I

Do you see him? Magnam bellowed from below.

The d'warf climbed with Mama Freda and Jerrick, working as quickly as possible up the slick trail.

Despairing, Tol'chuk opened his mouth to answer when a savage howl split the highlands. Fardale! The cry came from beyond a neighboring hillock. Tol'chuk dared not wait for his friends. He raced along the ridge-line and over the treeless hump of granite, following the call.

The stone was slick from the drizzling rain. On its far side, Tol'chuk lost his footing and slid down the smooth, treacherous rock. A cry of anger and surprise burst from him as he tumbled over a cliff's edge. He flew through the air and splashed into the middle of a creek, swollen from the rains. He sputtered up and saw he had also landed in the midst of a standoff.

A group of six og'res crowded on one side of the creek; Fardale crouched on the other. He was pinned against the hillock's cliffs with no means of escape.

As the og'res gaped, stunned at the sudden intrusion, Tol'chuk clambered out of the stream, backing to Fardale's side. He spoke in the og're tongue. Leave this wolf to me! he growled.

One of the og'res lumbered forward. A giant, he knuckled on an arm as thick around as a tree trunk, and he bore a length of log in his free claw. He bared his fangs, yellow and pitted. Go find your own meat!

He slammed the log down for emphasis as his hunting companions grunted their agreement.

Tol'chuk didn't know this giant og're, but he recognized the pattern of the scarring on his bulging forearm. Ku'ukla clan one of the most savage and bestial tribes. It had been a battle between this clan and Tol'chuk's own that had gotten his father killed.

The brute's companions circled tighter, all war-scarred and hardened. Their eyes glowed with blood lust.

Be gone or die! their leader warned.

Tol'chuk backed to Fardale and rose to his full height. The group cringed away from the sight of his straightening spine. Tol'chuk had forgotten that particular look of loathing and disgust.

Only the giant kept his position, undaunted, but recognition dawned in his piggish eyes. He-who-walks-like-a-man, he finally grunted. Tol'chuk the Banished, son of Len'chuk of the Toktala clan. The og're spat into the creek as if the mention of his name had soured his mouth.

Tol'chuk flinched. He had not thought to be recognized so soon.

The leader's muscles tensed. His shoulders rolled in a clear posture of

o

hatred and challenge, and his voice boomed. You damn yourself by showing your face again. Your head will adorn our caves!

With a roar, he advanced into the creek, waving the others to secure the flanks. They closed in from all sides.

Weaponless, Tol'chuk reached for the only means of protection at hand. He clawed open his thigh pouch and pulled out the heartstone. He lifted the stone high.

Six pairs of eyes flicked upward.

Heartstone! one of the pack exclaimed.

The Heart of our people! Tol'chuk boomed. Once before it had protected him from members of this same clan. He prayed to the Mother above that it would again. I return it to the Triad. Do not block my path!

The other og'res hesitated, but the leader advanced. A trick' or stolen, he rumbled. But as the giant lunged out of the creek, a new cry shattered the highlands the piercing wail of another predator. For a breath, everyone froze in confusion and wariness. The giant stood, water sluicing over his scarred form.

Then a tumble of bodies burst forth from the creek.

Tol'chuk leaped back, stunned as a monstrous beast rolled across the far mudbank, landing amid the other og'res. It leaped to its clawed feet, snarling and spitting in blind fury. A sniffer! It ripped into the nearest og're, going for the throat.

But two other figures rolled onto the near side of the creek a boy and a man. They landed almost at the feet of the giant leader.

The man, bleeding, scrambled backward, yanking the boy clear as a club came smashing down at them, missing by a hair. Splinters flew as the log shattered in half from the force.

The og're roared. Demons!

Fardale dashed to defend the newcomers. The man acknowledged the wolf without fear. Well met, Fardale. They retreated together.

Tol'chuk could not fathom their sudden appearance' or this recognition. What magick was this?

The child bared his chest to the man. Quickly' while the path remains open. I sense it closing already.

To Tol'chuk's horror, the man plunged his sword into the child. With its touch, the boy dissolved into a tangle of wet weed. As the debris fell from the blade, a whisper of a voice followed. Come back to me'

I will, my love.

Tol'chuk now recognized the swarm of scars twisting one side of the man's face. Jaston . . . the swamper. How could this be?

The giant again descended on man and wolf. Tol'chuk shook off his own shock and went to their aid. But Jaston danced lightly under the other's guard and speared the giant's elbow.

The og're bellowed, sweeping backhanded at his attacker with the shattered end of his club. The swamp man went sailing into the air and crashed against the cliff face.

Fardale leaped between them, trying to protect the dazed swamper. Tol'chuk rushed forward, too.

But their help was not needed.

The giant teetered in place for a heartbeat, then toppled back into the creek with a loud splash. From his wounded elbow, his skin darkened and smoked. He did not move again.

Poison, Jaston explained from where he lay crumpled at the base of the cliff.

Across the creek, the sniffer had finally been dispatched, but two og'res lay dead. The remaining hunters retreated toward the woods. Drag'nock! one of them moaned as he fled.

Tol'chuk stared at the dead giant and cringed. Drag'noc't he knew that name and despaired. This giant had been the head of the entire Ku'ukla clan. Such a death would not go unchallenged. Those who fled would spread the tale; soon the drums of war would echo over the highlands.

Nearby, Fardale crossed to Jaston, nuzzling at the man in warm greeting. The swamper scratched the wolf behind an ear. Good to see you again, too, Fardale.

Tol'chuk turned to the highlands, clutching the chunk of crystal in his claws. He had come home to return the healed Heart to his people, to offer them hope and peace. Instead he opened the way for war and bloodshed.

Like the Oathbreaker, it seemed his name was to be forever cursed.

Mogweed screamed as he was ripped back to awareness. Sharp smells of pine and rain hit his sensitive nose, voices rang sharp and loud; lights stung his eyes like fiery needles; the taste of blood on his tongue gagged him. Mogweed raised his face muzzle from the belly of a half-chewed rabbit.

He leaped back from the bloody carcass in disgust. The sun's last glimmer shone dully through a gray sky; he shook off the cobwebs of his dis-orientation. As he stared down at Fardale's dinner, one lip raised in a silent snarl. His brother had known he would be returning to awareness as the sun set. Fardale had purposefully left this little trick, a message and reminder to his twin.

Well, curse you, Brother! This fate is not all my doing!

He opened himself to his shape-shifting gifts, touching that ember in his heart to flame. Bone, muscle, and skin bent to his will. He climbed out of the wolf shape, letting his form slide into its most familiar pattern. The smells grew less acute, the lights dimmer. Voices dipped to reasonable levels.

It appears Mogweed's returned, Magnam said as he knelt over a tumble of sticks, preparing a fire. How was your nap?

It took Mogweed a moment to re-form his voice box, growling wolfishly before finding his proper tongue. It' it's no natural sleep, he finally spat out. He sensed Fardale somewhere deep inside him, taking his place, returning to that dark prison. With nightfall, it was his brother's turn to be locked in a cell without bars, able only to watch what transpired. In that other world, sleep was dreamless. Awakening from that slumber into full awareness was as painful as it was jolting, leaving no true rest.

He searched around him, reorienting himself. The group was setting up a camp in a shallow cave. He frowned. It was scant shelter against the wind and rain.

Mama Freda passed him a set of clothes. Fardale left these this morning.

Mogweed glanced down at his nakedness, half turning away in embarrassment.

Nothing I ain't seen, the blind healer said, swinging back to her chores.

As Mogweed climbed shivering into his clothes, Magnam finally got the fire going. Once dressed, Mogweed stepped over and warmed his bare hands before the flames. Though summer was fully upon them, the highland nights were still icy with the touch of winter. The winds never seemed to stop blowing, and brief spats of rain struck like angry slaps. From the rumbles of thunder in the distance, he judged this night would be no different.

His eyes fell upon the newcomer to the group. Jaston stared back at Mogweed from across the fire, his mouth hanging open. His scars glowed bright red in the firelight, and not just from the flame's heat. The swamp man glanced down with a shake of his head. I' I'm sorry. It's just' I've never seen a shape-shifter change like that. Mycelle, when we were together, she never' He waved his hand before his face.

Mogweed scowled. He had been traveling for so long with folk familiar with shape-shifting that the man's response grated, but he kept his mouth shut. He owed his life to this swamper's sudden appearance.

Mycelle' Jaston continued to blather, I never saw her change.

Mogweed sighed, tired of the man's squirming, and removed the swamper from his own hook. She never changed because when you knew her she had settled into the human form, forsaking her shape-shifting nature. His voice dropped to a bitter mumble. Then she died and was resurrected by that cursed snake that gave her back her si'luran gifts. Mogweed swung away from the fire. For the thousandth time, he wished he had never meddled with her rainbow-striped viper. His attempt to break the curse upon him and his brother had only resulted in an even worse binding.

He slipped past Mama Freda and Jerrick as they laid out bedrolls side by side. They both moved as if they were already half asleep.

Mogweed crossed to the cave's entrance, joining Tol'chuk. The large fellow seldom talked, but his silences and simple companionship were a balm for Mogweed's own frustration and pain. He had not wanted to set out on this journey, preferring the safety of A'loa Glen but Fardale had volunteered them. And since Mogweed was forced to venture out, he was glad he had the og're at his side.

He kept vigil with Tol'chuk, watching for any marauding hunters. I thought we were supposed to have reached your home caves by now.

Tol'chuk shrugged.

Mogweed could guess the delay. After the attack on Fardale, the group had proceeded through the mountains warily, moving in a tighter group, cautious. The extra care had slowed their progress so much that Mogweed had eventually dozed off inside Fardale's skull, only waking again when the curse pushed him back into his body, greeting him with a mouthful of raw rabbit.

He was sure Fardale was wolfishly laughing somewhere deep in his head. Laugh now, Brother, he thought, but I swear I'll get the last laugh.

After a time, Magnam returned with a bit of stew for each of them, steaming in the cold air. Tol'chuk accepted his bowl wordlessly, lost in his own worries.

Mogweed sniffed at his meal, then curled his nose. Rabbit!

Magnam chuckled. Fardale caught two. He likes to share.

Mogweed shoved his bowl back at the d'warf. I'm not hungry.

More for me then. Magnam added Mogweed's stew to his own, then handed the dish back to Mogweed. The kettle is cooling beside the fire.

So?

Magnam pointed out into the dark. There's a stream just yonder. Should be great for cleaning the cookery. Nice and cold, like you like it.

Mogweed opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. What was the use of arguing? Whether he had eaten of this meal or not, he knew his duty. Besides, the chore would give him a way to wile away the lonely nighttime hours. Each evening, he returned to this form only to find the others climbing into their bedrolls, leaving the long night to himself. It left him too much time to think, too much time to curse his present state.

I'm for bed, the d'warf said, wiping the last of the stew from his bowl with his fingers and tossing the empty dish to Mogweed.

The others soon followed his lead.

Only Tol'chuk remained unmoving, crouched by the entrance, his amber eyes aglow.

Mogweed gathered the cooking utensils in a sack, then grabbed up his own pack. He crossed to the og're. Where's this creek?

Tol'chuk pointed. Beyond that boulder. It runs in a shallow bed.

Mogweed hesitated. With the moon and stars masked by clouds, the night beyond the cave was dark. Any og'res? he asked, staring out warily.

Just half a one, Tol'chuk mumbled, referring to himself.

Mogweed patted his elbow. You have nothing to be ashamed of, he found himself assuring his large companion. And neither do I, he added in a whisper to both himself and the wolf inside him. // wasn't all my fault.

I'll watch over you, Tol'chuk said.

Mogweed nodded and set off down the loose escarpment of shale and dirt. He slung the sack of dirty bowls and pots over one shoulder, his own small pack over the other. He shifted muscles in his arms and back to better bear the load, swelling them. The warm flow of tissue reassured him.

Despite his predicament, it was wonderful to use his si'luran abilities again. Full transformations like the one from wolf to man or back were taxing, but small adjustments were effortless and fatigued his flesh very little.

As he marched down the short slope, he appreciated the body he wore. It was as comfortable as a worn boot. After wearing this shape for so long, it was like a rut worn in a dirt track easy to slip into, easy to follow. But with the return of his abilities, small enhancements were now possible. He shivered out a layer of insulating fur over his cold cheeks, sharpened the vision of his eyes so he could see in the dark. Perhaps this curse is not as bad as it seemed'

Rounding the boulder, he spotted the small creek. It was only a step wide, gurgling down a shallow rock channel. Mogweed shrugged off his packs, dropping the bag of dirty dishes with a clatter, then lowering his own pack carefully. Settling to his haunches, he glanced over a shoulder to make sure the boulder was between him and the og're.

Satisfied, he let his eyelids drift closed and felt for those hidden eyes Fardale's eyes. Over the many moons since their joining, Mogweed had learned to recognize when his brother was awake inside him by a telltale tingle, that tiny sense of a stranger's eyes on the back of the neck. He felt nothing like that now. Mogweed smiled. As usual, Fardale was fast asleep. After the long hike, his brother must be as tired as the others and not particularly interested in watching Mogweed scrub dirty bowls.

Alone for the moment, Mogweed untied the leather strings of his pack, making sure the carefully tied knot was the same as when he left it. It appeared untouched: No one had rummaged among his private things.

He smiled. With Fardale spending all his time in wolf form, he ignored

Mogweed's pack as did the others. Its contents were his alone, items collected on his long journey among these lands.

Mogweed sifted through the pack, pushing past his own clothes and then a broken iron chain and collar from a sniffer that Tol'chuk had slain in these same hills so long ago. A tiny goatskin pouch bulged with a few pinches of Elena's red hair. He scrabbled a moldy walnut out of the way. And at last, in the deepest corner of his pack, his fingers reached stone wrapped in linen. He hauled it out.

Sitting back on his heels, he settled the object on a flat rock and pulled away the folded cloth. The ebon'stone bowl sucked in what little light there was behind the sheltering boulder. He checked again behind him, making sure he was not spied upon.

He studied the small treasure. It had once belonged to the spider wit'ch Vira'ni. He ran one finger along the lip of the bowl. Oily to the touch and oddly cold, its surface felt like fever sweat on a dying man.

He bit his lip. Almost every night he stared at the bowl, daring himself to take the next step. And each night he folded the linen back over his secret prize. After the failed attempt to free himself from his twin the result of which was this strange fusion of forms Mogweed knew there was only one way to break the curse that joined brother to brother. It would take a stronger magick than even Elena offered, and there was only one source of that magick: the Dark Lord of Gul'gotha, the ancestor of Tol'chuk.

Long ago, in the ancient Keep of Shadowbrook, Mogweed had spoken to the Dark Lord. The monster had spoken through the stone lips of a blackguard, a voice as empty and dead as an open crypt: For now, stay with those who aid the wit'ch. A time may come when I will as't more of you.

Mogweed knew that for his curse to be lifted, he would have to face that demon again. And he had learned from the pale twin lordlings of Shadowbrook that the blood of an elemental given to the bowl would call the Black Beast.

He stared at the ebon'stone. Over the past nights, he had feared doing what must be done. What will be asked of me? he wondered. He glanced back to the cave. He had traveled far from the side of the wit'ch, the Dark Lord's nemesis. But he knew that his role here with the others was not insignificant. They had entered the og're homelands seeking the answer to the mystery of ebon'stone, the base upon which the Dark Lord built and wielded his power. If that answer was ever discovered, the allies of the wit'ch would gain a marked advantage.

Mogweed shivered. Did he dare play with the power here? Then again, dare he not? Would he be forever doomed to walk in darkness, never seeing the light of day? At the back of his mouth, he still tasted the retch of raw rabbit. Would he be forever yoked to his twin?

Bile burned in his belly. His fingers clenched. This curse must be lifted, no matter what the cost.

Twisting to his pack, he rummaged inside and found a bit of caked and shredded cloth a bandage that the mountain man, Krai, had worn after being attacked by the d'warves near Castle Mryl. Krai had been an elemental steeped in the magick of the mountains' granite roots. Mogweed had saved the bloody scrap in case he ever risked contacting the Dark Lord. He didn't know if the dried blood would ignite the magick of the bowl, but he was determined for once to try, for time was running short. They were in the heart of og're territory. It was now or never and never was not an option.

With trembling fingers, he dropped the reddish-brown bandage to the bottom of the bowl. He held his breath and waited, watching.

Nothing happened. The bowl continued to suck in the feeble light. The crumpled bit of cloth simply rested in the center.

Mogweed sighed out his trapped breath. It must take fresh blood, he whispered in frustration. He considered his options. Both Jerrick and Mama Freda bore elemental gifts. But how could he get their blood?

As he pondered his choices, a stench suddenly swelled around him, as if something had died and rotted under his toes. Mogweed tensed, fearing something had crept up on him unaware. He remembered the smell of the og'res through Fardale's nose. They had reeked of wet goats and blood. But this smell was much worse.

He scanned the dark forests across the creek, afraid to move and draw attention to himself. Then motion drew his eye not from the woods, but from the bowl near his knees.

The bandage in the bowl twisted upon itself like a blind worm. The smell grew stronger around him.

With icy terror lacing his blood, Mogweed watched the brown stain on the cloth drain into the stone of the bowl. In a matter of heartbeats, the white cloth lay pristine against the black ebon'stone, quiet again.

Mogweed swallowed hard. The stench was now overpowering. Gorge rose in his throat. Surely Tol'chuk would smell the corruption and come to investigate.

Fearing discovery, he reached to the linen wrap, meaning to cover the bowl again, but as his fingers neared the ebon'stone, the bit of cloth burst into flame not with the fiery red of true flame, but with flickers of darkness: cj

darkfire. The hungry flames ate the light and heat from around the shelter. But as the cloth was consumed, the pyre refused to die away. Flames continued to dance darkly from the hollow of the bowl, reaching high above the rim.

Mogweed snatched his hand away, his fingers frozen from the cold. What have I done? Where a moment before he feared discovery, he now wished Tol'chuk would appear and rescue him. Surely the og're noticed something amiss: the smell, the strange bloom of cold'

From the flames, a voice crept out like spiders on silk. So the little mouse roars.

Without turning his head, Mogweed's gaze flicked to the caves, hoping Tol'chuk heard the icy voice of the demon. He was too scared to run, too frightened even to use his shape-shifting gifts. He was once again frozen in this form.

No one will hear our words. No one will smell the open path not even the wolf slumbering inside you. You are alone.

He cringed from these words as the cold fog of the voice wrapped around him. His panted breath steamed in the frigid cloud. The nearby creek rimed with ice.

We taste your heart, shape-shifter. You reek of desire.

Mogweed forced his tongue to speak. I' I want to be free of my brother.

The black flames coiled like snakes. You ask our help, but do nothing to earn it.

I will' I want' anything'

That will be seen. Do as we ask, when we ask, and we will free you.

Mogweed clenched his cold hands, bringing blood into his fingers. To be separated from his brother' to walk again free of Fardale's shadow.

We will burn the wolf from your heart, the voice whispered, edged with frost. Your body will be your own.

Burn the wolf' he mumbled, not liking the sound of that. Do you mean kill him?

There is only one body crouching here. There can only be one master of it.

Mogweed balked. How he longed to be free of Fardale's yoke. In fact, he'd be happy never to see his brother's face again. But to kill him? Could he go that far?

What would you ask of me? he finally blurted.

The ice in the air grew even more frigid. You must destroy the Spirit Gate.

Mogweed frowned, not understanding at first. What gate is' ? Then he remembered: the arch of heartstone under the Fang. It was the magickal portal through which Tol'chuk had been exiled into the world and sent to heal the jeweled Heart of the Og'res. The Spirit Gate' How can / destroy it?

The voice grew, filling his head. It must be shattered with the blood of my last seed!

Mogweed paled. He meant Tol'chuk!

And not just a dribble of blood, shape-shifter, the voice finished. Not like the bit you offered the stone here but blood squeezed from the seed's very heart. His last blood.

Mogweed shivered, and it had nothing to do with the magick-wrought chill in the air. His own blood pounded in his ears, his heart in his throat.

The flames dancing in the bowl died down as the spell frazzled away. Slay the og're by the Gate, and you will be free. The voice drifted away. Then a last whisper reached him as the darkfire pyre extinguished: But fail us, and your screams will echo forever.

Then the woods grew brighter, warmer, the air clean and crisp. It was like awakening from a nightmare. But Mogweed knew this was no figment. He slowly folded the linen wrap back over the ebon'stone bowl, silently wishing he had never touched the cursed thing.

But deeper inside him, a glimmer of hope burned. To be free'

He shoved the bowl into his pack and cinched the leather knot, tying it specially. Once done, he hauled to his feet. His legs were numb, his mind dull with dread. He stumbled around the boulder and stared up at the tiny glow of their campfire. Limned against the brightness was a dark shadow.

Tol'chu't.

Mogweed climbed toward the light, scrabbling up the slight slope. The amber eyes of the og're studied him.

Mogweed could not meet that gaze.

Tol'chuk's face scrunched in confusion. Where be the bowls?

He flinched, thinking the og're meant the ebon'stone talisman. Then realized the og're only meant the dirty cookware. Mogweed pointed to the slope. I left it beside the creek. I'll scrub em later. It's too cold right now.

Mogweed tried to slip past the og're to reach the warmth of the fire, but Tol'chuk stopped him.

Be anything wrong, Mogweed?

He raised his face to the og're, meeting his concerned gaze, burning under it. No, he mumbled. No, nothing's wrong.

It is a

Tol'chuk patted his shoulder. In the distance, thunder rolled.

bad night. Stay by the fire.

Mogweed moved past the og're, glad to escape his gaze. Reaching the campfire, he glanced back to the entrance. Tol'chuk sat hunched, staring out into the night, protecting them, watching for any dangers beyond, unaware of the closer threat.

In Mogweed's mind, icy words repeated in his head: Slay the og re by the Gate, and you will be free. He faced the fire, turning his back on Tol'chuk.

He had no choice.

Tol'chuk marched through the morning drizzle. Overhead the skies were a featureless gray. His companions trailed behind, sodden, slogging, already exhausted. The dreary weather seemed to sap the strength from both leg and heart. They climbed the last switchback to reach a long ridgeline.

He paused at the top. Fardale loped up from where he had been guarding their rear. Ahead the valley was a mix of scraggly trees, bushes, rock, and thorn. Meadow grasses blanketed the rest, trampled into paths. Tol'chuk had forgotten how green the valley was in the spring. Wildflow-ers brightened patches: yellow honeysuckle, blue irises, red highland poppies. His heart filled with memories.

At the end of the valley, a sheer cliff face blocked the way, a root of the Great Fang itself. A black opening yawned near its base.

Home. The word was a mumbled sigh.

Fardale growled.

Then Tol'chuk saw them, too. Movement drew his eye. What had appeared to be granite boulders suddenly sprouted limbs and loped away, bleating and raising an alarm. Even through the rain, Tol'chuk smelled the musk of the frightened females. Smaller than their male counterparts, they must have been out grubbing and rooting for tubers and greens. They fled toward the caves, scattering a herd of milk goats.

Tol'chuk led the way down, motioning the others closer. Near the mouth of the tunnel, movement could be seen. Tol'chuk stopped. Stay together at my side. Do not make any threatening moves.

From the cave, a large group of og'res thundered out males, the hunters and warriors. They ran at the intruders, knuckling on their arms.