned. A mix of conflicting feelings jangled through him as the nyphai’s violet eyes pierced to his bones. Her beauty stunned him. Her lips were a blooming rose on virgin snow. Her form was all curves and valleys. His senses drank her in, but he kept his face and voice stone. “What caused the ground to quake?”

Already the splintery roar was echoing away, and the tremble under the wagon’s wheels calmed.

Nee’lahn cocked her head and remained silent for a few moments. “I… I hear mourning in the woodsong, but can tell nothing more. Broken trees, drowning waters.” She shook her head. “Some disaster. I don’t know its meaning.”

A whip cracked overhead, and the cart jolted forward, moving faster. Off balance, Nee’lahn toppled into Krai’s side. He caught and gently righted her. She straightened the cloak about her shoulders, nodding in thanks.

Her scent filled Krai’s nose: musky loam and honeysuckle. His rocky countenance threatened to shatter.

He turned away.

Lord Tyrus groaned where he lay at Nee’lahn’s knees.

“How fares the prince?” Kral asked, turning his attention.

Nee’lahn touched the wounded man’s shoulder. “He lives but swims in sick dreams. He won’t wake.”

“Yet he’s always crying out,” Mogweed added, edging closer to them. “Bloodcurdling wails.” The man shivered, hugging his thin arms around his chest.

Kral eyed his two conscious companions. They were too few for him to lead an assault on their captors, even if he could break out of the wagon. Had the prince been hale, Kral would have attempted it. He had seen the man fight, a flurry of steel. Tyrus was surely his father’s son. Ten generations ago, it had been an ancient king of Castle Mryl who had helped Krai’s clans escape during the D’warf Wars. A blood debt was owed to the Mrylian royal family. So even though Kral was bound to the Black Heart, he had not refused the prince’s call for arms at Port Rawl’s docks. How could he?

Though the Dark Lord might have opened his eyes to the beauty of raw flesh and fear, he had not totally burned away Krai’s honor. A lesser man might have been vanquished fully, enslaved completely. But in Krai’s veins ran the magick of deep, underground passages, of gray granite and black basalt, whorled agate and glassy obsidian, the bones of the world. Though the Black Beast of Gul’gotha had branded Krai’s spirit, the Rock had protected Krai’s deeper self. He was scarred by darkfire but not shattered.

“How long have we been traveling?” he growled.

Nee’lahn settled back, sinking into her cloak. “Almost a full day. Night nears.” I A M E S LLIMINS

Krai moved to the plank walls of their prison. He tried to peer out between the slats, but he could discern little in the meager light. He closed his eyes, extending the senses of his inner beast. He listened to the tromp of hoof and boot, the rattle of short swor.d and ax. He counted the thudding heartbeats of his captors. Over a score of the cursed creatures— d’warves, the blood enemy of his people.

In ages past, the d’warves had wrested Krai’s clans from their ancestral home, the mighty mountain Citadel above the blue lake of Tor Amon. The slaughter—monstrous beasts, foul magicks, horrible sacrifices—was sung in ballads and woeful odes around the flames of clan hearths. Out of a people that had numbered in the tens of thousands, only a hundred had escaped, including Krai’s great ancestors, the last of the Senta Flame, the royal house. It had been his great-great ancestor who had last sat on the Ice Throne of the Citadel. The same man had led the ragged bands out of the mountains, abandoning their homelands to become wandering nomads. Krai clenched his fists, nails drawing blood from his palm. No longer would they wander! He would regain his birthright—the Ice Throne—and call his people home.

He would restore honor to the Senta Flame. This he swore!

Lost in the past, he sat frozen as the wagon trundled farther and farther north. He became stone, unmoving. Two days passed him by. Food was shoved through a slit in the door: moldy bread and a meatless gruel. Krai ignored it. To the side, Nee’lahn tended to the prince, dribbling water over Tyrus’

lips. At night, the cold drew the other three to huddle together, but not Krai. He remained fixed, a boulder of granite—waiting, patient. Occasionally the prince would cry out, drawing his eye. Behind his screams, Krai heard the mindless terror and the gibber of the mad. He turned away, dismissing the man.

Lord Tyrus’ body might live, but surely his mind was gone.

So the days passed by.

Only on the third day did Krai stir. Night had fully descended, and a bright moon hung high overhead, glimpsed through cracks in the roof. The wagon slowed, and the guttural chatter of the raiders grew raucous amid coarse laughter.

“We must be nearing this evening’s camp,” Nee’lahn whispered.

“I don’t know,” Mogweed mumbled, his face pressed to the forward wall, one eye peering out. “I see torches ahead, through the trees.”

“It is no temporary camp,” Krai warned. He felt the vibration in his blood. Tuned to the world’s bones, Krai knew what they neared. He gritted his teeth. He could not believe the others were deaf to the roaring in his head. It was as if they approached the shore of some storm-swept ocean, waves pounding on rock.

The wagon continued to slow. New noises intruded: the clash of steel, the whinnying cry of horses, the blare of horns. Krai inhaled deeply: smoke and pine, blood and sun-cured meat, the stink of trench latrines. They were approaching a major encampment. Between the wooden planks of the wagon, a fiery light grew. Calls were exchanged between their captors and outer sentries.

As the wagon rolled into the encampment, the noises enveloped them. Fists occasionally pounded on the sides of the wagon, applauding the raiders’ success. But still the wagon rolled.

“Where are we?” Mogweed asked, his eyes wide with fright. Krai kept his silence. The wagon finally ground to a halt. No one breathed. Only Lord Tyrus stirred. He writhed in an unending nightmare, worse than ever.

Nee’lahn remained at the prince’s side. “What’s wrong with him?” Tyrus’ eyelids suddenly flickered open. Fingers clawed the air. “The Wall…” Though his eyes were open and bright, there was no consciousness. “The Land’s voice… the pain…” Nee’lahn tried to console him, holding his hands. A jangle of keys drew Krai’s attention. It sounded from the rear of the wagon. He turned, fists clenching.

With a loud clanking, a lock and chain fell away. Oak scraped oak as a bar was shoved free.

Krai braced himself. He touched the dark magick in his bones— the magick of Legion, his secret self tied to the chunk of ebon’stone in the iron heart of his ax. He sensed his weapon nearby, felt the leopard trapped under his skin, ready to burst free, teeth and claws sheathed in this human form. Still, he held back. There was power in secrets.

Hinged at the bottom, the rear door of the wagon crashed down, becoming a ramp to freedom. Beyond, the flames from fires and torches were blinding. Krai squeezed his eyelids to slits. After three days locked up in the dark wagon, the brightness stung.

A voice barked at them, coarse, in the common tongue. “Get your arses out here! Now!” The speaker, a d’warf lieutenant, stood flanked by a half score of M VTA I R

his comrades, all armored and bristling with weapons. The guards bore axes in one hand and spiked hammers in the other. Krai knew from experience that the squat creatures were skilled with both weapons, unnaturally dexterous with either limb. It-was not a fight he could hope to win, not without the aid of weapons or the beast nested within his flesh.

Krai crawled first from the wagon, climbing down the ramp. Mogweed followed with Nee’lahn, the prince’s limp form slung between them.

The guards stared at the small party, wary. No one sheathed a weapon. Rumors of the battle under the Stone of Tor had reached these ears. No chances were taken. The lieutenant stepped toward Nee’lahn and Mogweed, but his eyes were on the unconscious form of the prince.

“He’s of no use,” the d’warf leader said. “Cut his throat and feed him to the sniffers.” Krai noted a pen of purple-skinned beasts nearby, chained and tethered, like living pieces of twilight.

Rows of fangs glinted. Sniffers. The most fearsome predators of the woodlands. Krai had once run the streets of Port Rawl as such a beast. Hunger and lust flared at the memory. Tender flesh, the spurt of hot blood…

One of the guards stepped toward the limp form of the prince.

Nee’lahn backed away with Tyrus. Mogweed abandoned the man completely, leaving the tiny nyphai bent under the prince’s weight.

Krai stepped between guard and prisoner. “No. I’ll not let you harm him.” The guard raised his weapon. Krai stared at the d’warf; a low growl flowed from his throat. Krai let the beast inside shine forth. His vision grew more acute; his senses bloomed outward. He heard the d’warf’s twin heartbeats quicken.

The guard held his weapon, faltering a step.

The lieutenant raised his short sword and moved to the guard’s side. “The beasts are hungry. Mayhap we should feed you both to our pets.” The d’warf leader glanced up and down Krai’s large form. “Or maybe not. It has been a long time since my men and I have tasted the flesh of the mountain people.

We’d make several good steaks and roasts out of you.”

Krai felt his control of the beast inside weakening. He kept his

|ames Clemens i fists clenched, hiding the daggered claws of the leopard sprouting from the tips of his fingers.

The lieutenant raised his sword. “So make your choice. Move aside or die!” Krai remained where he stood. “You’ll not harm the prince.” As the leopard within writhed, fur sprouted under Krai’s leathers. His pupils grew slitted.

The d’warf leader balked, clearly sensing a dark current here. Touched by the Black Heart himself, had this d’warf recognized the kindred spirit before him? The sword remained poised.

A new voice intruded. “Leave the captives be, Lieutenant!”

All eyes swung to the right. Another d’warf approached. He was wider in form and heavier in bulk, twice the mass of the already large lieutenant. Atop his melon-sized head was a black cap with a silver insignia.

Krai recognized the rank marking. The guards grew stiffen Krai smelled their nervousness.

The lieutenant retreated a half step. “But, Captain Brytton, the man hanging in the woman’s arms is clearly too weak to work in the mines. I thought not to waste his meat. The sniffers—”

“Quiet, Lieutenant.” The captain moved toward Nee’lahn, who cringed back from him. “The mountain man is correct. No harm must come to this man. The griffin has marked him.”

“Sir?”

Captain Brytton waved to the guards. “Take them to the castle dungeons. All of them.” Krai was baffled by the turn in events. The beast inside quieted. What was going on? He strode to Nee’lahn’s side and collected Tyrus up in his arms, unburdening her. As a group, they were led around the wagon.

Mogweed gasped as he turned, his gaze rising high into the am Krai understood his shock. Two hundred strides away, the world ended. The black granite shield wall known as the Northwall rose before them. Stretching a league into the sky, its surface was as polished as a piece of sculpture, reflecting the firelight and the moon and stars. It was too high for the mind to grasp.

It was said that the air at its summit was so thin that none could breathe it and not pass out.

The great wall marked the northernmost boundary of the Western Reaches; beyond it lay the Dire Fell. It had been here for as long

Witch lj ate as histories were spoken, thrust up by the Land itself to stop the evil of the Grim from ever passing into the woods of the Reaches. Eventually, the Wall had become the birthright of Tyrus’ people, the Dro, who kept vigil here.

“Castle Mryl,” Nee’lahn said softly, pointing to the west, toward where they were heading with the captain and guards.

Krai nodded, spotting the structure.

Limned in firelight, the granite castle was hard to miss, growing like a boil out of the Northwall and sprouting forth with ramparts, turrets, and towers, all formed of flowing black stone. The massive castle climbed the shield wall in countless granite terraces, merging so smoothly that it was hard to say where one started and the other ended. And in truth, there was no distinction. Castle Mryl was a part of the wall, a flowing construct grown by the Land to house the wall’s chosen, the Dro.

Krai craned his neck up. Beyond the reach of the camp’s firelight, tiny windows glowed like stars against a black firmament, openings into high rooms and chambers in the wall itself. Tales spoke of passages and secret chambers that ran the length of the wall’s thousand leagues, like the arteries and veins of a living being.

And in actuality, the wall was no dead rock. An ocean of elemental energies flowed through the stone.

Even now, Krai heard the magick’s call, and if Krai allowed it, he could be lost in that song. It vibrated through him. In his arms, Tyrus stirred again, writhing and moaning. The prince, too, heard the call and struggled to answer it.

Krai held the man to his chest. These lands had always been rich in rock magicks. Like the Dro, Krai’s people had lived in these mountainous lands, becoming imbued and blood-tied to these magicks. And though centuries had passed since any of his clansmen had returned here, the magick had never left Krai’s people. It was one of the chief reasons the clans had remained in the mountains of the Teeth: to be forever close to the granite spirit of the Land.

Krai felt heat on his cheeks; his vision clouded. He could not stop the tears. For the barest moment, he remembered himself fully. The darkness receded from his blood. He stumbled to a stop, a cry on his lips.

Horror at what he had done, at what he had become, flared sharply, cut him deeply. Then the dark energies surged again in his heart, feeding off the raw power flowing here. Doubt and guilt faded.

“Are you all right, mountain man?” Nee’lahn asked, dropping back beside him as they marched toward the castle.

Krai closed his eyes, touching the beast inside, reassuring himself that all was in order. “I’m fine.” Nee’lahn looked little convinced, but she remained quiet.

As a group, they were herded to the main gate of the castle. Broken gates lay open to the south. Along the walls overhead, mounted on iron spikes, were the heads of the castle’s previous wards. Bleached by the sun, scavenged by ravens and crows, the decapitated heads were little more than white bone. As Krai stared with his keen vision, he spotted more of the castle’s decorations. All the walls, terrace after terrace, were mounted by these trophies of the dead. Thousands upon thousands.

Krai turned away. The great cat inside him stirred, scenting the bloodshed and terror. Krai reined in the beast with a promise. One day, he would replace each skull with a d’warf’s.

Krai followed the others through the gate and across the stone courtyard, carrying the prince of the castle back into his home.

Across the yard stood the main keep. Its stone doors lay cracked and toppled. Scorch marks and pocked holes marred the polished surfaces of the yard, clear evidence of foul magicks and fierce fighting.

Captain Brytton halted before the stairs leading into the keep. He pointed to the side, to an open doorway with steps leading down into the ground. “Take the prisoners below. Lock them away.” The lieutenant nodded and drew them away at swordpoint.

The passage down into the castle’s dungeons was narrow, barely wide enough for Krai’s shoulders. As the mountain man bent and climbed down the stairs, the granite walls swallowed him up. Though he was being led to his imprisonment, Krai could not escape the sense of coming home. The magick in the stone swelled through him, reminding him of hearth and clan. Even Tyrus grew quieter in his arms, seeming to slip into true slumber rather than the endless nightmare that had consumed him.

The long stairs opened into a large guardroom. Five d’warves sat around a hewn pine table, scraps of a meal spread before them. Krai spotted a human leg bone, well gnawed. A part of him turned away in disgust, while deeper inside another part growled with hunger.

The lieutenant grumbled in his native tongue, and one of the WIT C H LrAT F.

fifs Clemens d’warves stood and grabbed up a ring of keys. The group was led past a stout oaken door and into a long passage of barred cells. The passage reeked of excrement, urine, charred flesh, and blood.

Nee’lahn wrinkled her nose in distaste.

As they were led down the way, the occupants of the cells glanced up, eyes dull with defeat. In one cage, a bruised and battered man hung from chains on the walls. He had no legs, only burned stumps. One of the d’warves leading them laughed and nudged his companion, licking his lips. Krai pictured the leg bone on the dinner table and shuddered.

He and the others were led all the way to the end of the passage, to the largest cell. Its door was opened, and they were shoved inside. With a clang, the door slammed shut and was locked.

The lieutenant leaned close to the bars as Krai settled Tyrus to the straw-covered stone floor. “Do not think yourself safe, man of the mountains. I mean to taste your blood.” Krai, his arms freed, lashed backward with a fist, leopard swift. The lieutenant failed to move fast enough. Bones crunched under Krai’s knuckles; hot blood spurted over his wrist.

The lieutenant cried out, falling back.

Krai slowly turned to face him. Without a word, he lifted his fist and licked the lieutenant’s blood from his wrist.

Regaining his feet, the lieutenant lunged at the bars, his nose a crooked ruin. “I’ll eat your heart, mountain man! Do you hear me?”

Krai licked his wrist again, then swung around, ignoring the man’s screeches. He found the others’ eyes on him. Mogweed’s mouth was hanging open.

The lieutenant was dragged away by his fellow guards.

“Was that wise, Krai?” Nee’lahn asked. “What does it gain to provoke them?” He shrugged.

Further discussion was forestalled by a loud groan from the prince. Nee’lahn knelt beside him, taking his hand. The man’s other arm rose, his fingers brushing over his face like a blind man struggling to recognize a stranger. Another groan escaped his lips.

“Lord Tyrus,” Nee’lahn whispered.

Eyelids slowly pulled open. His pupils rolled for a few breaths, then settled on Nee’lahn. He reathed to her face with his free hand and touched her cheek, as if firming in his mind that she was real and not another figment of fevered dreams. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a rasp.

“Hush,” Nee’lahn said.

Tyrus pushed up on his elbows, weak. Krai stooped and helped the prince sit up. “Do you know where you are?” he asked.

The prince nodded and rasped an answer. “Home.”

“You’ve been unconscious for almost three days,” Mogweed said, coming forward to join them.

Tyrus held a palm against his forehead. “I heard the Wall. It helped me find my way back.”

“Where were you?” Nee’lahn asked. “What happened?”

Tyrus closed his eyes and shuddered. “I… I don’t remember. All I recall is a shadow falling over me while I fought the d’warves. Its touch numbed the marrow of my bones. I felt my mind pulled from my body, leaving me unmoored and unable to find my way back.”

“It was the griffin,” Nee’lahn said. “I saw it. A monstrous statue made of shadows and fire. It attacked you.”

Tyrus slowly shook his head. “I don’t remember. I became lost in nightmares, surrounded by strange, twisted beasts, and fiery eyes burning into me.”

“Fiery eyes?” Krai mumbled, shifting uncomfortably. He remembered his own branding by the Black Heart. He sniffed at Tyrus. He sensed no corruption and was secretly relieved. The blood debt to the kings of Castle Mryl was ingrained in Krai like a vein of quartz in granite. Even darkfire could not burn away this bit of ancient obligation. He was glad to discover the-prince untainted.

Nee’lahn spoke up. “The d’warf captain seemed especially interested in you, Lord Tyrus. He called you

‘marked by the griffin,’ suggesting some importance in your capture.” Tyrus sat straighter, his strength slowly returning. “I can imagine. As the last living prince of the Wall, my magick would be a boon to the raiders.”

‘Magick?“ Nee’lahn asked.

“Scrying,” Tyrus explained. “Tellings of the future. The Wall speaks with the will and knowledge of all the Land.” Tyrus attempted to stand but needed Krai’s help. He limped to the rear wall °f their cell and laid a palm on the glassy surface—black granite, like all the castle. “I will not let them have me. I’ll not let the Land’s gift to my family be twisted.”

“We’ll protect you,” Krai said.

Tyrus smiled, cracked lips splitting and bleeding fresh. “I don’t doubt your honor, Krai, but honor can be outnumbered—as was proven on the battlefield three days ago.”

“So what do you propose?”

“To vanish.”

“How?” Mogweed asked.

“There’s a magick in the Northwall that is known only to members of the royal family—something more than scrying.” Tyrus glanced at them.

Krai’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “What?” Tyrus paused, then took a deep breath and spoke softly.

“As Castle Mryl is a part of the Wall, so are its kings and princes. Granite runs in our blood. We are as much the Wall as the castle itself.”

“I don’t understand,” Krai grumbled.

“Then watch.” Tyrus turned and placed both palms on the wall. He closed his eyes.

Krai felt the flow of the Wall’s energy shift, like a river changing course. The rumble of elemental magick swept down upon the cell, swirling through the walls in torrents. At his side, Nee’lahn gasped.

Krai’s attention returned fully to the prince. The man’s pale hands slowly blackened, matching the granite. As Krai watched, the transformation flowed up the prince’s arms, turning limbs to stone, polished and smooth. And still the magick spread, consuming chest and legs, swamping over the man’s head. In a matter of breaths, his entire form had become living granite.

Stone lips moved. “We are not called the Blood of the Wall for no reason. We are one with the Land’s heart. It is our true home.”

Tyrus stepped forward, merging into the stone wall. He stopped— half in, half out. He turned to them.

“Fear not. I’ll watch over you. But in the Wall, I can walk the castle unseen and learn the foul purpose of those who roost here.”

Nee’lahn reached and touched the man’s cheek. “Be careful. Even the strongest stone can shatter.”

“So I have learned.” He sank deeper into the wall, his clothes ripping and falling to the straw. Soon there was no sign of the prince, only bare wall.

Mogweed touched the stone, disbelieving his eyes.

Lord Tyrus’ face reappeared above Mogweed’s fingers, growing into a stone mask hanging on the wall.

Torchlight glinted off his glossy eyes. Granite lips smiled mischievously. “Be ready.” Then he was gone.

As DAWN ROSE, MeRIC STARED OVER THE BOWSPRIT OF THE STORMWING.

Overhead, the morning breezes swelled the sails, ropes snapping taut. This close to the colossal wall, the winds blew in cold gusts, threatening to toss the ship against the looming cliff of granite. It took all Meric’s skill to keep the ship gliding beside the Northwall, edging along the misty heights, hiding from the hostile eyes far below.

Meric stood bundled in a thick-furred cloak. At this height, ice frosted the smooth rock, and the air was almost too thin to breathe. He craned his neck. Even from the deck of the Stormwing, Meric could not spy the Northwall’s summit. It was too tall, higher than even the Stormwing could fly.

After rescuing Mycelle and Fardale from atop the Stone of Tor, Meric had flown his ship directly north, pursuing the trail discovered by the wolf’s keen nose. There was no doubt where their captured friends were being taken—to Castle Mryl.

By air, it had taken only a day to reach the Northwall. Once here, they were forced to wait, well out of sight of the castle. Only at night did they dare risk drifting nearer, spying upon the encampment around the castle. A pair of elv’in sailors had drifted on long lines below the keel, bearing spyglasses: Maps were quickly drawn of the castle grounds and surrounding forces. But so far, there was no sign of the others.

As Meric and Mycelle waited, worry had begun to worm into their talks. What if they were wrong?

What if the captives weren’t being taken here?

Something bumped Meric’s knee. He glanced down and found Fardale settling to his haunches. He touched the wolf’s flank in reassurance. “We’ll find your brother and the others. If they’re out there, we won’t leave without them.”

Fardale leaned a bit against the elv’in’s leg, silently thanking him.

Together, the pair watched the sun rise over the mountains of the Teeth. As the first rays reflected off the upper heights of the North-Wall, Meric tacked the Stormwing slowly backward, putting distance between them and the castle. He slipped back along the Northwall to sit out another long day—another day of interminable waiting and worry.

Fardale whined at his side. The wolf’s nose was pointed toward the cliff of granite. At first, Meric failed to see anything, then spotted movement. Something swept toward them, a shadow on the rock. Clutching the rail, Meric leaned out, eyes squinted.

A great bird shot along the cliff face, diving from heights higher than the Stormwing could fly. Meric stepped back as the creature arced toward the deck of the ship. The elv’in, his blood tied to all things of the air, recognized the bird: a great roc. The huge black bird swept toward their ship. Its wings were wider than Meric was tall. With a piercing cry, it tucked its wings and dove toward the deck, a deadly black bolt.

Meric stood his ground. When the beast was a span from the deck, its wings snapped open, braking its fall. Talons dug into the deck as the bird landed. It held its wings wide, a crown of feathers flaring up. Its beak stretched open as it panted from its flight. Glowing amber eyes stared back at him.

Fardale padded up to the bird, sniffing at it. Meric spoke to the majestic beast. “What have you learned?” As answer, the bird drew its wings down, ruffling its feathers with a shake. Black pinions withdrew back into pale flesh. Bones stretched. Blond hair sprouted to replace black feather, and wings rejointed into arms. In a matter of moments, bird became woman. The only feature shared between the two forms were the deep amber eyes.

Naked, Mycelle pushed up from her crouch, gasping slightly, still out of breath. “Th-they arrived during the night. They’ve been taken to the dungeons.”

Meric slipped off his fur-lined cloak and draped it over her bare shoulders. “All of them?” She snugged the cloak tight, shivering against the cold. “All of them. But Lord Tyrus appeared unconscious. Krai was carrying him. I could not judge the extent of his injuries from where I was perched.”

“Then we proceed as planned,” Meric said. She nodded. “Tonight. Under the cover of darkness.”

“Will they be safe for that long?”

“They’ll have to be. Our only hope is stealth. There’ll be no victory without the advantage of surprise.” JAMES LLIMENS

T

Meric guided her toward the hatch. “Then you’ll need to warm up and rest. With winter nearing, the days are shorter.”

Mycelle scowled. “Not short enough.” She stared at Fardale, eyes growing briefly brighter as the two shared private thoughts. Afterward, the wolf nodded his head once, then swung away.

Meric followed the pair. At last, the waiting was over.

As the others disappeared through the hatch, Meric closed the doors, remaining on deck. He returned to his post by the bowsprit, shivering in the thin air. Mycelle still had his cloak. Ahead, the high mists thinned.

A quarter league beyond the bowsprit, the sheer face of the granite cliff lay shattered and broken.

Distracted by Mycelle’s reappearance, he had let the Stormwing drift farther than he had intended. He slowed the winds in his sails. It was the first time the Stormwing neared the place where the great wall had been sundered. Meric had considered it too dangerous.

But now, with the wound in sight, he found himself drawn to it. Boulders the size of small villages lay tumbled into the meadows and forests of the Western Reaches. The trough of devastation stretched leagues to the south: gouged tracks, acres of broken trees, shattered hillsides. The horrendous fall of the Stone of Tor was a broken twig compared to the devastation here.

Meric extended his sight toward the Northwall. From summit to base, the wall was split completely. But as the ship drifted nearer, Meric saw the breach itself was quite narrow, no more than a hundred steps. It was as if a giant ax+iad cleaved the wall.

Both curious and appalled, Meric allowed his ship to sweep forward. As the Stormwing glided over the destruction below, Meric’s eyes remained fixed on the sundered cliff face. He held his breath as the view beyond the wall opened up. A thin slice of the dark forest appeared.

The Dire Fell. The twisted home of the wrathful Grim.

Meric stared. The trees of the Fell were nothing like the pines and aspens of the northern Reaches. These trees were monsters. The giants reached as high as the summit of the Northwall itself, their up-per branches crowned with ice. The boles were as thick around as farmhouses, each mounted atop a tangle of knotted roots. But worst °f all, their branches, rather than sprouting straight, were twisted and curled upon themselves, appearing more like vines than tree limbs. Adding to this appearance was the lack of leaves. Not a single green tuft of foliage marked this skeletal forest.

Staring, not breathing, Meric shuddered. It was as if the word tortured were given living form in these behemoth trees.

He tore his eyes away, glancing below. Extending from the forest into the breach, a tangle of roots slowly writhed. Blind, woody worms shuffled and dug at the edge of the wound. To be seen from this height, Meric knew each root had to be thicker than a horse’s flank, powerful enough to chew into stone. Meric knew he was looking at the cause of the wall’s sundering. As at the Stone of Tor, the Grim must have directed their enslaved trees to tear this breach in the granite.

But why} What control did the Dark Lord exert over these wraiths? What had caused them to break free after countless centuries and leave their own trees to hunt the Western Reaches?

Over the past two days, Meric had learned the wraiths’ patterns. Only at night did the Grim flow out of the Fell to hunt the forests of the Reaches, creating an unnatural barrier around Castle Mryl, protecting the encamped d’warves. But again— why} What dread pact had been forged between the mindless wraiths and the furtive d’warves?

Meric had no answer. He swung the Stormwing around. Tears froze on his cheek. Though there was so much unknown, Meric knew one truth, one secret. Something he had not shared with anyone, not even his own men.

He turned his back on the Fell. “Oh, Nee’lahn… maybe it would’ve been better if you’d stayed dead.”

“You don’t look well,” Mogweed said.

Nee’lahn opened her eyes. She leaned against the cold wall of the cell, huddled in her cloak. Mogweed crouched before her. “I’m fine,” she lied, turning away and pulling the hood of her cloak higher.

The mousy-haired man settled beside her. He picked a strand of long blond hair from the shoulder of her cloak. “What’s wrong?”

Nee’lahn remained silent. Though she strove to hide it, this crypt of stone threatened her rebirth. While in the vast Western Reaches, the woodsong had helped sustain her, but now, cut off, surrounded by spans of hard granite, she could barely hear a whisper of the endless song of the great forest.

“You need your lute, don’t you?” Mogweed whispered, keenly perceptive. “A nyphai cannot be far from her bonded tree spirit.”

“No more than a hundred steps,” she answered quietly. Years ago, as the last koa’kona tree of her ancestral grove, Lok’ai’hera, had succumbed to the Blight, a skilled woodcutter had carved Nee’lahn a magnificent lute from the heart of her tree, freeing the tree’s spirit, preserving it. With lute in hand, Nee’lahn had been able to travel across the lands of Alasea to search for a cure, to return vitality to what was now Blighted.

But no longer. She did not have her lute, and in its absence, she needed the strength of the vast forests of the Reach to keep her from unraveling. And now, imprisoned in granite, cut off from the forest, Nee’lahn felt herself weakening, fraying around the edges. Her lips were dry and cracked, and no amount of water could quench her thirst. Her hair hung limp, and strands fell like autumn leaves.

“How long can you hold out?” Mogweed asked with concern.

“Not long. Maybe a day.” Closing her eyes, Nee’lahn reached outward, concentrating on the whispers of song wending down through the passages and stairs. As she strained, she heard another song, a darker melody. It came not from before her, but from behind, from the Fell. She knew that black song.

“No,” she mumbled dully. “I won’t listen. Not even to sustain myself.” That path only led to madness and twisted lusts.

“What was that?” Mogweed asked.

Nee’lahn shook her head. “Sometimes even life costs too steep a price.” Mogweed frowned, clearly confused. He leaned away from her. “Don’t give up. Lord Tyrus has promised to help us.”

Nee’lahn huddled deeper, praying Mogweed was right, praying for the prince to hurry. As she sat, she listened to the hushed whispers of woodsong: one bright, one dark. Two sides of the same coin.

She squeezed her eyelids tight but failed to keep tears from flowing down her cheeks. Lok’ai’hera.

Memories of green life and bright flowers. All gone. Nee’lahn winced, closing her ears against the call of the darkling song.

Hurry, Prince…

The prince of Castle Mryl had borne many names during his short lifetime. His mother, long dead, had named him. Tylamon Roy-son, after his great grandfather. The pirates of Port Rawl had named him Captain Tyrus, caste leader and bloody tyrant. His first lover during his thirteenth winter had proclaimed him Sweetheart and considered him both tender and kind, while the last woman in his bed had cursed him Bastard and swore to gut him for the cruelties of his heart. In truth, the prince was all of these men, the sum of his past. No man bore a single name.

But now, swimming through the stone of the Wall, Lord Tyrus shed the vagaries of his past and became one man, one purpose, forged in granite. This was his home, his birthright—and he would see it returned and its dead avenged.

Tyrus moved through the rock of the Wall as easily as a fish through water. He felt currents in the stone, eddies and streams, all aspects of the flow of magick in the granite. Swimming upward, carried on a wellspring of energy, Tyrus aimed for the loftier heights of the great Wall. He stared around him. His sight stretched through the watery granite to the world beyond, so he viewed wavering images of the Western Reaches and the d’warf encampment. He turned his head and dimly viewed the murk of the Dire Fell.

But his destination was neither right nor left, but up and ahead, to where the central keep of Castle Mryl grew from the granite wall. He flowed toward the upper terraces, to the chambers that had once been his father’s, King Ry’s. He suspected that whoever held sway over these d’warves would be found there—as would answers.

Once Tyrus was high enough, he twisted and glided into the buttresses and walls that grew out of the North wall to form the castle proper. Here the thickness of the granite was thinner. His sight grew more acute, like that of a diver surfacing from the depths of a dark lake. He now had to be careful that he remained within the confines of the narrowing walls. It would ruin his spying if a limb should be seen jutting from a wall. He sidled down a long passage, coming at last to the proper door. Slowing his pace, he glided to a stop, twisting away from the corridor to spy inside the neighboring room.

The royal antechamber was oval in shape, a bubble in the granite. Across the way, other hallways led into the king’s private suite of chambers. But the main room here had been his father’s greeting and conference room. Shelved books lined the walls, and a fireplace as tall as a man opened on the right, now cold and disused. A thick ool carpet, embroidered with the family icon of the snow leopard, w

covered the granite floor.

Tyrus frowned. The room was empty, dark except for a single torch.

As he floated in the stone, frustrated, he heard a sharp voice sound from deeper in the warren of chambers.

Following the sound, Tyrus stepped from the stone wall, willing the magick to stay with him. Black limbs sprouted from the stone as he pulled himself free. He hurried across the carpet to the far wall and dove back into the stone, merging completely without a ripple. He sped along the crisscrossing walls, delving deeper into his father’s private suite. He aimed toward the muffled voices.

At last, he reached his father’s bathing chamber and found the speakers. The chamber was steamy, blurring where the granite wall ended and the room began. Tyrus moved with great care, squinting.

A krge sunken tub occupied the center of the room. At its edge, a broad-chested d’warf knelt on one knee, cap in hand. His splayed nose and wide lips made him appear some squat toad perched before

* a lake. “All is in readiness. The shaft under the Citadel has been mined and the chamber completed under the lake of Tor Amon.”

“And what of the griffin statue, Captain Brytton?” The speaker floated in the hot waters of the tub. It was hard to make out any features through the steam, but the voice sounded distinctly feminine, lilting and sweet, but with a deeper undercurrent of menace. “What of the Weirgate?”

“It has been returned to its roost at the Citadel. We await only the next full moon to finish the last step.”

“Good.” The figure settled deeper in the tub. “I thought it foolish or the Dark Lord’s lieutenant to mount the griffin and hunt a few stray elementals lost in the wood, especially at this critical time.”

‘As the hour approaches, the Black Heart grows especially wary.“

‘Or at least the one named Shor’tan does. That burned fiend watches all the Gates, popping between them like some scalded rat, keeping an eye on everything. With my brethren on guard, there is nothing to fear in the north. Our site is secure.“ The figure sighed.

Still, the discovery of the prince of the Wall was a fortuitous boon.

And with the griffin returned to its roost, we remain on schedule. Nothing lost, everything gained.“

“But the prince remains mindless.”

“Then we must pray his will is strong enough to withstand his brush with the Weir. If the prince could be broken to our cause, his skill at augury would serve our master well.”

“Aye, but what of his companions in the dungeon?”

The figure shifted in the tub. “They’ll be kindling for our fire. We shall use their tortures to help forge the young prince. We will not lose him as we did his father.” The bather slid deep into the tub. “Though in truth, even that matter did not end entirely without gain; this body I wear has grown quite comfortable. I had forgotten the delights of the physical flesh. Like this bath… and fine wine.” A hand, barely discernable through the steamy mists, reached to a glass as red as blood. The bather sipped at the wine, savoring it, then lowered the glass and stood.

The sudden motion stirred the steam in whorled eddies. “When the prince wakes, we’ll break him to our will. Where we failed with the father, we’ll succeed with the son.” The mists parted as the figure stepped from the bath, naked. The snowy beard that trailed over the broad chest belied the feminine voice.

Tyrus gasped, reaching out of the wall, unmindful of exposing himself. “Father!” The room’s two occupants turned in his direction, startled.

Before he was spotted, Tyrus yanked his arms back inside the granite.

“Did you hear something just then?”

The d’warf nodded, his long ears twitching. “A muffled outburst. Maybe from the next room.”

“Go search!”

The d’warf captain fled.

The naked figure strode to the wall, standing before it. Hands rose to explore the surface. Tyrus hovered frozen in the stone, half an arm’s length away. He searched his father’s face, seeing a man he had spent a decade mourning. His arms ached to reach out and hold his father in his arms, but Tyrus knew King Ry was no longer there. The eyes before him were cold and glowed with cruel fires.

Fists clenching, Tyrus bit back a scream of rage.

v- i. it M p. N

The squat captain returned, ax in hand. “The rooms are empty.” The figure turned savagely, his voice ice. “Check on our prisoners.”

“Aye, my lord.” Captain Brytton bowed out of the room.

Now only father and son remained—along with something foul wearing King Ry’s form. “I can smell you,” the demon whispered to the empty air. “The scent of blood in the walls.” The figure moved back to the bath, voice raising, the feminine lilt growing hard and frosted. “I don’t know what trick of magick this is, but I’ll find whoever you are and twist you to our end. This I promise!” As Tyrus watched, a darkness exuded from his father’s body, flowing from every pore. Tendrils of dark smoke probed the mists, hunting for him.

Tyrus dared not risk capture—not when the others were counting on him. He sank, down the wall, dropping away. The movement must have been sensed. The demon sprang toward his hiding spot, clawed nails bared.

But Tyrus was already gone, sunk into the lower depths of the castle, wending his way back toward the main wall. As he moved, tears flowed down his granite cheeks.

Fatherl

r

As THE MOON CLIMBED THE NIGHT SKY, MyCELLE HURRIED DOWN THE

woodland trail toward the glow of the encampment around Castle Mryl. She did not bother trying to hide. The trail ended at the forest’s edge. The Northwall and Castle Mryl loomed before her, a hundred paces away.

Taking a deep breath, Mycelle stepped out into the open and strode toward the sentry line of the outer camp. Around her upper arm, under her thick leather jerkin, the paka’golo snake curled in agitation. //

must smell the magic’tgiven off by the Wall. Once Mycelle herself could have sensed the great well of power here; her ability as a seeker had been keen. But no longer. Risen from the dead by the small snake’s magick, she had traded one ability for another— seeking for shape-shifting.

Mycelle walked up to one of the outer sentries and lifted an arm in greeting. He just nodded at her, bored, leaning on a pike. She hurried past, eyes down.

Her deception had held. Earlier, Mycelle’s group had waylaid a trio of d’warf hunters. It had not been hard. Meric had lowered the Stormwing and dropped four of his kin into the trees, armed with poisoned crossbows. They had quickly dispatched the thick-bodied hunters, then signaled the all clear. After the attack, Mycelle had joined the archers. Choosing carefully, she had rolled the smallest of the dead d’warves, a female, on its back. Leaning over the slack form, she had studied the body and face, then shaped her own physique to match. Once satisfied with her appearance, she had quickly donned M

the target’s clothes and cinched her own weapons in place, hidden under an outer furred cloak.

The elv’in bowmen then clambered back up the ropes to the waiting ship, leaving Mycelle to traverse the trails alone back to Castle Mryl. Her goal: to reach the upper heights of the castle and eliminate any stray eyes so the Stormwing could moor.

“How was the night’s hunting?” a squat guard asked in the d’warvish tongue as she passed. He sat on a stool, honing his ax.

Mycelle swung around, quickly translating the words in her head. She shoved aside a cloak and revealed a trio of skinned hares hanging from her belt. “The Grim have left us little to hunt.” The guard nodded, concentrating on his ax. “Damned ghouls. Shrieking and wailing all the time. Makes my skin twitch.”

Mycelle grunted and continued down the rows of tents and billets. She adjusted her cloak, nervous as she worked her way through the wide camp. With most of the host asleep in their tents, no others accosted her.

She soon reached the gates in the outer curtain wall of Castle Mryl. Two guards were posted. They straightened as she neared, pikes shifting in their grips.

Mycelle bit back a curse and kept her head down as she marched up to them. She did not want her amber eyes betraying her true heritage.

A long pike tipped with a steel blade lowered across her path, blocking the way. “What manner of business do you have here at this time of night?”

Mycelle again parted her cloak, revealing the trio of hares. “Late-night meal for the captain of the guards.

He asked I bring him something tasty.” She let her cloak open farther to reveal her figure’s ample bosom, shape-shifting slightly to swell the fullness even more. Are these tasty enough to pass inspection?“ she asked with a lascivious grin, tilting one hip to make the rabbits sway.

Neither guard noticed the hares.

With a single finger, Mycelle reached and slid aside the pike. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve heard the captain’s grown quite hungry.”

There was no resistance as she sauntered past, only a mumbled protest. “That damn captain gets all the best—” •—rabbits,“ his partner finished.

Both guards guffawed and settled back to their posts.

Mycelle continued across the central keep. Though the night had grown cold, sweat pebbled her brow.

Her limbs threatened to shake. She had to concentrate on walking slowly.

Climbing the stairs toward the main entrance to the castle, My-celle found the way thankfully unguarded.

It seemed the marauding force had grown complacent, content with the security of the entrenched encampment and the legions of Grim loose in the surrounding forest.

She moved through the broken stone doors and sped deeper into the keep. She strode with more assurance, knowing her way from here. Decades ago, she had trained in these very walls, learning the way of the sword, and once done, she had sworn fealty to King Ry in the great feasting hall. But as she climbed the twining stairs and sped along the dusty passages, she barely recognized the place. The once neat and bright hallways were now dark and fouled. Broken furniture and refuse lay scattered. At the top of one stairway, she found the old bones of a defender tumbled in a corner, bits of leather and cloth still clinging to them. She turned her face away and hurried on, chased by ghosts, while rats and other vermin scurried from her path.

This was not the castle she remembered.

Still, though the insides had been defiled, the structure was the same. Mycelle followed the last of the winding staircases to the topmost level. She marched toward the terrace’s open parapet. At the door, she paused to check her weapons.

According to last night’s reconnoitering, there were two guards.

Leaning against the door, she braced herself. No alarm must be raised. She slipped out her pair of throwing daggers and palmed them, testing their weight. Satisfied, she pulled the door’s latch and rolled through. One of the guards swung around at the squeak of hinges. She flew toward them.

“What are you—?” The first d’warf’s words were sliced from his throat by the dagger now protruding from under his chin. Blood spouted as he coughed and bumped backward.

His companion was a moment too slow in recognizing his fellow guardsman’s distress. Before he could turn, Mycelle was there, jamming her second dagger into the soft spot where the spine met the skull. She slammed the heel of her hand against the pommel, driving its point deep into the brain. His body spasmed, his wide mouth opening and closing, silently gasping. Then his muscles gave out, and he slumped to the stone.

Mycelle did not witness the end of her handiwork. The first d’warf had ripped the dagger from his own throat and tossed it aside.

In his other hand appeared a long-hafted ax. He tried to sound the alarm, but all that came out was a gurgle, his voice box a bloody ruin.

Backing a step, Mycelle took in the situation. The advantage of surprise was gone. The soldier spun his ax skillfully, fire and hate in his eyes. She did not like her odds. Twin-hearted, d’warves were hard to kill, and she wore an unfamiliar form—but she had neither time nor magickal reserve to shift.

The d’warf attacked.

Mycelle whipped out her twin swords, caught the ax’s haft in her crossed blades, and turned it away.

The axhead struck the granite floor, casting sparks at her heels. Mycelle danced, spinning and thrusting her sword deep into her attacker’s belly.

With a growl, the d’warf heaved around, dragging the hilt from Mycelle’s hand.

Mycelle backed, reduced to one weapon. She cursed her current form. It was too slow, too thick-fingered.

The d’warf, her sword hilt showing under his rib cage, swung on Mycelle. Blood frothed his thick lips.

The impaled blade had not fazed the creature, no more than a thorn in his side. His ax spun again.

The next strike aimed for Mycelle’s head. With no hope of deflecting the heavy weapon, she didn’t even try. Instead she lunged toward her attacker, bringing herself under his guard. The oak haft struck her shoulder, driving her to her knees. Using both hands, she drove her second sword up into his belly, then rolled away. Shoving to her feet, she twisted around.

The d’warf had dropped to one knee, now impaled with two blades, the last of Mycelle’s weapons.

Using his ax as a crutch, he pushed himself up and glared at her. He glanced to her empty hands, and a bloody sneer formed as he straightened.

Now what? Mycelle thought. She found her back against the parapet wall. Her left arm was almost limp, numbed by the blow to her shoulder.

With a muted roar of victory, he rushed her, ax raised high.

Reacting on pure instinct, Mycelle dropped to the stone floor, legs sliding out from under her, her back striking the granite hard. She ignored the blade aiming for her face and lifted her feet. She caught the d’warf in the belly.

He let out a loud oof, blood spraying from his lips—but still his ax fell.

She kicked out with her feet, driving his bulk a single step back. Thrown off balance, the ax struck the stone of the parapet just to the side of Mycelle’s head. She felt the jar of the impact in her legs.

Reaching past her knees, she grabbed the hilts of her twin swords. In a clean sweep, she unsheathed them from the guard’s belly.

He groaned and fell toward her, meaning to pin her.

Mycelle let him. In a flash of blades, she crossed her swords before her and kicked the guard’s legs out from under him, accelerating his fall atop her.

Surprised, he tumbled, his neck falling squarely between the crossed blades. The weight of his fall against the twin razored blades finished the work started by the first dagger. His neck was sliced all the way to his spine. He landed atop Mycelle, bleeding a hot lake across her face and upper chest.

Mycelle strained to move him, but he was too heavy. Blood filled her mouth and nose. She spat and choked on it, coughing, close to drowning. Then the twin pumps in his chest ceased their chugging beats, and the flow slowed enough for her to catch her breath.

Still, she was trapped. He was too massive, too wide. Giving up, she fumbled to a pocket and pulled free a silver coin, the prince’s coin: on one side, a leaping snow leopard, on the other, the visage of the prince’s father, King Ry.

She kissed the elder’s face, thanking him for her training, then closed her eyes. Xin, she silently willed.

Xin, hear me.

Almost immediately, the coin grew warm in her hand. “ I hear you.” She signed in relief. Earlier, it had been decided to use the coin to signal the ship, a silent dispatch. Xin had been awaiting her call.

“The way is clear,” she said. “Bring the ship in.”

“// will be done. We come now.”

Mycelle pulled the coin close to her lips. “Hurry…”

J A M K S V>LEMENS

K.RAL STARED ACROSS THE CELL AT LoRD TyrUS. The PRINCE WAS CURLED

on a pile of straw. Ever since the man’s journey through the stone, Tyrus had grown ashen and sullen.

Krai matched his mood.

Last night, the prince had popped back through the cell’s wall, startling them all. Grabbing up the shreds of his clothes, he had hurriedly draped his naked form and hissed for them to remain quiet, warning that Captain Brytton was on his way down to check on them. Settling to the floor, Tyrus feigned to be still lost in a mindless nightmare, while the others sprawled about the cell, looking tired and hopeless.

The prince’s warning quickly proved true.

Moments later, the squat captain had shouted his way down the row of cells, stopping at their cage. He had stared between the bars, studying each for any subterfuge. Satisfied that his prisoners were still secured, he had grunted angrily and swung away.

Later, Tyrus had explained what he overheard in the royal chambers—a foul plot unfolding in the north.

He had also reported how his father’s body had been possessed by a demon. Since then, Tyrus had remained distant.

Hearing the news, Krai also withdrew. So the Dark Lord seeded some plot in the north—at the Citadel.

He cringed at the thought. Whether he was a servant or not, Krai could not stomach his ancestral home being tainted and possibly corrupted by black magicks. Conflicting loyalties twisted inside his chest: one forged in darkfire, the other formed of stone. As the day wore on, the answer slowly dawned in Krai. He had already defied the Dark Lord by coming here, abandoning the hunt for the wit’ch. Having started down this path, he would see it to the end. The Citadel would be his people’s again, even if it meant thwarting his master’s plan here.

Mogweed spoke up from across the cell, drawing Krai back to the present, where he sensed that night had again fallen. Mogweed nudged Tyrus. “I still don’t see why you can’t just walk through the walls and get the keys. Free us. Why are we rotting here in these dungeons?” Tyrus, his eyes shadowed with circles, shook his head. “And what then? There are over a legion of d’warves camped at the castle’s gates. We’d be recaptured, and my secret would be revealed. As long as I feign unconsciousness, it’ll buy us time. I’ll hunt again this night when the guard here is lighter and see if I can learn more, something to free us.”

Mogweed slumped back against the wall. “I hate this waiting.”

“You’d hate more being in a d’warf’s stew pot,” Nee’lahn snapped irritably. It was the first time the nyphai had spoken all day. She looked sickly. Her skin was blotched, her lips dried and shrunken. Her hair hung lifeless to her shoulders.

Tyrus pushed to one elbow. “Enough squabbling. I’ll go search again. If the dungeon guard is light enough, I can try taking them out, giving you all a chance to escape, but I’m staying here.” Krai grumbled. “If you stay, so do I.”

“And I,” Nee’lahn whispered hoarsely.

All their eyes turned to Mogweed. He sighed dramatically. “I’m not going by myself.” Krai nodded. “Then it’s decided. Tyrus, you search for any means for us to leave here. I’ve heard tales of secret passages that run the length of the North wall. What if we could make it to one of those?” Tyrus frowned. “The passages are just myth. They don’t exist. There is only one secret path, a secret means of escape in case of attack. But I don’t think we want to tread that path.”

“Where does it lead?” Krai asked.

“To the Dire Fell, the dark wood beyond the Wall, to the forest of the wraiths. But there is no salvation in that wood. None may walk it safely. It would be better to die in battle than be a meal for the Grim.

Growing up here, I never understood why this secret exit was even built.”

“I know,” Nee’lahn said in a dry rasp.

Tyrus glanced at her in surprise. “Why?”

She shook her head. “It no longer matters. You’re right. That path now only leads to a doom worse than death.”

The prince’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. She met his gaze, unblinking.

Krai broke the silence. “The night is full. Mayhap it would be best if you traveled the Wall again. See what you can learn. I wager our captors’ patience wears thin. I’ve seen how the passing guards have eyed our cell with hunger.”

Tyrus nodded and scooted up. “You’re right, mountain man. I fear how long the demoness wearing my father’s flesh will wait for

e to wake.“ He stood and shrugged out of his torn clothes, showing o shame at his nakedness. He m

n

moved to the wall and placed his palms on the stone, calling up the magick.

Krai sensed the shift in energies. Soon Tyrus was sinking into the wall, vanishing away. The beast inside Krai sniffed for a sign of the prince but came up empty. Not even a heartbeat.

Granite had absorbed granite.

Meric left the Stormwing under the charge of his second cousin. The ship floated a hundred spans above the highest terrace of Castle Mryl, hidden in the icy mists that cloaked the upper Northwall. Meric craned his neck as he moved across the stone floor. His ship was indiscernible, the only sign of it the long trailing rope linking the hidden vessel to its mooring point on the parapet.

He crossed to the others gathered in the shadows. Mycelle looked truly ghastly. Still formed in the shape of a d’warf, her toadish body dripped with blood and gore. So shocked was he by her appearance, Meric’s left boot slid from under him. He cartwheeled his arms for balance and righted himself, scowling at the slick pool of blood that had betrayed his footing. The entire narrow open terrace was treacherous with blood and the bodies of the dead.

Meric straightened the lay of his dark cloak and repositioned the pack on his back, careful of its delicate contents. “Are we ready?” he asked as he joined the others.

Standing beside Mycelle were two of the elv’in sailors, the most skilled with bow and dagger. Around them prowled the wolf Fardale, who had been lowered in a basket. His keen nose would come in handy in the search. Left aboard the Stormwing were the remaining crew, including Xin and the boy Tok. Xin’s ability to far-speak would allow the rescue team to keep in contact with the ship above.

“We’re ready. Make haste,” Mycelle said, wrapping a clean cloak over her bloody clothes. “I know the way to the dungeons, but I had best go first to make sure the halls are free of any prying eyes.” Meric nodded. “Then let’s go. Silent and swift.”

Mycelle led the way, followed closely by Fardale. Meric and his two crewmates, the elv’in twins Pyllac and Syllac, kept up the rear

Witch It at e guard. No one said a word as they worked their way down the flights of stairs and hallways. Mycelle would hurry ahead, then signal them with hand gestures to proceed or hold.

By this late in the evening, the upper tiers were deserted, and they made quick progress. But once they neared the lowermost levels, servants and sleepy-eyed guards wandered across their paths, and care had to be taken.

Fardale slunk ahead of Meric, sticking to shadows. Mycelle slipped around a corner, then waved a halt.

She continued forward alone. Meric and Fardale crept to the corner and peeked past it. The hall ahead was quite wide. Halfway down the passage, a dozen d’warves lounged around a game of bones-and-cups. There was no way around them.

Mycelle approached, sauntering casually. Words were exchanged, but they were in the d’warvish tongue. Mycelle seemed to be arguing with them, clearly trying to get the group to shove off, but she was not succeeding. Finally she leaned against the wall, one hand signaling behind her back.

Be ready to fight. Wait for my signal.

Meric shrugged out of his bulky pack and set it down with care. Next he slipped free his blade. Ready, he fed magick into his limbs. An elv’in could move with blinding speed for short bursts. Meric remembered his sword battle with Krai in the underground warrens of the rock’goblins. It seemed a lifetime ago.

Behind him, his elv’in companions set quarrels into their crossbows, while Fardale crouched, teeth bared.

Down the hall, Mycelle shoved off the wall, two swords appearing in her fists as if from thin air. She drove them through the throats of the nearest two and twisted. Blood sprayed the wall.

The d’warf band sat stunned a moment, then reacted with a roar.

Mycelle abandoned her swords and rolled away. Daggers appeared in her fingers, flashing in the torchlight. She tossed one into the eye of a d’warf holding a handful of coins. Bits of copper and silver showered into the air as he fell backward, dead before his head hit the stone. She threw her second dagger just as surely. Another dropped, a hide cup rolling from his dead fingers.

Meric was impressed. Four dead in the span of a moment. Clearly she was growing accustomed to fighting in her bulky form.

But now the advantage of surprise was over; the other eight (AMES LLEMENS

d’warves drew weapons and sprang to their feet. Mycelle danced away down the hall, drawing their attention to her. Empty-handed, she signaled Meric.

With the d’warves’ backs turned, Meric led the charge, sword raised. He flashed down the hall, a ghost in silver. Two dropped quickly to the poisoned bolts of the twins’ crossbows, and a third died upon the lightning-quick blade of Meric—two jabs, piercing both hearts, and a slice across the throat. Meric kicked the body over, toppling it across the spread of tossed bones.

Now the hall was littered with bodies, and the true melee began— five against five.

Fardale knocked over a thick-limbed d’warf and ripped teeth into his throat. Meric looked away.

The two twins nocked up two more quarrels, but the fighting was fierce. Working as a team, they swung on a d’warf that sprinted down the hall, attempting to flee and raise the alarm. Two feathered barbs sprouted in his back. He continued to run until his pumping hearts fed the poison throughout his body and he stumbled to his knees, skidding, then fell face first.

Meric ducked an ax swing. The blade whistled over the crown of his head. He bounced back up, sword tip leading. The blade pierced the d’warf’s groin and drove upward. Moving faster than the average eye could follow, Meric dragged his hilt up, splitting the d’warf’s belly from stem to stern. A slather of intestines and organs spilled across the stone floor.

Meric leaped away. The d’warf, still alive, stumbled after the elv’in, ax raised. But his own bowels betrayed him. He slipped on the blood and the loops of gut, and crashed to the floor. He writhed, but could not rise.

Swinging around, Meric saw Fardale rip into the hamstring of another d’warf, bringing the squat creature toppling down. The elv’in twins were already there, abandoning their crossbows in such close fighting and attacking the downed d’warf with their long daggers.

Meric spun again. Down the hall, he saw the last and largest d’warf closing in on the weaponless Mycelle. She backed against the far wall, hands raised, ready to fight bare fist against iron ax.

Meric touched his magick but felt the leaden pull of his limbs. He had no reserve of lightning speed.

“Mycelle!” he called to her.

V. M VT A

Mycelle crouched, looking for some weakness in the other’s de-fense. Her eyes flicked over her opponent. He handled his ax expertly, balanced evenly. From the top of his ax, a sharp spike of iron protruded long enough to impale a small adversary. A wicked weapon.

She clenched a fist. If she could hold him off long enough, perhaps the others could come to her aid.

As she studied him, a swordbreaker appeared in his other hand. The long dagger was deeply notched, meant to trap and break an opponent’s blade. But this night, there was no sword to break; its sharp point and single-edged blade would do enough damage. The d’warf rolled the small weapon in his large grip, moving it as comfortably as a baker would a spoon.

Unlike the guard on the terrace, this d’warf was not about to underestimate her. He moved in for a swift but cautious kill.

Mycelle heard Meric call from down the hall, but she knew no aid could come from that quarter fast enough.

“Prepare to die, traitor,” he grumbled at her as if he were chewing rocks.

Mycelle’s eyes narrowed, readying herself. But she knew the battle was lost. Not only was she weaponless, she was exhausted and shaky from the long night of fighting.

The d’warf lunged, swiping in with both ax and dagger. She moved a step forward, twisting sideways, attempting to duck under his guard, but her attacker was not so easily fooled. The point of the dagger skimmed her side, forcing her back into the path of the descending ax blade. Encircled by blades, Mycelle knew her doom.

Ducking away, she prepared to take the ax blow to the shoulder, praying for a glancing blow—but the strike never happened.

Iron rang on stone.

Mycelle glanced up and saw an arm sprouted out of the wall— an arm of granite! Stone fingers were latched to the haft of the ax, stopping its descent.

A voice whispered in her ear—from the wall. “Move aside, Mycelle, unless you wish your death.” She recognized the taunting, sarcastic voice. “Tyrus?”

) A M E S LUMENS

“Move, shape-shifter!”

Though she did not understand this miracle, she ducked and rolled from beneath the imprisoned ax.

Her d’warf attacker, too stunned to respond, let her escape.

A few steps away, she twisted back around. The d’warf tugged on his weapon, trying to free its from Tyrus’ stone grip. He failed. Instead, as he pulled, Tyrus was drawn forth from the wall, stepping forth as a figure of granite.

The d’warf jabbed around Tyrus’ torso with his dagger, meaning to puncture a kidney, but the blade shattered against the stone. Tyrus smiled and dragged his other arm from the wall. In its grip was a long sword, a sliver of granite formed from the substance of the wall itself.

His smile hardened to a sneer. He swung the blade and impaled the d’warf. “This is for Castle Mryl!” He yanked out his weapon and plunged it in again. “And this is for my people!” Free of the wall, the magick faded from his skin, and granite flesh became pale skin again. Naked, Tyrus pulled his blade from the bloody d’warf. The ax fell from the creature’s thick fingers. Tyrus took his granite sword in both hands and swung from the hip, twisting his body with all the muscle of his taut form.

The blade ran clean through the d’warf’s neck, slicing through both flesh and bone. The large pumpkin head went flying, striking a wall and bouncing off.

Tyrus straightened, sword still held in both hands. “And that was for my father,” he said to the decapitated figure as it fell backward.

Mycelle approached the prince with caution. His body shook with pain and fury. “Tyrus . .

He glanced up at her, the rage dying in his eyes. “What are you doing here?” She kept her eyes diverted from his nakedness. He was the son of the man to whom she had sworn fealty. “We came to rescue you.”

“Who?”

Mycelle nodded at the approach of the others. “I think you remember Meric from the docks of Port Rawl.”

“One of the allies of the wit’ch. The burned one.”

“I’ve mended from my injuries,” Meric said, sheathing his sword and introducing his elv’in compatriots.

Tyrus patted the wolf on the shoulder as he came nosing forward.

WIT CH U ATE

“Good to see you again, too, Fardale.” He then turned to those gathered around him and bowed slightly.

“Welcome to my home. Welcome to Castle Mryl.”

Mycelle was surprised at the amount of dignity the man could assume even when naked as a newborn.

Meric met his bow and explained briefly about the Stormwing while Mycelle marched back to the dead and sifted through the bodies for her weapons. Once returned, she asked, “What of the others?

Mogweed, Krai, Nee’lahn.”

Tyrus shook free a cloak from the dead and wrapped it about himself. “In the dungeons. I’ll take you to them. With the ship above, we now have a means of escape.” He began to lead the way.

Mycelle glanced to the blank wall from which he had stepped.

Tyrus noticed her attention. “An extra gift of the Wall to the royal family.” She nodded, though she scarcely understood. Explanations would have to wait another day.

As a group, they continued down the halls. With Tyrus’ ability to meld into the wall and sneak upon the unwary, it was not long until the group moved past the guardroom and into the dungeons.

Mycelle unlocked the cell.

Krai was the first out. His eyes were wide upon the newcomers. “Meric?” The elv’in lord nodded in greeting. “It’s been a long time, mountain man.” Mogweed followed next, supporting Nee’lahn under an arm. Fardale nosed his twin brother, whining a greeting. Mogweed briefly acknowledged his brother, but groaned under the thin weight of the nyphai.

“She weakens,” he said. “We must return her to the forest. Leave this sick place to the d’warves.”

“No,” Mycelle said. “Not until we discover the whereabouts of the Griffin Weirgate.” Tyrus frowned. “Weirgate? I know nothing of such a thing, but I do know the griffin beast has returned to some roost in the north.”

“At the Citadel,” Krai added. “We must go there!”

Mycelle nodded. “We will. We must. Come. I’ll explain on the way up to the Stormwing. The Griffin Gate must be destroyed.”

“Wait,” Meric said, his eyes wide upon the resurrected nyphai. He fumbled with his bulky, oversized pack and fished inside. He removed a velvet-wrapped object. Lifting it, he peeled back the covers reveal the small musical instrument protected inside. The lute’s heartwood shone with such luster that it t0

seemed to glow warmly with its own inner light. As he offered the tiny instrument to Nee’lahn, the dark-grained whorls churned with gold. “I think this is yours,” Meric whispered on bended knee.

Her fingers trembling, Nee’lahn accepted her lost lute. It was as if a severed limb were returned to her.

She sighed as the warm wood met her skin, the touch of sunlight after an endless night. She stroked the instrument’s skin, sensing the trace of spirit in the wood. She brought it to her lips and kissed it gently.

Beloved, she whispered silently, a brush of breath upon the wood.

Her eyes brimmed with tears as she looked up at Meric. “Thank you.” Already vitality infused her limbs.

She was able to stand on her own—two halves made whole.

“We must be off,” Tyrus interrupted. “The dead will soon be discovered. We must be gone before the castle rouses.”

They quickly freed the other prisoners in the neighboring cells: two unlucky woodsmen who had been captured by the raiders, food for the pot. Unfortunately, the man with the burned stumps for legs was found dead in his cell. He had chewed through his own tongue, drowning and choking himself to death.

“Poor man,” Nee’lahn said sadly.

No one spoke from there, but simply moved on, backtracking through to the guardroom and up into the central keep. Tyrus and Mycelle led the way, Meric and Nee’lahn next. The rest trailed with Krai in the rear. The mountain man found their stolen gear and supplies in the guardroom. He had his ax in hand again, and Tyrus his family’s sword.

In a long thin parade, the group trod up the many stairs and through many twists and turns. Tyrus knew the castle well and guided them quickly and steadily, ducking through rooms and out into other halls. It was a winding path through a granite maze.

Nee’lahn barely noticed at first. Her only concern was the lute in her arms, hugged to her chest. Its warmth seeped into her core, spreading through her limbs. Her sight became sharper, her senses more acute. It was as if she were waking after a long dream.

At the top of a winding staircase, Tyrus paused, letting the line of stragglers along the stairs close ranks.

“It’s not much farther,” he called down, encouraging them. “Another four levels.” Next, Tyrus led them off the stairs and into a lofty side chamber, a desolate ballroom with frescoed walls.

As Nee’lahn stepped from the stairs and into the room, she felt a pluck on the magick inside her—a vibration that shook her limbs. She stumbled to a stop at the doorway. “Something… something comes.”

With the words just out of her mouth, a scream arose from down the stairs. Mycelle and Tyrus returned to Nee’lahn’s side.

“What is it?” Meric asked, unsheathing a long, thin blade.

The answer came soon enough. Mogweed and Fardale flew up out of the darkness of the lower stairwell. “D’warves! Scores of them!” Mogweed skidded to a stop at the entrance to the ballroom.

“Krai is holding them off as he retreats, but arrows took out the two woodsmen. And one of the elv’in twins took an arrow through the shoulder.”

Tyrus barked commands. “Get everyone inside!” He waved at the ballroom. “We can bar this door, slow them enough for us to reach the ship.” Tyrus pulled one of the thick double doors closed. Mycelle moved to the others.

In moments, the elv’in archers came limping up the steps. One leaned heavily on his twin, his shoulder a bloody wound with a feathered shaft protruding from it. The sounds of combat—roars of rage and clash of iron on iron—echoed up the staircase.

“Close the door!” Mogweed cried out, retreating from the threshold.

Mycelle held the second door cracked open. “Not until Krai gets here!” Tyrus was ready with the bar. Meric looked after his kinsmen and helped the pair deeper into the ballroom.

Suddenly, Krai burst through the doorway, wild-eyed, chest heaving, covered head to foot with blood and gore.

Nee’lahn gasped, stumbling a few steps away. It took her a moment to recognize their companion. For a flickering moment, she had seen a monster instead of the mountain man. She blinked away the image as Mycelle slammed the door and Tyrus slid in the thick bar.

“Quickly!” the prince of the castle called out. “Out the far door.” Meric took the lead with the injured.

II Wl IL N ,N

I’t) I

As Nee’lahn stepped to follow, she realized the strange welling -ensation in her chest had not abated. In fact, it had grown worse. Strange vibrations strummed through her. “Wait!” she yelled sharply, drawing all their eyes.

Meric turned. The elv’in twins bumbled on ahead toward the distant door. “What is— ?” The far stone portals burst open behind Meric, casting shards into the room, throwing the elv’in prince to the floor. His two kinsmen were not as lucky. The wounded one took a blow to the face, falling backward, nose smashed. His brother was struck by a flying shard to the leg, breaking the thin bones and crumpling him to the floor.

Meric rolled to his feet, meaning to go to their aid. Mycelle and Tyrus ran with weapons in hand. Krai and Fardale guarded the barred door, along with Nee’lahn and Mogweed.

“No!” Nee’lahn warned from behind the mountain man’s shoulder.

Through smoke tainted with sulfurous brimstone, two figures strode into the room. Nee’lahn recognized them both: Captain Bryt-ton, the d’warf leader, and an old familiar face, King Ry.

But when the latter spoke, it was clear that the king was here only in body, not spirit. “It seems the dance is about to begin,” the bearded figure said in a high, sibilant voice, so unlike the hard shape it wore. The demon-possessed figure waved a hand around the ballroom. “But where are the minstrels and songbirds?

Where are the courtly dancers?”

‘It’s your father!“ Mycelle gasped, lowering her sword. ’No,” Tyrus said, raising his weapon higher. “No longer.”

“So the princeling has woken, I see.” The figure of King Ry spread his arms. “Come to me, my son.” The voice rang with high-pitched laughter.

Tyrus spat. His spittle arced across the space, striking the possessed in the face.

The demoness did not bother to wipe the spittle away as it dripped into the snowy beard. “Is that any way to greet your elder?” The creature strode forward, now exuding an oily darkness, revealing its true form. It stepped between the two fallen elv’in brothers. Black tendrils wafted out from the king’s fingertips, like curling ebony serpents.

Nee’lahn’s inner magick thrummed to the energies in the room recognizing it. Sweet Mother… no! She knew what manner of beast possessed good King Ry.

The snaking bits of darkness lashed out to either side, biting into the prone elv’in twins. As the darkness touched them, their bodies racked with agony, mouths open in silent screams.

Tyrus and Mycelle rushed forward, but a second legion of d’warves flooded into the room, bristling with weapons, warding them away.

On the floor, the elv’in twins continued to writhe. Slowly, their skin was drawn to bone; their bodies curled in on themselves, bones twisting, as the life force of the brothers was sucked into the darkness. In moments, only dried husks remained on the stone floor.

The face of King Ry was ripe with pleasure, eyes aglow with a dark light.

Mycelle tugged Tyrus back as the figure stepped toward them. “I know this creature. It’s one of the Grim, the wraiths of Dire Fell.”

Before them all, the darkness continued to pour forth, fed with blood, seeking more. Soon the true guise of the possessor took shape around the body of the king—a shred of night, all darkness and blood lust.

Nee’lahn knew she had to act lest they all be destroyed. She stepped around the broad back of the mountain man. “Let us pass!” she called out to the apparition.

A disdainful face turned her way. “Who seeks to order in such a sweet voice?” Nee’lahn stepped more fully forward and raised her lute, letting it settle easily into her hands. A fingernail touched a single string, and the weak note pierced across the room with devastating effect.

The figure of King Ry crumbled backward, its living shadow reeling as if from a mighty gust of wind. A shriek arose from the darkness: the familiar wail of the Grim.

“You know who I am, don’t you?” Nee’lahn plucked a second string. “You know the magick in the wood, the power of woodsong.”

The demoness swung on the captain of the d’warves. “You’ve brought a nyphai here! How could you, you fool?”

Captain Brytton shook his head. “Impossible. The nyphai are all dead.”

“Not all of them! One yet lives!” A finger was pointed at Nee’lahn. “You fool!” Nee’lahn continued to step forward, fingers now moving brightly across the lute. Chords and notes echoed off the wall. The wraith wailed again.

“I don’t know who you are,” Nee’lahn said. “But you serve the wrong master. Have you forgotten the song of the True Glen?” Her fingers danced across the strings, conjuring up memories of green life and purple blossoms, fairy lights and hummingbirds.

“No!” The wraith pulled free of its possessed body and retreated. King Ry’s body, now an empty shell, collapsed to the floor.

“Remember!” Nee’lahn urged, following the creature. “Remember who you are!”

“No!” The wraith screamed in a high-pitched child’s voice and flew back into the ranks of the d’warves.

Where it passed, it left behind a path of destruction. D’warves fell dead on the spot. Others fled, breaking ranks and running from the ballroom.

“I command thee to remember!” Nee’lahn called, singing, adding her voice to the chorus of the lute’s woodsong.

The wailing died away. A smaller, scared voice rose from the shred of living darkness as it paused by the door. “I… I cannot…” Then the Grim fled, leaving an echoing cry behind it. Clearly wary of the magick here, Captain Brytton called a retreat and backed out of the ballroom, regrouping his damaged troops.

Mycelle ran forward and checked the hall. “They’ve gathered just around the bend. We must move out now before they grow bold again.”

The sharp sound of steel on stone drew Nee’lahn’s attention back to the ballroom. Tyrus leaned over his father’s body, sword in hand. His father’s head lay cleaved from its neck. “I will not give the demon a place to roost. At least, not in my father.”

Mogweed and Fardale joined Mycelle by the door. “Let’s go.” Mogweed urged.

Krai helped move Tyrus from his father’s side. “There’ll be time for burials and prayers later.”

“There’s no blood,” Tyrus said dully, pointing with his sword.

Nee’lahn stepped to the prince’s other side. “He was long dead. An empty vessel for the… for the…” Tyrus swung on her, eyes hard as the black granite. “What? You know more than you say!” Nee’lahn clasped her lute across her chest protectively.

Meric came to her aid. “Leave her, Lord Tyrus. Such matters are best discussed well away from here.” Mycelle agreed and ordered them to follow. She ducked out the door and raced down the hall, opposite where the d’warf host re-gathered. In a tangled group, they fled.

“I know the way from here!” Mycelle called back. She fumbled a coin from a pocket and clutched it to her lips. “Xin, hear me!”

Nee’lahn heard no answer, but in a few steps, Mycelle stumbled to a stop, pausing at the entrance to another winding staircase. After a few hushed heartbeats, Mycelle lowered the coin, fingers white-knuckled around it.

She turned to them. “Trouble. The Stormwing had to break its mooring and flee. They had been discovered. The top terrace now crawls with d’warves. Another trap.” Meric’s thin lips frowned deeply. “What are we to do? We can’t go up. We can’t go back.” They all remained silent.

Finally, Nee’lahn answered. “We go down.” She pointed toward the stairs that wound back into the depths of the castle. She turned to Lord Tyrus. “The secret tunnel you mentioned in the cell. Take us there.”

“But it only leads to the Dire Fell. Even you said that path is death.”

“No longer.” Nee’lahn held up the lute. “A way opens.”

“How?”

She shook her head. “Lead us.”

Tyrus bit his lip in indecision, eyes narrowed with suspicion of her. Behind them, a roar arose from Captain Brytton’s forces. “They come!” Mycelle said.

Tyrus scowled and hurried forward. “This way then.” He raced down the steps, taking them two at a time.

Meric followed behind Nee’lahn. It did not take magick to sense the tension flowing from the small nyphai. Her arms hugged the lute to her chest, her face—when he glimpsed it—was pale. Tyrus led the way down at a furious pace as the booming calls of the d’warves gave chase. Nee’lahn stumbled to keep up.

Moving to her side, Meric gripped her elbow, supporting her.

l’t M h i’t ?

“You don’t have to do this,” he whispered, careful to keep their words private.

“We have no other choice.”

“It’s not too late. We could try to forge a path through the encircled encampment. If we could reach the forests of the Western—”

“There is no going back. You saw what lurked in King Ry.”

“One of the Grim.”

Nee’lahn glanced hard at him. “Both of us know better than that.” Meric lowered his face. “Can you control them? Will the lute’s song enchant the wraiths long enough for us to pass through the Dire Fell?”

“I believe so. Memories hold great power. They will either flee or become enthralled. Either way, they should leave us safe.”

“But what of the one who possessed King Ry? Where was her madness? Though clearly bent to the Dark Lord, she was lucid, calculating.”

Nee’lahn shook her head. “The Gul’gothal demon must have found a way to untwist the damage. But I don’t know why she serves the Black Beast.”

Sudden insight dawned in Meric. He recalled his own darkfire trial in the cellars under the ancient keep of Shadowbrook. “She must have been forged, changed into an ill’guard.” Nee’lahn frowned at him, not understanding.

Meric explained. “If the Black Heart can use his dark magicks to enslave an elemental, bend the pure magick and spirit to his will, then perhaps, while forging this spirit, the Dark Lord’s fiery process unwound what was twisted, allowing this one’s sanity to return, warped though it may be.” Nee’lahn seemed to grow paler. “If he could do it to one…”

“He could do it to the entire host.”

Nee’lahn began to tremble. “That must not happen. I’d rather them all destroyed, than turned against the world.”

Meric pulled the nyphai under his arm. “We’ll not let it happen.” She leaned into his arms.

Below, Tyrus came to a halt between floors. He placed his hands on the neighboring wall, eyes drifting closed. Then he shoved, and a section of blank wall swung open—a secret door. He grabbed a torch from a sconce. “This way! It’s not much farther.” vv 1 1 <; H UATE

The prince ducked through the threshold and closed it after them, then continued on.

Meric and Nee’lahn followed. Beyond the door was a long, narrow passage. It ran straight. They followed the flickering torch as Tyrus ran. It seemed like forever until the end was reached. The passage ended at a blank wall of granite—a dead end.

As the others gathered, Tyrus knelt and picked up something glittering from the floor. He turned with it in his hand. It was a simple circlet of gold, unadorned except for a thumb-sized inset of polished black granite shaped like a small star. Tyrus’ fingers shook as he held it.

Mycelle identified the discarded object. “The crown,” she said in a hushed voice. “The crown of Castle Mryl.”

“My father’s crown,” Tyrus said. He stared back at the blank wall. “He came this way.”

“After the fall, he must have attempted to escape. One last desperate act.” Mycelle shook her head sadly.

Tears filled the prince’s eyes. He clutched the crown in one hand and moved to the blank wall and touched it with his free hand. “And he failed.” Tyrus turned to Nee’lahn. “Beyond here lies the Dire Fell.

You said before that you knew why this secret passage had been built. I want to know why. My father took this path, and it led to his death… and worse. Why should we trust your word now?” Nee’lahn glanced to the floor.

Meric gripped her elbow. “Tell him.”

“Open the door, and I’ll tell you all.”

Mogweed scooted nearer. “Is it safe?”

“As long as I have the lute, no harm will come.”

Tyrus hesitated, then turned to the wall and placed a hand on its surface. In moments, his hand grew as black as the granite and sank into its depths. Meric watched the prince concentrate, his arm moving as if his sunken fingers were manipulating something inside the rock.

A loud crack sounded. Tyrus gasped and pulled his hand from the rock. “The lock was very old” was all he said.

Using his shoulder, Tyrus pushed, and a door opened in the wall, swinging outward. Lifting his torch, Tyrus ducked through the portal and out into the night.

The others followed, stepping from stone to soft loam.

Ahead, the dark forest of the Dire Fell opened before them. Jvlonstrous trunks climbed high into a sky obscured by twisted and leafless branches. Massive roots, knobbed and protruding, created a woody maze of barked arches and colonnades. Beneath it all huddled an underbrush of sallow ferns and prickly bushes.

The forest lay silent. Not a bird twittered; not an insect whirred.

Tyrus turned to Nee’lahn. “What secret do you know of the Dire Fell?“

“I know all its secrets,” Nee’lahn said softly. She stepped forward, staring into the forest, tears on her cheeks. Then she turned and faced the others and lifted an arm to encompass the entire wood. “This is my home. This is Lok’ai’hera.”

No one spoke for several moments, too stunned.

“Your home?” Mycelle asked with stunned disbelief.

Nee’lahn nodded.

“And what of the wraiths?” Tyrus asked coldly. “The Grim?”

Nee’lahn glanced to her toes. “They are the last of my people.” Tyrus stepped toward her, murder in his eyes, but Mycelle stopped him. “Let her speak.”

“Ages ago,” Nee’lahn said dully, not looking up, “long before the coming of man to these shores, the forests of Lok’ai’hera spread from coast to coast. In our arrogance, we tried to reshape the Land, bringing down mountains so more trees could be seeded. But one day, a great Blight was cast on the wind. Trees began to die, twisting on themselves, leaves falling dead. The nyphai tied to these trees were not left unchanged. As the woodsong of their bonded trees was warped, so were my sister’s spirits, ripping them from the flesh and changing them into the mad wraiths—the Grim.”

“But why did this happen?” Mycelle asked. “Where did this Blight come from?” Nee’lahn glanced apologetically at Meric. “In our continued arrogance, we blamed the elv’in, thinking they had betrayed us. But now I know better. It was the Land itself, warring against our attempt to thwart the natural order. We had grown too haughty and were punished for it. The disease ate away our forests until there was only this small grove here at the northern edge.”

“And the rest of the blighted forest?” Mycelle asked softly. “Where did it go?” Nee’lahn’s voice choked. “We burned it. By our own hand, we WIT C H I.JATE

torched the diseased trees, hoping to burn away the sickness before it threatened this last section of the woods. During the great conflagration, ash clouds hid the sun for many moons.“ Nee’lahn wiped at her eyes. “But eventually new growth took root in the razed lands, and green shoots grew forth from ash. As this new forest took shape, the Northwall and the Southwall formed, thrusting up and encircling the Western Reaches, giving form to the Land’s will that this burgeoning forest be protected and cherished. And over the centuries, the Western Reaches was born, birthed from our fires.”

“And your own glen?”

“Our efforts had failed. We did not escape the Blight. Trapped beyond the wall, our trees continued to die until only the smallest grove at its heart survived. By this time, man had come to inhabit the lands of Alasea. The magick of the Chyric mages helped sustain us. This new magick held off the Blight and kept the surrounding Grim at bay. But with the fall of Chi, we became defenseless again. The Blight returned to threaten the last of our trees. The Grim grew stronger. The Northwall became home to the Dro, human allies of the Land charged with keeping the Grim from penetrating the Western Reaches. The last of my sisters joined the Dro and their kings in this cause.” Nee’lahn glanced to Tyrus. “Hence, the secret passage through the wall: an unspoken pact between our two peoples.” Nee’lahn turned to the forest. “But eventually there was just my lone tree, the sole survivor. The lute was carved from its heart, and using the last dregs of Chyric magick, my bonded’s spirit was moved into the lute’s wood, preserving it from the Blight and allowing me to search the lands of Alasea for a cure.” Mycelle moved and touched the nyphai’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Nee’lahn.” Tyrus seemed little swayed by her story. His eyes remained dark. “And these wraiths, these blighted spirits of your people—they’ll allow us just to pass?”

Nee’lahn raised the lute. “The pure woodsong will keep them at bay.” Meric stepped forward. “Like it drove away the Grim that possessed your father, Tyrus.”

“The wraiths of my people cannot stand to hear the old songs, to JAMES LLEMENS

remember the True Glen. It forces them to face memories that are too painful. They will not come near us. This I promise.“

Tyrus’ face remained hard as he closed the secret door. “Then let us go,” he said, stepping away from the Wall and toward the forest. “Let us seek out this griffin beast and return the north to its peoples.” This earned a growled assent from Krai.

Nee’lahn stepped to the prince’s side and touched his elbow. “I’m lorry for your father, Lord Tyrus.

Fifteen winters ago, it was King Ry who opened this very door to allow me passage into the south. He knew terrible times were coming, and an even greater darkness than the Grim was taking root in the far north. He was a good man.”

Tyrus grumbled something under his breath, but his shoulders were less tight, less angry.

Nee’lahn bowed her head.

Meric joined her, walking in silence as they entered the edge of the dark forest. “I know that was hard,” he consoled her. “But in these times, secrets are as dangerous as magick. Only truth will set us free.”

“Thank you, Meric,” she said with a tired smile.

Distantly, a single wail echoed through the forest, full of hunger and fraught with madness.

Mogweed edged closer with Fardale at his side. His words were full of sourness and spite. “Welcome home, Nee’lahn.”

Meric scowled at the bitter-tongued shape-shifter.

But Nee’lahn seemed not to have heard him. Instead, she raised her lute and began to strum a slow melody, the notes as haunted as the deep forest. She slipped ahead of the rest, leading the way into the darkness of the Dire Fell.